MATT AND TIM  by Andrew Connally

PART ONE
Tim's Story

     Have you ever considered the significance of being in the right place
at the right time?  Predestination, fate, karma--call it what you will--can
really do a number on you when you least expect it.  I was in a place I
didn't really want to be in, doing something I didn't really want to do, on
Saturday, June 19, 1982, when I met the first day of the rest of my life.
     Okay, that's more than a little bit trite and corny, but we both tend
to get that way when the subject turns to how we met and how we knew this
was going to be more than a casual "Hi, nice to meet you, have a nice
life," kind of thing. "We" consists of Matt, and me.  I'm Tim, Timothy, or
Timmy, depending on who's talking.  Tim to the other faculty members at the
junior high school in Indiana where I've taught English and coached track
since 1980; I was Timothy to my grandmother, who raised me from the age of
10; Timmy to close friends and Matt when we're around other people. (He has
a few more private names for me when we're alone.) Matt has been my love
and my life for fourteen years.  This is the story of our lives before we
met, and how those two lives have been joined together to form a whole
greater than its parts.  It's a love story, not a guided tour through the
literal ins and outs of gay sex.  There's no way to tell how we became who
we are without recounting our first night together, so we will, but don't
expect a lot of graphic descriptions of who did what to whom and how many
times in our story.  By nature we're very private people.  But since I've
always wanted to use "His breath came in short pants" just for the hell of
it, I may have to throw that in somewhere.
     To get back to June of '82--I was all decked out for something
important to happen.  I had taken the role of giving away my best friend
Claire at her wedding.  Her family consisted of just herself and her
sister, Beth; both their parents were dead, so when the time came to plan
her wedding, Claire was short on relatives to take part.  Beth was the maid
of honor, her husband Greg was in charge of keeping their two-year old
twins from disrupting the ceremony, and I was the bride giver-awayer (or
whatever the hell it's actually called) by default.  I think that our
having both been left with almost no family was one of the things that
caused Claire and me to gravitate toward each other when we met at school.
Claire had already been there for two years as a guidance counselor when I
arrived, fresh out of a generic midwestern college and ready to tackle the
monumental job of getting puberty-stricken junior high school kids to have
the slightest interest in forming complete sentences that didn't all begin
with "Like," and questions with syntax a bit more complex than "Huh?"
Don't misunderstand how I feel about teaching; I'm not at all sorry that I
chose to go into education, and junior high was the place I felt almost
called to be.  I'm not saying God spoke to me from a burning bush and said,
"Timothy, get thee to a classroom with fourteen-year-olds who all wear
their baseball caps backwards."  But growing up had been pretty hard for me
(and I only partly understood why prior to June of '82, but I'll get to
that) and I thought that teaching would be a good way to reach some kids
who might be having problems in school and out.  It has; I've never
regretted my choice of careers.  Moreover, if it hadn't been for my being
in the same school with Claire, I might never have met Matt, and that's too
scary to even think about.
     I mentioned that Claire and I had in common a lack of relatives, and
that I was raised mainly by my grandmother.  Gran was a school teacher
(another reason that I chose that path myself) who taught third grade for
most of her adult life, taking only a few years off to raise my mother.
Mom was a complicated woman with mood swings that were pretty scary to me
as a small child.  I'm now convinced she was manic-depressive, although she
went undiagnosed and untreated, and died at 31, when I was 10, from a drug
overdose.  It was suicide; she left a note asking Gran to take care of me
and to tell my father it was his fault.  That part was more than a little
odd; he had already been dead for two years by that time, after having
tried to consume most of the drinkable alcohol produced east of the
Rockies.  He had left us when I was five, and I always thought my mother
blamed me for that.  Maybe she didn't; growing up with an absent father and
a mother who could seem catatonic one day and possessed the next definitely
put a different slant to my self-image than that June and Ward gave Wally
and the Beav.  I used to watch shows like that and think, "Wow, does that
really exist?  Are there really families who discuss the right thing to do
after your baseball has gone through the neighbor's window and how it's got
to come out of your allowance but they still love you anyway?"  That was
all foreign territory to me; nurturing was not my mother's strong suit.
     I do have memories of when the family was "intact", in the sense that
we all three lived in the same house.  We could have been the prototype for
whom the term "dysfunctional family" was invented. Drinking was one of the
few things they had in common, and it brought out the worst in both of
them.  I remember the shouting matches which would begin over something
trivial like underdone meat loaf, and escalate to include anything under
the sun that two people could possibly argue about. Finally my father moved
out, with no fanfare, no "Tim, we're getting a divorce but you're still my
son and I'll always be there for you."  He just left, period.  I never saw
him again.  I thought at the time that maybe things on the home front might
improve, since he wasn't there anymore for my mother to fight with, but it
didn't work that way. Her drinking didn't stop, and she became even less
communicative.  I'd swear there were times she didn't even know I existed.
We'd encounter each other somewhere in the house, and I'd see a distant
look in her eyes as if she were trying to recall if there was supposed to
be a short male person living with her.  I know I sound bitter, and I can't
deny that that's partly true, but more than that I feel regret for the way
things were.  I really believe that my mother had emotional and mental
problems that she couldn't control, and will always wish that she had
gotten help.  One of the many things I'll never understand about her is how
she managed to hold a job; she worked as a bank teller and apparently was
competent at it.  At her funeral, I remember hearing people she worked with
telling each other that they would never have expected her to do what she
had done, how she had called in sick that morning but with no indication
that anything was really wrong.  My opinion is that at the bank she went
into a sort of android mode that would last until she got home to her
friend, the gin bottle, and that nobody she worked with ever really knew
her.  I know I never did.
     The one bright light in my first 10 years was Gran, but she lived in
Ohio and we were in Illinois and I'd only see her on holidays when we'd
visit her or she'd come to us (there was that much of a resemblance to a
normal family, although we'd never have been chosen for a Hallmark
commercial) and on summer vacations.  Those were the best times of my life,
back then.  I'd arrive by bus the first week after school was out to find
her waiting at the station with her beat-up old Ford station wagon, and for
12 weeks I'd get to be a normal kid, helping her in the garden, mowing the
yard, and playing baseball with the other kids who lived in her
neighborhood.  I never really had a best friend, at home or there, but at
least when I was there I found other kids to hang around with.  Home was a
house in such an isolated area that at night, when I would hear from my bed
a train whistle far away, I'd be crying without even knowing why.  Now I
know why; I was desperately lonely and afraid that this was all that there
would be, ever.  A dark room in a nondescript house in the middle of
nowhere, with my mother either downstairs cleaning house like she was stuck
in overdrive, or sobbing in her room with something sad going on the record
player, depending on her mood at that particular moment in time.
     I never really understood the relationship between Gran and my mother.
Once, when I was around eight, I screwed up my courage and asked Gran if I
could stay with her after summer was over.  I wasn't afraid of an explosive
reaction such as any innocuous question to my mother might bring, but I was
afraid that she would say no.  Which she did, but not that bluntly.  She
got tears in her eyes, which made me want to bawl, and said "Timmy,"(not
Timothy, which I usually was to her; even as apprehensive as I was I
noticed that) "you don't know how much I wish you could.  But I don't think
there's any way we can do that."  That was all; I didn't ask why, not being
the kind of kid who expected adults to answer a whole lot of questions.  I
just walked away.  I didn't want to look back to see if she was really
crying.  That wasn't something I was prepared to take.  We went on with our
regular summer routine for the next week, and then it was time for me to go
back home.  Gran surprised me with the news that I wouldn't be taking the
bus; she was going to drive me back.  Shocked would really be a more
accurate word than surprised; Gran's old Ford had enough miles on it to
qualify it for the Guinness Book, and she really never liked to drive more
than twenty miles from home.  But again I didn't ask why, but just loaded
my things in the back and we were on our way.
     I discovered the reason for the change in my travel arrangements after
we arrived at my house.  Gran and my mother greeted each other as they
always did, civilly but with no great deal of warmth.  I couldn't read my
mother's mood when we got in; she seemed to be on an even keel.  That's
probably what caused Gran to broach the subject that I overheard them
discussing when I came back into the kitchen from the yard.  They were in
the living room and apparently didn't know I was back in the house, but I
don't think their knowing would have made any difference in the way things
worked out.  I heard Gran ask my mother if she would consider letting me go
back with her, to stay.  I think she was prepared to give reasons why it
would be a good idea; she was using her calm, reasonable, teacherly voice
the way she would have said, "Boys and girls, this is only a fire drill,
but I need you to line up quietly and walk out into the hall and onto the
playground with no running!"  My heartbeat accelerated and I hoped
fervently that my mother would be willing to discuss it, and maybe even ask
me how I felt about the idea, but she said one word.  "No."  Just that.  No
shouting, no throwing things, just one quiet, firm "No."  Then she stood
up, left the room, and I heard her walking up the stairs.  I saw Gran lower
her forehead to her hand for just a moment, then she too stood and turned
to walk toward the kitchen.
     I managed to get back out the door quietly without her knowing I was
there, and was sitting on the steps being very interested in a squirrel up
in our oak tree when Gran came to the door and quietly said "Timothy."  I
stood up to face her through the screen door, prepared to say something
strong and manly like "Well, that's okay," when she told me she had asked
and my mother had said no.  But she didn't bring it up; she just said,
"I've got to get going now.  Write me."  And left.  Just like that.
     That's how things continued until the last day of school the summer I
was ten.  I came home eager to get my things ready for the bus ride to
Gran's the next day, but felt that something was different the moment I let
myself in the front door.  The radio was playing in my mother's room and
the door was closed, which indicated she was there, but it wasn't yet time
for her to be home from the bank.  I felt really weird as I knocked on the
door and called, "Mom?"  No answer.  I was afraid to open the door, but I
slowly turned the knob and pushed the door open far enough to see my mother
lying on her bed, fully dressed for work, and apparently asleep.  I walked
on into the room, hardly daring to breathe, until I stood by the bed.  Then
I could see that she was too still to be sleeping, and saw the empty
prescription bottle on the nightstand beside the overturned gin bottle.  I
knew where a pulse should beat in her throat, and felt for it, already
knowing that I would feel nothing.  She was already cold.
     I didn't cry, not then; not as I called the hospital to tell them to
send an ambulance; not when I called Gran to tell her she needed to come;
not even after she got there and took me in her arms.  Not at the funeral,
not afterwards.  Not until many years later, when I found Matt, and knew
that it was finally time to let it all go.  But that was far in the future;
the present was just something to get through.  Gran took care of the
funeral, then put the house up for sale; the money from it went into a
trust fund for me, since Mom's will had left everything to her. Then after
all the details were taken care of, she rented a U-Haul trailer to tow all
my earthly goods, and some of Mom's, back home behind the old Ford wagon.
     After that my life seemed as normal as any other kid's.  Life with
Gran was predictable and lacking in all the turmoil that I'd known up until
then.  I adjusted well (I thought) to living and going to school in a new
town that wasn't really that new to me, since I'd spent all those summers
there.  It helped that everybody knew and liked Gran, and that I already
knew quite a few of the local kids.  I did well academically and broke a
few local records on the track team in high school, which didn't put me in
quite the same bracket as the star basketball players but was still
impressive enough for me to earn a certain jock rating.  That led to the
requisite dates with cheerleaders, although I never really felt as driven
to date and deflower as my friends did.  I might have suspected that I was
gay if I had felt attracted to guys, but I really wasn't.  It used to
bother me a little,(this was before the age of enlightenment when it became
politically correct to still be a virgin in high school) but not enough
that I felt I had to do anything about it.  I just assumed I had an
unnaturally low libido. (Matt just snickered; he's reading over my
shoulder.  Okay, wise guy, that's what I thought then, and would you rather
I had attempted to sleep with everybody I knew just to see who I could get
it up for?  I didn't think so.  Yes, love, this would be an excellent time
for you to go change the oil in the car. See ya.)  Where was I?  Okay,
still a virgin by graduation but not overly concerned about it.  I had
always joined in the bull sessions with the other guys when I had to, just
because it was expected, but I didn't really have a whole lot to
contribute.  Sometimes somebody would say something like "Tim doesn't
believe you should kiss and tell, right?"  I'd agree, not mentioning that
kissing and necking was all I had engaged in.  Dating was mandatory, and a
certain amount of physical contact was expected and pleasant enough, but
nothing that I felt I couldn't do without.
     So I graduated with grades good enough to get a scholarship, and
combined with the trust fund Gran had set up, I had enough to go to a
decent college in Indiana and even have an off-campus apartment--nothing to
brag about, but it was adequate and I had enough room for all the books and
records I didn't want to leave behind.  With hindsight being 20-20, I
figure now that if I had roomed in a dorm with a lot of other guys, or had
a roommate I'd been attracted to, I might have discovered what my sexual
orientation was before I met Matt at the age of 24.  Actually, I've always
been really glad that he was the first--and only. But now, back into the
wayback machine...
     When I picked a major, I decided on English at the junior high level,
because that had always been a subject I enjoyed and I felt I could pass
that appreciation along; junior high, because I didn't really feel drawn to
small kids, but I knew I wanted to try to help kids somehow.  Just
remembering how isolated I had felt growing up caused me to feel a lot of
empathy, and I thought the in-between kids (not technically "little"
anymore, not yet ready for prime time) were the ones I wanted to work with.
In college I repeated the pattern I'd been in in high school; I dated girls
because it seemed to be the thing to do, and I figured that eventually the
old testosterone would kick in and I'd become a raging bull, and make up
for lost time.  Didn't happen like that, though I still didn't have any
urges to be with other guys.  I did notice that when I'd double-date with
friends I was as likely to pay as much attention to the other male as to my
date or his, and was really more comfortable to be in a group than alone
with a girl, no matter how attractive or intelligent she was.  Things went
along smoothly since I wasn't beating myself up worrying about why I seemed
indifferent to sex; I just thought that was how I was, like being
left-handed, and could probably have been a wonderful monk.
     When I was in my junior year, Gran died. She'd already been retired
for many years, and when I'd regularly go back to what I still considered
my home, she was always there to welcome me.  I haven't really described
what Gran was like; she wasn't overly demonstrative, but she was warm and
caring and did her best to raise me, and I still miss her so much it hurts.
I really wish she had lived long enough to meet Matt.  I know that she
would have been really glad that we're together.  But I didn't have Matt
back then, and suddenly I didn't have Gran, either.  I felt more alone than
I had ever been, even back when I used to listen to the trains and cry.
Crying seemed to be something I'd forgotten how to do, though, because I
couldn't cry for Gran just as I couldn't cry for Mom.  I felt more numb
than I had back then, and wished I could start to grieve because mourning
would have been a release.  All I felt was alone.  There were things to
keep me busy, though, the same details Gran had taken charge of after Mom's
death.  She had already taken care of part of it herself, with her funeral
pre-arranged and a will drawn up that left everything to me.  One of the
few things left to do was have her date of death carved on the double stone
that already marked the plot where my grandfather was buried.  I think if
she could have, she would have taken care of that, too.  She was strong,
capable, and loved me unconditionally. I like to think that whatever good
is in me, I got from her.  She was my anchor, and I really believe she was
the only reason that I didn't turn into a certified basket-case long ago.
After she was gone, the house was empty, even though it was still full of
all the familiar things.  I rented a trailer to take what I couldn't stand
to part with back to my apartment, then saw a realtor to put the house and
the rest of its contents up for sale. I never went back again, until Matt
talked me into our going to my tenth-year high school reunion in '86.  We
raised a few eyebrows there, which we both kind of got a kick out of.  I
think everybody managed to figure out why I'd never gotten involved with
girls back then.  I was surprised, though, when one of my old track-team
buddies, Jeff, said he'd always wondered what would happen if he had made a
move on me; I'd never even suspected he was gay.  He was there with his
partner, too, and Matt and I went out with them for drinks after the
reunion ended.  We still all get together occasionally, but my real
attachment to the area died with Gran.
     After her funeral, I went back to school and finished the year still
on automatic pilot.  I'd walk into my apartment and see the rocking
chair,photograph albums, and the few framed family pictures I'd brought
from Gran's house, and I'd feel sad that they were all I had left of her,
and I'd think, "Cry, damnit.  Go ahead and get it over with.  You loved
her, she's gone, mourn already!"  But I couldn't; there was a wall in me
that had gone up years ago that I couldn't break down.  So I kept busy; I
continued going through the motions of the dating game, never really
feeling close to anybody, and generally just kept my nose clean.  Drinking
never was a big hobby of mine, I guess because of all the bad memories of
my parents' booze-inspired battles, and I was just plain scared to try
drugs.  I was afraid that if I tried it I'd like it, and I didn't want any
more addictions to battle.  I had started smoking just after I started
college, and have to admit I've kept it up (kids, don't try this at home.)
Matt's a smoker too, and we've agreed not to nag each other about it.
These days, being a smoker is almost as much of a segregating factor as
being gay, and how the hell did I get on that subject?  Oh, yeah, I was
saying that I didn't drink much in college and I didn't do drugs and I
didn't have sex, which didn't leave a whole lot to do except study, so I
graduated with honors and a teaching degree.  I found that I really liked
what I was doing the semester I did my student-teaching (fortunately; I
would have been up the ol' shit creek without a paddle if I had found out I
couldn't relate to kids after I'd just spent four years training to do
nothing else) and I liked where I was doing it, so when a position opened
up in the same school, I applied and got the job.  That's where I met
Claire, which led up to being in her wedding two years later, which led up
to my meeting Matt, which led up to us, Matt and me.  I like saying that,
so I think I'll do it again--Matt and me...
     Actually, I wasn't whole-heartedly into the whole wedding bit that
day.  Not only because it wasn't something I ever foresaw taking a leading
role in myself (I still wasn't dating anyone seriously, and Claire had
given up on fixing me up with friends of hers) but also because Claire was
my best buddy and I honestly considered the groom, Ed, to be a total jerk.
I had never told Claire that, but I think she knew how I felt anyway.
She'd often invited me, with or without a date, to join them for dinner or
bowling or cards when they were dating.  Since then, I've wondered if it
was only because she didn't want me spending so much time alone after
school hours, as I thought at the time, or if she actually recognized Ed's
jerk-like tendencies herself and wanted me along so she wouldn't always
have to be alone with him.  If that was the case, though, I don't know why
she would have settled for him.  She could have gotten almost any man she
wanted, and I once hinted that she should shop around before she tied
herself down to Ed.  Her response was, "Thank you very much, Timmy, and as
soon as you've qualified for your Expert Dater's Merit Badge, I'll take
your advice."  So I didn't bring it up again, but I still wondered, why
him?  I mean, Claire's gorgeous.  She's only a hair shorter than my 5'9",
has wavy red hair that comes down to the middle of her back, a great figure
(yeah, I'm gay, but I know what girls are supposed to look like), and a
terrific sense of humor.  She's also one of the three most important people
I've ever had in my life (the other two being Gran and Matt; when he asks
how they rank I tell him they're all tied for first but he's actually got a
lock on it.) So Claire is this really terrific person and Ed was--well, Ed,
the jerk, and here I was at her wedding symbolically giving her to him for
the rest of her natural life.  Actually, it worked out to be considerably
shorter than that because they were divorced after two years, but she has
never missed an opportunity to point out that if I hadn't been in the
wedding I probably would have made some excuse not to attend at all, and
then I might never have met Matt, so don't I think that Ed served a useful
purpose after all?  So of course, I humbly agree with her, but the fact
remains that Ed was, and always will be, a total jerk.
     So the wedding went ahead, with me walking Claire down the aisle to
hand her over to Ed.  When the minister asked if anyone had any objections
to their being joined together, I swear Claire quit gazing adoringly at the
groom long enough to glare at me, and I hadn't even opened my mouth.  Have
to admit I thought about it, though.  Anyway, the ceremony concluded the
way they usually do, and the four of us in the wedding party (the best man
was Ed's twin brother; when I saw him I thought, "No, puh-leeze, not TWO of
him!") formed the traditional hand-shaking and smiling line, joined by
Beth's husband Greg who handed her one of the twins to deal with because
they had both gone into full tantrum mode.  I volunteered to take them both
into the little kid's playroom, or cry room, or whatever they call it, but
Claire turned her head only partway toward me, still smiling like she'd
just been named first runner-up in the Miss America pageant (you know, that
stiff little smile that makes your lips look like they've been flash-frozen
into place) and said, "Timmy, if you dare to move from this spot I will
personally castrate you with a shrimp fork."  Something told me she was
serious; I don't know whether she was just realizing that she had actually
married Ed-the-jerk, or whether the standing/greeting/smiling routine was
getting to be too much what with the twin air-raid sirens wailing a few
feet away from her, so I stayed, and the next person to be glad-handed was
Matt.  I didn't know then who he was; he was obviously someone Ed knew
because when they shook hands the jerk--er, groom--clapped him on the
shoulder and said, "Well, Matt, you old s. o. b. , when are you going to
put the old ball and chain on?"  (Did I mention that Ed's a jerk?)  A voice
that was unfamiliar but seemed at the same time to be one I'd always known,
or been waiting to hear, answered, "Probably not in this lifetime," then my
hand was in his, and I was looking up into the most beautiful cobalt blue
eyes I'd ever seen, which happened to be part of a perfect face, tan and
strong jawed with just a hint of a shadow of a cleft in his chin, and above
all that was a head of dark blond hair with lighter sun-streaks that topped
off at about 6'1" and then I realized I was staring and practically
drooling so I let go of his hand.  "Hi," I said, or practically gulped, not
knowing what the hell had come over me.  "Hi.  See you later downstairs,"
he said, and I was so busy trying to make my mouth work again after being
totally wiped out by his smile that all I could manage as a reply was,
"Uh."  Way to go, genius, I thought, only vaguely wondering why I was
worried about what kind of impression I had made on another guy.  Hi and
uh.  That's really showing off the old college-educated vocabulary.  Then
my brain started to function a bit again, and I managed to connect the word
"downstairs" with the reception that would be in the church basement, and
from there the word "wedding" resurfaced, and I realized I was still
standing in the greeting line and hadn't gone through total meltdown after
all.  And it also registered that even though I had no idea who he was,
other than having heard Ed call him Matt, for some reason it was suddenly
extremely important to me that I was going to see him again, and then the
wedding wasn't such an ordeal after all.  Fortunately, the line of
well-wishers came to an end, but unfortunately it was then time to pose for
the official pictures, so we all kept our frozen smiles on.  Greg and the
twins had disappeared somewhere by this time; I hadn't even noticed the
wailing had ended, I'd been so wrapped up in whatever the hell it was that
had happened.  Finally the photographer was satisfied that he had achieved
the ultimate in whatever it was he wanted, so he allowed us to break
formation. I practically ran toward the stairs, but decided I'd better make
a pit stop at the men's room on the way.  I took a leak, then splashed cold
water on my face when I washed my hands.  Looking at myself in the mirror,
I thought, "Who the fuck are you?  Have you been a latent queer all this
time and not had the first clue?"  Then I decided the hell with worrying
about it, and headed downstairs.
     I didn't see him when I got down to the basement; there was quite a
crowd, and the streamers, balloons, and tissue paper bells hanging from the
ceiling made it hard to locate somebody even as tall as Matt.  Then I saw
him in the middle of a group of women, all dressed up in their
Saturday-go-to-wedding clothes, and looking extremely at ease with all the
attention (Matt told me later that he was surrounded before he knew it, and
had been waiting for me to come down, but I didn't know that then,) so I
got disgusted with myself for thinking whatever it was I'd been thinking,
and decided to get thoroughly sloshed.  I knew that wouldn't be hard
because I'd never developed much of a taste or capacity for booze of any
kind. The champagne was flowing freely, my best friend had just married a
jerk, and it seemed I'd fallen in and out of love within a span of ninety
minutes, so drinking seemed to be an excellent idea.  I quickly drained the
first glass, sent a second down to keep it company, and was in the process
of giving them a third to mingle with, when I noticed I was no longer alone
in the crowd.  I was looking up into those same blue eyes again, and the
effect was even more devastating with all those bubbles going to my head.
I couldn't even manage a "Hi" or an "Uh" this time, so I finished off the
third glass of champagne and just looked at him.
     "I'm Matt Carter," he said.  "Tim Garrett," I responded, thinking,
Yay, the mouth does still work after all, and that was even my own name--I
think.  I was already beginning to wish I had stayed away from the
champagne, even as I saw my hand reaching for a fourth glass.  Oh well, I
thought, I guess it knows what it's doing.  The rest of me was busy
memorizing every detail in front of me, from the hair that looked like it
would be a lot of fun to play with, past those eyes that I had already
fallen so deeply into, down below the strong chin, to take in a pair of
broad shoulders--and that was as far as I dared to go because I was
suddenly thinking again, "What the hell am I doing looking at another man
like this?"  Then I was gazing into his eyes again, and realized that he
seemed to be under whatever influence had gotten to me before the champagne
had, because he was looking at me with an intensity I'd never seen before,
and it dawned on me that neither of us had spoken a single word but our
names.
     "I work with Ed," he said.  I knew that Ed was a cameraman with a
local television station, one of the smaller independent ones, so that at
least gave me a clue toward holding up my end of a conversation.
     "You're in TV?" I asked, thinking, Duh, Einstein, he's in the Marines,
you can tell from the new uniform that looks just like a really nice summer
suit with no epaulets or insignia or anything.  But he apparently thought I
wasn't a hopeless case to have a conversation with, because he didn't take
off to join one of the wedding groupies.
     "I'm the whole sports department," he said, with a grin that would
have knocked my socks off if my feet hadn't been nailed to the floor.  I
realized then that I had seen and heard him on television, instead of in my
dreams.  (He's there plenty too, but waking up with him is even better.)
We talked about his job a while, with him explaining how the station was
new and still getting itself organized.  He did the remote tapings in
addition to all the live broadcasts, so he got around a lot.  Knowing that
gave me a little twinge of jealousy, which I recognized as absurd even as I
acknowledged it.  I knew that covering various and sundry athletic events
meant he constantly met all kinds of people, lean mean and gorgeous sports
types male and female, and that wherever he was he'd be the center of an
admiring group the way he'd been just a couple of minutes earlier.  But
what the hell was I doing resenting them?  I had no claim on him (do now,
so hands off, thank you very much) so I managed to keep myself from
suggesting that he go into a different line of work where he wouldn't be
running into all those jocks and groupies, such as cloistered monk.  I
found what he did really interesting since I've always had a love for
sports, especially track and field, and coach the junior high track team.
He knew a lot of the people I'd met as I took my team to different meets
around the state, coaches and rival team members.  I was surprised that
anyone would know who the promising young athletes were unless they had a
direct connection with them; junior high athletics isn't exactly comparable
to the NCAA or NBA, but I was learning that he had a lot of interest in and
knowledge of athletics on all levels.  We chatted for a while about that,
although the combination of the champagne and his presence was having a
limiting effect on my conversational skills.  After we'd covered that
subject fairly well he asked "What do you do?"
     The brain, bubble-logged as it was, managed to send a signal to the
mouth that a response was called for, and the mouth, trouper that it was,
supplied, "I work with Claire at the junior high.  I teach seventh- and
eighth-grade English."  And sometimes I even manage to use it to make whole
sentences that I can connect into paragraphs, when I'm not feeling that
I've just been socked in the solar plexus with a wet tuna while
simultaneously downing a fifth glass of--damn, fifth?  Yep, I had polished
off the fourth and picked up another without even noticing it.  I knew I
was going to have one hell of a hangover, especially since I didn't even
drink.  Ha.
     Matt, meanwhile, was still holding the same glass he'd had when he
joined me, and the level had only gone down by about a third.  Great, I
thought, he's practically a tee-totaler like me, but here I am giving every
indication that I drink this stuff like water.  Matt had apparently noticed
how much I'd consumed, even if I hadn't, because he asked, "You're not
planning to drive anywhere from here, are you?"
     The brain and mouth went through their slow-pitch-and-catch routine
again, and I answered, "Yeah, I guess.  My truck's here."
     "Leave it.  I'll take you home, and bring you back tomorrow to pick it
up."
     "Okay," I said.  That didn't take too much effort, since it was just
two syllables, and I wasn't about to argue about why somebody I'd just met
wanted to chauffeur me around.  If he had said, "Let's go find a chicken
farm, pluck some feathers, and chop some heads off," I'd have still said
okay.  It wasn't just the champagne answering, either; I already knew that
I didn't want to be any farther away from this man than I had to, and his
taking me home seemed like an excellent idea.
     "Do you want to stay until they've finished opening all the gifts?" he
asked, and I realized that the regular wedding reception process had been
going on all around us without my being aware of anyone in the room but us.
     "Hell no," I answered.  "I don't really want to look at a bunch of
toasters and waffle irons, and Ed's a jerk anyway."
     He laughed, a sound that I knew I could quickly get so used to that I
would miss it desperately if I didn't hear it anymore.  Then he said,
"Yeah, he is at that, but I'm glad I came anyway.  By the way, I guess I
should tell you I'm gay."
     "Okay," I said, having managed it before and being reasonably sure I
could get it out again.
     "Are you?" he asked, and I knew he meant was I gay too, and the only
answer I could come up with was, "Damned if I know.  Let's go find out."
     When we emerged from the basement, it was into a perfect June evening
with a gentle breeze blowing, and the sun still shining.  It was probably
about six P.M. by then; I'd lost all track of time.  We walked to the
parking lot and toward a shiny black Porsche (considerably classier than my
six-year-old blue GMC pick-up) that Matt indicated was his.  He unlocked
the passenger side to let me in, and asked, "Do you want to go straight
home, or get something to eat first?  You didn't eat anything back there."
I was touched that he'd noticed, but food was the last thing on my mind
right then, so I said "Home, please.  I think I may have food there."  I
wasn't actually sure, since stocking up on groceries wasn't one of my
favorite household chores, but I told him that I could probably come up
with peanut butter and bread.  He laughed again, and went around and got in
on his side.  Then he asked me where I lived, and after a momentary pause
to rummage through what was left of my mind I managed to come up with an
address and how to get there.  I wasn't totally out of it; I was very aware
of Matt beside me, his hands on the wheel, and how nicely he coordinated
with the tan leather interior of the Porsche.  They smelled good together,
too, with his after-shave that I hadn't been aware of until we were in the
confines of the car blending with the leather and smoke scent of the
interior.  I took off my tie, stuffed it in my pocket, and unbuttoned my
collar, hoping to start the blood flowing to my brain again; being in close
quarters with Matt was really getting to me.  He lit a cigarette and
offered me one, which I took, although I wasn't entirely sure I could smoke
it without setting my hair on fire.  It did give me something to do with
the hand that had been wanting to squeeze his thigh to see if it felt as
good as it looked.  I realized that I wanted to see him without the suit
on, without anything on at all, and I had a pretty good idea what the
correct answer was to the question he had asked me earlier.
     We were soon in front of the duplex I shared with a nice elderly
couple, the MacGregors, and I indicated which side of it was mine.  I
located my keys in my pocket while Matt was getting out and coming around
to open my door, and I thought, Gee, that's really sweet, wonder if he'd be
that nice if I wasn't drunk? (He is.)  He actually put a hand under my
elbow to help me navigate toward the front porch, and when I couldn't
manage to find the keyhole, he took the key and unlocked the door.  I saw
Mrs. Mac Gregor watching us from her living room window, and tried to
execute a reassuring sort of wave to indicate, "I'm fine, just slightly
plastered from marrying my best friend off and now I've brought somebody
home with me for the first time to find out whether or not I'm totally
asexual, and he happens to be the most beautiful thing I've ever seen and I
can't wait to get down to the nitty-gritty, but everything's okay, how are
you?"  I'm not sure she got all that, but the curtain fell back into place
and we walked into my living room.
     "Okay," he said, "food and coffee for you.  Where's the kitchen?"
     Well, that wasn't exactly what I thought we'd start off with, but I
vaguely waved toward where the kitchen was supposed to be, and said, "Over
there somewhere.  I think I'd better go to the john."  I made it all the
way through the bedroom, into the bathroom and over the toilet before I
threw up, which I thought was pretty good, but I had neglected to close the
door, which wasn't.  Damn, I thought as I retasted the champagne which
wasn't nearly as good coming up as I had thought it was going down.  Here I
am barfing with Matt out there--but he wasn't out there anymore, he was
supporting me with one arm around my waist while he helped me kneel in
front of the porcelain throne and held the other cool hand on my forehead.
I finished, and leaned back against him with my eyes closed, feeling
totally wasted and embarrassed.  "Christ, I'm sorry," I finally managed to
say.  "For what?" he asked.  "You feel any better now?"  He didn't sound
disgusted or irritated, just concerned.
     "Yeah," I said, "just ducky."
     His laugh was just a quiet chuckle this time, and I loved it.  He wet
a washcloth and wiped my face with it, filled a glass with water and held
it to my lips.  I drank, and thanked him.  "Anytime," he said, with a smile
that I felt clear down to my toes.  "Ready to stand up?"
     "Yeah, and to get out of this monkey suit."  I honestly didn't have in
mind that he would help me strip; I'd just been in that blasted tuxedo
about as long as I could stand, and having just sat in it in the floor
while I threw up, I figured it had already lost its panache anyway.  But
help me he did, slipping the jacket off, then unbuttoning and taking off my
shirt while I kicked off my shoes and unzipped my pants.  I wondered
briefly what was going to happen next; what he did was to kneel and gently
grasp one ankle and then the other to help me step out of my pants, then he
took my socks off too.  He rose, and putting both hands around my waist
asked, "Do you want to eat, shower, or take a nap?"  I was thinking, I want
you to go on holding me, only closer and tighter, but what I actually said
was, "A nap, I think."  "Okay," he said, and with one arm still around my
waist, walked with me into the bedroom.  Here it comes, I thought, or
hoped, we're here in the bedroom, he's turning down the covers, guiding me
to lie down, then straightening up and saying, "I think you're going to be
okay now.  I'll be going now, and come back in the morning to take you back
for your truck.  Okay, Tim?"
     What?!  Wait, I thought, this isn't how it's supposed to go, and for a
change my thinking and speaking parts were in synch.  "Wait," I said, "I
don't want you to go.  I thought..."  Then the speaking neurons took a
vacation again, and I couldn't think of anything to say next.  I thought we
were going to find out if I'm gay, I thought you were going to make love to
me, I thought you were going to stay with me forever?  None of those words
would come out, but I found out in due course that the answer to all of the
above was yes.  At that moment though, all I could manage was, "Don't go."
     "Okay," he said, and quickly and quietly stripped down to his briefs,
which even in my frazzled state I noticed he filled quite nicely, got into
the bed beside me, and took me in his arms.  He settled my head on his
chest, gently stroked my hair, and said, "Go to sleep now, baby.  You've
had a rough day."  Baby, I thought, already drifting off.  I'm his baby,
and I can die happy right now.  But then another thought occurred to me,
and I raised up enough to look at him.  "You'll be here when I wake up,
won't you?"  There was a brief pause before he answered, and I was afraid
he was going to say he wouldn't but that wasn't it.  He drew a breath, let
it out slowly, and said huskily, "Yes, baby, I'll be here when you wake up.
I promise."  That was all I needed to hear.  I cuddled up against him
again, and went to sleep listening to his heartbeat while he gently stroked
my hair.

PART TWO

     I woke up, slightly disoriented, and checked the time on the bedside
clock radio.  Okay, 12:00, I thought; now is that noon or midnight?  From
the fact that the space between the shade bottoms and windowsills was dark,
I figured midnight was probably the better choice, but I couldn't remember
why I had the feeling that something vitally important to me was suddenly
missing.  Then I saw a tall shape moving away from the bed, and the
bathroom light came on as the door shut.  Matt, I thought.  So it wasn't a
dream.  There really was a beating heart in a broad chest my head was
resting on, and really were two arms holding me tight.  I was slowly
becoming aware of the events of the past few hours before I had checked
out--the wedding, the reception, the champagne (I had a slight headache to
remind me of that, but I seemed to have slept through the worst hung-over
phase,) and most importantly, Matt.  I remembered him telling me he would
still be with me when I woke up; did that mean he wouldn't be staying
afterwards?  More than anything in the world, I didn't want him going
anywhere.  If being awake meant this dream was going to end, I didn't want
to wake up.  I shut my eyes and almost drifted off again, to the distant
sound of the running shower. Shower?  If he was showering, was he going to
get dressed and leave?  I sat up slowly, wary of starting a jack-hammer
pounding in my skull, but I seemed able to reach a position relatively
perpindicular to the bed without losing any more brain cells.  Clothes, I
thought; the only ones he'd had were what he'd worn to the wedding, and at
some point after removing them, he had neatly folded them and laid them,
along with my rumpled tux, on the armchair in front of the window. I kind
of liked the idea of our clothes being placed together, and hoped they were
having a good time. So far, so good, Sherlock, I thought, having deduced
that at least he wasn't getting dressed in the bathroom.  Then I heard the
shower cut off, and nearly panicked because I didn't know what I was
supposed to do now.  We had technically slept together, but nothing else
had happened; I sure hoped nothing had, because I'd missed it.  I knew I'd
gone to sleep with him holding me, and apparently awakened when he had
gotten up.  A vague tactile memory was trying to surface, a feeling as
ephemeral as a whisper, of a touch against my forehead as I'd been moved
from his chest to the pillow.  A kiss?  A brush of his fingers?  Damn, I
wished I'd been awake enough to appreciate it.  Now hearing the knob turn
and the door open, I lay back down and closed my eyes.  Chickenshit, I
thought, can't face him?  It was the thought of his leaving that I couldn't
face, and I knew of no way to make him stay.
     He was beside the bed in a couple of heartbeats, and I knew he was
looking down at me.  Don't go, I pleaded silently, please don't go.  He
didn't.  He lay back down beside me, and again took me in his arms.  I
sighed; I couldn't help it, I was so relieved that he was still with me.
     "Are you awake, baby?" he asked softly, and I opened my eyes.  He had
called me "baby" again; this was just too much to take in without looking
at him.  Our heads lay very close on the pillow, so close that I had felt
his words as much as heard them.
     "Yes, but I'm not sure I want to be."
     "Bad hangover?" he asked, and gently stroked my temple.
     "No, I slept through most of it.  I just don't want you to go."
     I heard a ragged intake of breath before he answered, "Don't worry,
I'm not going anywhere."  He was so close, our mouths just a few inches
apart, that I wondered whether I had enough nerve to close the gap and
touch his lips with mine.  Then out of nowhere, the words "morning breath"
popped into my head.  Not his; mine.  I hadn't brushed my teeth after
recycling yesterday's champagne, and my mouth tasted as if something had
crawled into it to die.  I backed off a little then, and he asked, "What's
wrong?"
     "I need to go brush my teeth."
     He smiled, then suddenly his lips were brushing mine, very gently,
then with a little more pressure, then my mouth opened to his.  We kissed
long and deep, and I wondered why fireworks were being set off outside,
then I realized it wasn't outside at all, but between the two of us.  His
tongue was in my mouth, then mine in his, and vice versa until I didn't
know which was whose.  Finally we had to come up for air, and he said,
smiling, "You taste pretty good to me."
     I couldn't say anything.  I had been left breathless and shaken, and I
realized I had never before known what a kiss could be.  In my abortive
attempts to become a lady-killer, I had kissed plenty of girls plenty of
times, and must have been fairly successful since none of them had ever
said "Ugh," and spat afterwards, but none of them had ever affected me like
Matt had.  Finally I managed to say, "Wow."
     "Exactly what I was thinking," he replied.
     We were lying on our sides,so there was still space between us, and I
wanted to be as close to him as I could get.  "Hold me closer," I begged,
and he gently rolled me onto my back, and he was on top of me.  My arms
were wrapped as tightly around him as they could get, as his were around
me, and I could feel our hearts pounding against each other as our mouths
met and joined again.  This was even better than the first time, which I
hadn't believed was even possible, because now I could feel all of him
pressing against all of me.  No sex drive, I distantly remembered having
thought, when I could never get myself to the point of wanting to make love
to a woman.  All my thoughts were distant, because there was so much here
and now to absorb, but I knew in every fiber of my being that this was what
I had always been waiting for.  To be here, right now, not just with any
man, but with Matt as we were right now.  He took his mouth from mine, and
I thought the loss would kill me, but then he said, "It seems that the cold
shower I just took was wasted."
     "So that's what you were doing.  I was afraid you were going to
leave."
     "No, baby.  I've been wanting to make love to you since I first saw
you, and holding you that close for that long was a little more than I
could take."
     I swallowed the lump that had formed in my throat, and said, "Then
take me."
     His eyes were very serious as he said, "Are you sure?  Once it's done
it can't be undone, and it would kill me to hurt you."
     "I'm sure.  I've been waiting all my life for you.  It's time."
     He slowly moved onto his side, and kissed me again as he ran his hand
gently down over my ribs, to my waist, and slipped his hand inside the
waistband of my briefs.  He caressed me as he pulled them down, then bent
to kiss me right below my navel.  I was dying to touch him everywhere, so I
slid my hand down his back to his buttocks, then back up and inside his
briefs.  I pushed them down, and he slid them off.  Only a faint glow from
a streetlight and the moon filtered through the shaded windows, and while I
could see his face, his eyes shining, I wished I could see all of him.
     "What are you thinking?" he asked.
     "That I want to do this again in the daylight."
     "We will," he said, and smiled.
     "Make love to me now, please, all the way.  If I don't have you in me
soon I'll die from wanting you."
     "You're sure?" he asked again.
     "Oh, yes," I breathed, unable to say any more than that.
     "We'll need some kind of lubricant. I don't want to hurt you.  You've
never done this before, have you?"
     "No.  Have you?"
     "Yes, but I wish I hadn't so the first time for both of us would be
together."
     "I'm glad you already have.  At least one of us will know what he's
doing."
     He smiled again, and again I felt my heart doing flips.  "There's
Vaseline in the medicine cabinet," I told him.  "Will that work?"
     "Yes," he said.  "I'll be right back."  I reluctantly let go of him as
he kissed me softly and got up.  I saw clearly for the first time in the
moonlight how large his erection was, and wondered if I would be able to
stand what happened next.  There wasn't any way I was going to back out, I
wanted this so badly, but I was still apprehensive.  He returned, set the
Vaseline jar down on the nightstand, and lay back down with me, putting one
arm under me and pulling me to him while he caressed my rear with the other
hand.  He lightly stroked my anus, and I knew that if we didn't get started
soon, I would be finished before we began; I was ready to come just from
his touch.  "Now, Matt.  Please.  Do it now."
     "Yes, angel," he breathed against my lips, and removed his arm from
around me.  He reached for the jar, removed the lid, and lubricated my anus
with one finger.  Again I realized how close I was, and begged him,
"Hurry."  He removed his finger from me, and the loss would have been
unbearable if I hadn't known that I would soon be feeling him inside me.
He lubricated himself, raised my hips to slide a pillow under me, then
gently reinserted one finger, then two.  Finally I felt the head of his
erection against me, and wanted him in me so badly that I pushed down
against him.
     "We need to take it slowly, baby.  If I hurt you, tell me.  I'll
stop."
     "Okay," I answered, knowing full well that there was no way in heaven
or hell that I was going to tell him to stop.  I wanted him so much that I
would have let him tear me apart before I would tell him to pull out.  And
I did think for a moment that I was being split into pieces that would
never go together again, but I didn't care; it was a glorious pain, and
soon the pain was past and I felt only full, filled up with him inside me,
and I wanted it never to end.  When he had entered me completely, he didn't
move for a few moments, and I knew he was waiting to see if it was going to
be all right.  I wrapped both arms around his neck, bringing his open mouth
onto mine, and sucked his tongue into my mouth.  We kissed deeply, and
again I lost track of which tongue was doing what as he began to move
inside me.  We moved together, becoming one, as our mouths remained locked
together, and I felt the greatest joy of my life.  This, finally, was where
I was meant to be, with Matt inside me, and I found that tears were running
down my face.  Matt felt them, too, when they reached our lips, and broke
our kiss to ask anxiously, "Baby, should I stop?  Am I hurting you?"
     "No, please, don't ever stop.  Just love me like this forever."
     It was the first time either of us had said the "L" word, but I knew
that that was what we were feeling.  We weren't just fucking, weren't just
getting our rocks off--or at least, it was love as far as I was concerned.
I knew I had fallen in love with him the moment our hands touched for the
first time, and if he didn't feel the same. . .I couldn't bear to think
about that.  But then he was saying, "I love you, I love you, I love you so
much. . ." and then he was crying too, and we held each other as tightly as
two people could, until we were no longer two people but one, and our tears
mingled as we kissed and then we climaxed together, and it was the most
wondrous feeling I had ever known.
     He stayed inside me after we came, and gradually our heartbeats slowed
down from their frenetic pace, and we were breathing almost normally (feel
free to insert the "breath came in short pants" phrase anywhere above that
you feel it fits; I was too preoccupied with reliving those moments to get
it worked in.)  I still couldn't stop crying, though.  After my mother died
I hadn't been able to cry, nor after Gran's death, but here I was, bawling
like a baby after making love for the first time with the man I loved.  And
I knew Matt's love had broken down the wall inside me, and it would never
be there again.  I think he realized that I was crying not from pain but
from its release, because he gently withdrew from me and pulled me into his
arms. He sat up with me in his lap and slowly rocked me, holding me tight
and murmuring softly, over and over, "It's okay, now, angel. . .I've got
you. . You're mine now. . .Nothing is ever going to hurt you again."
     Finally I had cried it all out, and just rested against Matt's chest,
his arms tight around me.  I felt drained; I had never experienced such a
catharsis in my life, but now that it was over I knew it was long overdue.
Matt had been repeating that he loved me like an incantation, and while I
somehow knew that it was true, the old voice of doubt in me was reluctant
to accept that something this wonderful could actually have happened.
Finally I could speak again, and raising my head from his chest to look
into his eyes I asked him, "How can you love me?  You don't even really
know me."
     He answered, "I know that I've been looking for you all my life, and
that's all I need to know.  You can tell me anything you want to, when you
want to, but there's no hurry.  I'm never going to let you go."
     I think I would have cried again then, if the reservoir hadn't finally
run dry, but that ol' devil doubt in my head just couldn't accept this
miracle at face value.  "When you called me baby. . ."  I hesitated.  I
wanted to know, "Did you mean it?  How many other people have you said 'I
love you' to?"  I couldn't get the words out, but Matt read my mind.
     "I've never been in love before, not even close.  Calling you my baby
just came as naturally as breathing, but that isn't something I've ever
called anyone before.  You know what else?  I've never spent the night with
anyone.  I've had sex with a few girls and guys from the time I was 16
until I finally realized I wasn't bisexual at 18, then with a few guys
after that, but sex was all that it was.  I never wanted to wake up with
anyone the next morning, because there was never anyone I cared enough for
to stay with to see the sunrise.  But with you--I want to share the sunrise
and the sunset and everything in between, and I want to hold you in my arms
every night for the rest of our lives."  Then he looked as if he thought he
might have said too much, and added, "If that's what you want, too."
     Then I was crying again, but not like before with all the hurt I'd
always kept inside.  This time it was with joy and relief and from knowing
that everything he said was true.  Too good to be true, maybe, the voice of
doubt tried to intrude.  The hell with you, I told it.  Hit the road, Jack,
and don't you come back no more.  Matt's mine and I'm his and that's how
it's always going to be.
     "I love you," I told him.  "And there's a lot I need to tell you, but
you're right--there's no hurry.  We've got all the time in the world to say
all there is to say.  Right now I'd appreciate it very much if you'd make
love to me again."  This from the guy with no sex drive.  Turned out that
all that was necessary was the right driver, and that was Matt.  He didn't
need much urging; as soon as I'd told him I loved him I had felt him grow
hard under me again, and we were both ready.  We kissed and caressed each
other until I couldn't wait any longer to have him in me.  I turned around
on his lap so that I was facing him, then raised up enough for him to enter
me.  There was again a moment of pain, but it was nothing when compared to
the joy of our becoming one again.  He put both hands under my buttocks and
raised and lowered me gently as he thrust upward to meet me, and I held
onto his shoulders.  We soon found a rhythm that had me ready to come, but
I didn't want to.  I was really getting to love this and wanted to make it
last.  "I think we need to slow down," I gasped.  He rolled us over, still
connected, and didn't move at all for a few moments.  We kissed, long and
deep, then his mouth moved from mine to nibble my ear, then he was kissing
my neck, and I discovered I had all kinds of places that awoke to his
touch.  His lips and tongue turned me into one extremely sensitive nerve
ending from the hollow in my throat to both nipples, and that was when I
nearly lost it.  I'd never considered nipples on a male to be anything but
unnecessary accessories, like moles or birthmarks; boy, was I wrong.  His
licking and sucking were driving me out of my mind, and I was ready to beg
him to go ahead and take me when he started moving in me again.  Slowly,
then faster and faster, till I let out a whoop as we both came and was
really glad the bedroom was on the outside wall of my apartment instead of
on the wall shared with the MacGregors.  I could just imagine them calling
the police and saying, "We think the nice young man in our building is
being murdered.  There are noises over there we've never heard before."
They were certainly noises I'd never made before, and Matt made a few of
his own, and collapsed on top of me while we both caught our breath. "Wow,"
he said finally, raising his head and smiling into my eyes.  "Exactly what
I was thinking," I answered, and this time there were no tears.  We had
come through the valley of the shadow, and now all the sorrow was left
behind.  There was nothing ahead but the rest of our lives together, and I
knew that would be more than enough.
     With Matt still in me, we rolled onto our sides, holding each other as
tightly as possible, exchanging kisses for as long as we could stay awake.
I was reluctant to close my eyes; this was all too new and wonderful for me
to want to waste any time sleeping, but exhaustion caught up with us.  We
had made love twice, with an emotion-charged interval in between, and
sleeping in Matt's arms again was the best alternative imaginable to making
love with him.  Already knowing the answer but wanting to hear the words
anyway, I asked him, "You'll still be here when I wake up?"
     Again I was rewarded with the smile I'd already grown to love, the
smile that will always make me melt inside no matter how many millions of
times I see it, and he answered, "Yes, my baby.  I'll be here."  He rolled
onto his back, pulled me full-length on top of him as if I were weightless,
and held me tight.  Again I went to sleep listening to his heartbeat,
knowing that this was how it was going to be from then on--the two of us
together, the way we were meant to be.  My last thought before I drifted
away was a silent "Thank You" to God, and even a small honorable mention to
Ed, who, jerk though he is, still did one thing that I'll always be
grateful for.  We might have found each other eventually (Matt says it
would have happened because we were meant to be together, but I'm glad we
didn't have to wait any longer.)  So thank You God, thank you Claire for
putting up with Ed long enough to get to the altar, thank you Ed for
inviting Matt, thank you Matt for being, period, and being with me now,
specifically.
     Forever and ever, amen, and good night.
               
PART THREE                    
Matt's Story

     Timmy let me read what he has written so far.  He hates for me to read
over his shoulder so he's sitting in my lap here at the keyboard, which is
going to be a bit distracting; since he said it's my turn now, though, I'll
take over.  I have no doubt that he'll correct me if I get anything wrong;
Timmy's a stickler for details.  ---Am not.
     Are too. Not to mention argumentative.  ---Then don't mention it.
     Sorry, I already did.  There are no words that can express how much I
love him, but I'm going to try.  I knew right after we met how hard his
life had been when he was small--hell, he's still little.  Sometimes he
feels so fragile in my arms that I'm afraid that he'll break if I hold him
too tight, but that's just an illusion.  Oh, Timmy's small, all right; he
has a runner's taut body, all bone and sinew with not an extra ounce on him
anywhere, but he's tough.  He had to be to survive what he has, (how many
kids could ride a Greyhound every summer, starting at the age of six,
round-trip from Illinois to Ohio) but that still doesn't keep me from
feeling that I need to protect him.  He doesn't mind that, though, he tells
me.  If I could, I'd go back in time in his wayback machine and try to
change the way things were for him.  He's written about part of what he
went through growing up, but not nearly everything; he's only gradually
told me his story over the 14 years that we've been together.  Timmy's a
very special person, and the most precious part of my life.  Does that make
up for "argumentative"?  ---You're getting there.
     I almost didn't go to Claire and Ed's wedding.  Ed is not the most
likable guy in the world.  ---He's being diplomatic.  Ed's a jerk.
     I think you've already made that point.  Anyway, I wasn't too sorry
when he later left the station to go to one of the network news bureaus,
but when he got married I felt obligated to be there.  We had a very small
staff in those days.  I was part-owner of the station as well as its entire
sports department, and whenever we did a remote shoot he and I were on the
road in the station van.  I heard all about Claire, of course, and wondered
why she would marry Ed if she was as great as he described her.  So it was
really out of a sense of duty and curiosity that I was there, and I've
thanked my lucky stars ever since, because that's when I met Timmy.
Speaking of--if you don't stop wiggling around this is going to have to go
on hold for a while.  ---Huh?  I thought that was a doorknob in your
pocket.  Wiggling like this, you mean?
     Uh, yeah, like that.  I think it's time for a short intermission.  To
be continued after a very necessary break. . .
     Well, that was certainly refreshing.  We're back now, with Timmy
across from me grading English tests.  We found this old partners' desk at
an antique sale right after we built our house.  It's one of the massive
solid wood ones that used to be seen in some law offices; it has kneeholes
on both sides so two people can use it, and it works perfectly for us.  We
have it placed perpindicular to one wall in our den, so that the computer
and printer and fax, all the necessary techno things that have to be
plugged in, are on one end.  I can sit here and do my syndicated sports
column (I'm still at the television station, which has grown by leaps and
bounds, but at Timmy's urging I've branched out into print, too.  He'd read
a column in some paper and get really pissed when something would be
inaccurate.  Like I said, he's a stickler for details.)  So we work here,
where we can be together, because being apart is something we've never
gotten good at. Don't want to, either.  We had a long enough wait to find
each other, and we've made the most of every moment since.  I love watching
Timmy do his "homework"; when he runs across something that makes him
laugh, he reads it to me, and there's the occasional groan that means one
of the budding young writers has defied some law of syntax or punctuation
again.  It's only September, so he still hasn't gotten through to some of
them.  He will, though; Timmy has a real knack for reaching kids, in class
and out.  To be involved in athletics, they have to keep up their grades;
that's a real challenge for some of them, and Timmy goes the extra mile to
help.  Not just the kids he coaches, either; two nights ago, a junior who
was having a hell of a time with a math class came asking for help because
he was afraid he'd be ineligible for basketball.  Timmy sat down with him
at the kitchen table and worked with him until the numbers made sense.  He
called last night to tell Timmy he'd made a B+ on a test that had had him
scared shitless.  He said he couldn't have done it without Timmy's help.
Results like that make up for the hassles, Timmy says, and God knows there
are enough of those.
     When we first got together, I was afraid of what the reaction might be
if we were an openly gay couple.  I didn't want to suggest that we sneak
around to see each other, but I would have accepted that if there was no
other way to be together.  But Timmy made it plain from the beginning that
he wasn't about to hide the fact that we were lovers; he said that if the
school board wanted to fire him they might be able to do it, but they'd
have a fight on their hands first.  There were no openly gay teachers in
the district at that time, so we knew Timmy might become a sacrificial lamb
if there were parental objections made.  It didn't turn out like that,
though.  Even though he had been teaching for only two years, there were
enough people who realized how dedicated he was to negate the backlash that
some of the overly-righteous tried to start.
     We were living together by the time school started in the fall of '82.
Actually, we hadn't spent a night apart since we met, alternating between
his place and mine.  Neither spot was where we wanted to be permanently, so
we just went back and forth until we found a house we wanted.  We moved
into our first home together over the Fourth of July weekend, two weeks
after we'd met.  We leased a nice three bedroom brick ranch on a wooded
two-acre lot; the owner was the mother of one of Timmy's runners, so she
already knew and liked him.  She didn't bat an eye when we looked at it
together and told her we'd take it.  We put both our names on the mailbox,
moved our combined furnishings in, and didn't get out of bed except for
occasional trips to the john and kitchen until the following Tuesday
morning, when I had to go back to work.
     Word got around via the grapevine that that really cool fox
Mr. Garrett from the junior high was not available; Claire reported that
she got phone calls from tearful high school girls, and a few female
teachers, who had apparently hoped that she would tell them the rumors of
his being not only gay but taken were false.  She called Timmy's number
from their honeymoon suite in Hawaii the night following the wedding.
After getting no answer there, she got my number from Ed and tracked us
down.  When I answered the phone (we were taking a break to eat a delivered
pizza, having every incentive to keep our strength up; we'd found we were
both insatiable and had burned a lot of calories over the preceding 24
hours,) she identified herself and asked if Timmy was there.  I told her he
was, but instead of asking to speak with him, she told me she wanted to
tell me something important first.  She said that if being with me made
Timmy happy she would take on anybody who made the slightest homophobic
remark, but if I ever hurt Timmy she would happily reduce me to small
pieces with a Ginsu knife.  (I didn't doubt her sincerity for a minute;
when I told Timmy, he said that sounded even worse than the shrimp fork
castration she had promised him.  We decided it would probably be a good
idea never to make Claire angry when she had access to kitchen utensils.)
I don't know how she had reached the correct conclusion that we had become
lovers, since Ed apparently hadn't known I was gay; I'd never tried to hide
it, but my sexuality had never been a topic of discussion when we worked
together, and from the ball and chain remark he'd made at the wedding he
didn't seem to have a clue about my orientation.  (Of course, Timmy would
say that he's never had a clue about anything.)  She must have seen that we
were all wrapped up in each other at the reception and known we were
falling in love, even though she was occupied at the time as the main
attraction.
     The phone calls to Claire started as soon as she returned home, and
while she told those with inquiring minds that Timmy's business was his
own, she didn't deny that we were more than roommates.  We hadn't asked her
to; we'd already decided that we weren't going to hide our relationship
from anyone.  We didn't stand around on street corners necking, but we were
always together, and held hands openly. There were a few anonymous phone
calls and letters received by board members and the superintendent with the
usual fag and pedophile charges, and a rumor got around that he was going
to be called before the board to face possible charges of immorality (which
could have been grounds for dismissal if there had been anyone willing to
lie about his conduct.)  But when Timmy's students and runners heard that
someone was trying to get him fired, they took matters into their own
hands.
     On the day before school was to start, an "anonymous source" alerted
the local newspapers and TV stations, including mine, that there was going
to be a student rally to protest the unfair treatment of a teacher.  I was
away from the station at the time, taping an interview with an injured
baseball player, but luckily we had a reporter and cameraman who recognized
the story would be worth covering.  We still have the videotape, and it's
priceless.  The film shows a young crowd at least 600 strong, not only
junior high kids but high school students as well, carrying signs and
picketing the school administration building.  Some of the signs read: IF
MR. GARRETT GOES, WE DO TOO--STUDENTS UNITED AGAINST HOMOPHOBIA--DON'T
BELIEVE THE LIES: ASK US.  And when they were asked, they weren't afraid to
speak up.  One boy who had been on Timmy's track team stated on camera that
he had been asked by his parents if Timmy had ever tried to molest any
student, and he had been shocked that such an idea had ever come up.  "No
way!" he told the reporter.  "Mr. Garrett isn't like that.  If he's gay, so
what?  Do all straight male teachers molest female students?  He's our
teacher and our coach and our friend, and anybody who says any different is
lying."
     As soon as he finished speaking, cheers erupted all around him, with
all the kids waving their signs.  The film was picked up by the networks
and replayed across the country, and we later heard from gay teachers in
other states, some already open, some who came out then and some who were
still afraid to, but all were given hope by the support that all those kids
showed for Timmy.  Since then, there have been several gays and lesbians in
our district and others around us who have come out, and Timmy is always
given credit for inspiring their openness by having the courage not to stay
in the closet.  He correctly states that he was never in any closet, since
his awareness of being gay and his coming out were simultaneous, and says
that it's the kids who weren't afraid to speak up who deserve all the
credit.  Personally, I think that the credit should go to Timmy and the
students equally; he showed by example that it's okay to be who you are,
and the kids learned that lesson well.
     I'm not trying to imply that life has been a bed of roses since we've
been together--well, okay, it has, actually.  We've grown more and more in
love over the years.  We have decided that it's a cumulative effect, like
that of an interest-bearing account; our love is compounded daily.  (As
Timmy said in the beginning, we can get pretty corny.  Our friends have
learned to live with it, although we do hear them groan from time to time.)
We've had to contend with some bigotry and homophobia, but the support that
was given to Timmy (and myself, by virtue of the fact that I was known from
the beginning to be his lover) has been more indicative of how we've been
treated than the occasional slur.  The only thing missing from our
relationship is the legal right to marry, which we would do in a second.
     Same-sex marriage has become a divisive issue in this country in the
past year, which anyone who hasn't been living under a rock already knows.
The so-called Defense of Marriage Act has affected a lot of people in
different ways; homophobia has been made more acceptable in certain
quarters, since it seems to have been given the approval of the government,
but it has also caused some of us who were quite content with our lives to
speak out against injustice.  That was what led Timmy to suggest that we
tell about our life together, and I agreed that we should.  As Timmy said,
we're normally very private people, but there is nothing about our
relationship that we're ashamed of.  I was surprised that he was willing to
talk about something as personal as the first night we spent together, but
we both feel that unless gays and lesbian relationships are accepted as
equal to those of heterosexuals, the civil rights movement in this country
still has a long way to go.  We both hope that someday same-sex marriages
or nationally recognized domestic partnerships will become a fact of life,
and if our telling the story of our life together can help to destroy the
image of gays as horned, cloven-footed monsters, then we're both willing to
try.  Okay, that's the end of the political portion of this broadcast; now
back to Timmy and me.
     When Timmy compares how we grew up, he says his family was the
Munsters and mine was the Cleavers.  There is an element of truth in that
statement, in that I came from a family a great deal more stable than his.
My parents are still living and still together in the town in Pennsylvania
where I was born.  My father is a financial advisor, and my mother has run
a day-care center for the past thirty years.  She would like to retire, but
there's always one more couple calling to request that she take their
child.  She has an excellent staff and says they can run the center without
her, but I suspect that she's not ready to turn "her" children over to
somebody else.  Mom's the earth-mother type; she never met a kid she didn't
love.  I was the second of four children; my sister Meg is older than me by
two years, Sarah two years younger (Timmy's age) and Todd is three years
younger than Sarah.  We've always kidded Mom about goofing up her two-year
system by waiting an extra year to have Todd; she says he was an
afterthought, but a nice one.  Both our parents have always been very
loving and supportive of us all, which helped a great deal when Meg came
out at 19.  She went away to college, and when she came home at Christmas
of her sophomore year with her roommate, she told us all matter-of-factly
that they were a couple.  If Mom and Dad were shocked or appalled they
never showed it; they accepted Meg's partner as part of the family.  They
later broke up, but Meg has been with her partner Karen for the past 12
years and they're very happy together.
     Having Meg to lay the groundwork made my coming out at 20 a lot easier
than it might otherwise have been.  Unlike Timmy, I had long felt that I
was more attracted to males than females, but I experimented sexually with
girls for a few years before I was sure that I wasn't heterosexual.  I lost
my virginity at 16 with a girl named Jill who was three years older and
already experienced enough to take the initiative.  I suppose it could be
said that she seduced me; we were both working at a summer camp when she
invited me into her cabin to listen to some records.  One thing led to
another, and I was soon having my first sexual experience while Iron
Butterfly played in the background.  I didn't have any trouble performing,
but somehow it didn't seem to be what I'd always heard it was supposed to
be.
     I had already wondered how it would be to have sex with another guy,
and I found out two days after I'd been with Jill.  An 18 year old named
Gary, a counselor at the same camp, happened to be gay; it was no secret to
all of us who worked there, although I've never been sure whether the
directors knew.  I know he never had any intimate contact with the campers,
because we discussed it.  I went into his cabin one night and asked if he'd
mind answering some personal questions.  He must have suspected what I had
in mind, because he said, "Yes, I'm gay, and I've been hoping you are."  He
asked me how old I was, and when I told him I was 16, he was surprised.  He
said he had thought I was at least his age (I was already six feet tall and
looked older than I was.)  I thought, Damn, I should have lied, because he
said he didn't think it was a good idea for us to be talking about gay sex
alone since I wasn't as old as he had assumed.  I told him I was old enough
to take responsibility for my own actions and that I was ready to find out
if I was gay.  Actually, it was very similar to the conversation I would
have with Timmy on the night we met, but the roles were reversed then.  I
convinced Gary that I wouldn't blame him if it turned out that I regretted
it later, and he was finally willing to initiate me. He told me what to do,
and to put it frankly, I fucked him. There was no love involved, but we did
respect each other, and it was more satisfying sexually than being with
Jill had been.  After that, I didn't have too many doubts about my
orientation, although I continued to have sex with girls as well as guys
for the next couple of years.
     I don't have any regrets about what I think of as my experimental
phase.  I was a normally horny teenager, and always found willing partners
who didn't care that there was no real emotional involvement.  I never led
anybody, male or female, to believe that I wanted any kind of permanent
relationship.  As Timmy said, "Kids, don't try this at home."  I don't
advocate promiscuity, but I do want to be honest about who I was at that
time.  This was in the decade before AIDS was ever heard of, but there were
plenty of other sexually transmitted diseases that I could have gotten.  I
was just lucky.  I was careful to avoid getting anyone pregnant, though.
After that first time with Jill, I was never with another girl without
using a condom.  I'm not trying to take credit for any form of gallantry; I
knew that the last thing I wanted was to end up marrying someone because I
had gotten her pregnant.  I was gradually coming to the conclusion that I
was gay rather than bisexual, although some sticklers for terminology might
argue that having straight sex at all classifies me as bi still.
Personally I think that's unadulterated bullshit.  I'm Timmy's lover, and
Timmy is unarguably male.  I haven't been with a female since I was 18, and
never will be again.  Timmy and I have always been monogamous, and if we
had met before I started trying to find out who or what I was, neither of
us would have ever been with anyone else.
     Timmy was still far in the future, though, when I was searching for my
sexual identity.  I told my family I was gay at 20, after have been away at
college for two years and being with only other males.  I didn't bring a
partner home with me the way Meg did, because there was never anyone before
Timmy that I really cared for.  I just told my parents, Sarah, and Todd
that I was gay.  Meg was away from home permanently then, in her own
apartment in New York, but I had already called her and told her I was
coming out.  She wasn't at all shocked, and neither was the rest of the
family.  Their reaction was no surprise, because we had always been a very
supportive unit and I don't think there's anything one of us could have
revealed that the others wouldn't have accepted.
     In college I majored in business administration and minored in
broadcasting, so when I graduated Dad presented me with a part-ownership in
a television station.  As a financial advisor, he had started portfolios
for each of us as soon as we were born, and had always made sure that all
four of us would be secure financially.  He wasn't actually determining
what I'd do after graduation; I could have sold my share of the station to
launch a career someplace else.  But after Dad and I had gone over the
details of the arrangement with the station, it made a whole lot of sense
to keep it.  The station had a local morning show, of the generic "Good
Morning, <Wherever>" type, with the amiable male and female co-hosts that
are interchangeable throughout the Midwest, a news anchor who was really
very good but had been "let go" by a bigger station because they thought he
wasn't telegenic enough, a weatherman, and four young on-air reporters who
were fresh out of broadcasting school.  What they didn't have was anybody
who was an actual sportscaster.  Dad had tapes of the newscasts, with the
reporters taking turns doing the sports news, and the coverage was tepid at
best.  I had played baseball and basketball through high school and
college, knew how to pronounce the names of the Eastern European tennis
players and skaters, and had brand new business administration and
broadcasting degrees under my belt, so it wasn't hard to decide what to do.
I left Pennsylvania for Indiana, became a one-man sports department, and
have enjoyed every minute since.
     Sometimes I think about the chain of events that led to where we are
today, and I wonder if there's not really something to Timmy's
predestination theory.  If (a) Dad hadn't been financially savvy enough to
buy into a fledgling television station, (b) I hadn't combined business
with broadcasting for a career choice, and (c) the station hadn't needed a
sportscaster, or (d) already had Ed as a cameraman I might never have (e)
met Timmy.  THAT'S the really scary part, although I think that sooner or
later we would have both been in the same place at the same time.  Like the
song says, though, who knows where or when.
     A few years before we met, I would never have considered spending a
Saturday night at a wedding, especially when the groom wasn't a
particularly close friend.  I would have been out on the town somewhere,
looking for somebody interested in some impersonal recreational activity.
The thrill had worn thin over the years since my peak horny period in high
school and college, though, and I was a lot closer to the monk Timmy
mentioned than he thought.  Through work at the station I met lots of
people, just as he surmised, and I could have gotten into a reprise of the
screw 'em and leave 'em phase, but I'd outgrown the need for variety.  I'd
been nearly celibate for the four years I'd been in Indiana, with only the
rare foray to a gay bar when I got bored enough to think it might be fun
again; it never was.  I didn't know then what I was looking for.  I'd long
known that the standard wife-and-3.2-kids package wasn't for me, and I
never assumed I'd find another man that I'd want to settle down with
permanently.  Sure, I knew that long-term gay relationships existed and
envied those in them, but having never met anyone I wanted to spend even
one night with, my prospects for having a life-partner didn't look too
good.  Then in June of 1982, all of that changed.

PART FOUR

     I was running a little late when I got to the church that Saturday
afternoon, so the choice seats were taken.  There was a wide open space in
one pew, though, and it was easy to tell why.  Some poor guy (who turned
out to be Claire's brother-in-law) was wrestling with two pint-sized
dervishes who were trying to escape.  I was used to rambunctious small
kids, though, since Sarah had two, and I felt sort of sorry for this guy
who looked like he was fighting a losing battle.  I figured a stranger to
stare at might provide a distraction for the identical dynamos, and since I
had a choice between sitting with them or standing, I chose the former.
Predictably, both kids stopped in their escape attempts to check me out.
They stood on either side of their father and stared at me, each with thumb
in mouth.
     "Are you sure you're brave enough to sit here?" the guy asked with a
grin.  "I was beginning to think somebody had put a 'beware of kids' sign
on this pew.  Maybe there ought to be one, at that," he added as the twin
on the other side of him climbed over to join the one closer to me.
     "That's okay; I'm insured," I told him, and introduced myself as a
co-worker of Ed's.
     "I'm Greg.  My wife, Beth, is Claire's sister," he told me.  "She's
the maid of honor, so Daddy gets to keep the Munchkins occupied."
     Just then the organist started playing, and Beth walked down the
aisle.  The twins took their thumbs out of their mouths and started a loud
duet of "Mama, Mama," as soon as they caught sight of her.  Greg fished two
pacifiers out of a diaper bag and popped one in each mouth.  The ringing in
my ears caused by those two high-pitched voices faded away, and I was able
to hear the music signaling the bride's entrance.  The whole assembly
turned on cue for the traditional staring-at-the-bride segment of the
festivities, and I noticed that she certainly was as attractive as Ed had
described her, but I focused on her only briefly.  It was the person whose
arm she walked in on who caught and held my attention.
     I will never forget the first time I saw Timmy.  I had never believed
there was such a thing as love at first sight, but my first look at him
literally took my breath away.  He was, and always will be, the most
beautiful thing I've ever seen.  Naturally he was dressed for the occasion,
with black tux and tie and crisp white shirt, but if he'd been in jeans and
a sweatshirt the affect he had on me would have been the same.  I'll try to
describe Timmy, although the best I can do still won't come close to
painting a picture of how exquisite he is.  His coloring, for one thing;
"tanned" won't really work, because you have to be able to picture the
result of a genetic blending of a fair-skinned blonde (his mother) with the
one-half Cherokee heritage of his father.  I would see a portrait on his
bedroom wall the following morning of the two of them with an angelic
two-year-old Timmy, and he would tell me then that his mother had destroyed
all the pictures she had had of his father after he left them, but this one
and a few others had been kept by his grandmother.  And Timmy's eyes have
to be seen to be believed.  His driver's license says they're brown, but
only because the BMV isn't creative enough to come up with an accurate
description.  They're somewhere between topaz and amber, and mesmerizing,
as I'd shortly find out.  He didn't look to either side as they walked by,
though, so our eyes wouldn't meet until after the ceremony.  It's probably
better that we didn't make eye contact then, because as he soon as he had
passed by our pew I realized I'd been holding my breath.  If he had looked
directly at me I would probably not have remembered to exhale before I
passed out.  I suppose that would have gotten his attention; he certainly
had mine.  He looked just as good from the back as he had approaching, with
raven-black hair longer in back than on the sides, so that it was past his
collar.  It's baby-fine, another result of his parents' diverse genes, and
I love to play with the waves and curls that he complains about.  At that
moment in time, I couldn't foresee that in a few hours I'd be doing just
that as his head nestled against my chest.  If I had been clairvoyant and
pictured us together in his bed, I would never have made it through the
rest of the day without picking him up and carrying him off in my arms.
     There must have been the usual vows and pronouncements, but I wasn't
aware of anything but the vision before me.  Time passed; it could have
been a minute or a day, for all the notice I took.  I wasn't even thinking
about whether he might be straight or gay, married or available.  I wasn't
thinking, period.  I was feeling, absorbing, recording indelibly the most
beautiful sight I had ever seen.  When movement of the participants in the
drama I'd fallen into signaled that The Wedding, Act I, was ending, I came
back to reality enough to realize that I'd been deeply affected not only
emotionally but physically; I knew I had to think of the least sexy thing
possible before I stood up or I'd never be able to walk comfortably back
down the aisle.  I chose the IRS, and pictured bald auditors with pocket
protectors while the pews around me emptied out.  It worked, and I joined
the line filing past the welcoming committee.  Eager for a closer look at
the one I'd already lost my heart to, I barely glanced at the best man or
Ed as I shook hands with both; Ed made that inane ball-and-chain comment,
and while Timmy says I replied I honestly don't remember saying a word
until I was holding his hand.  And holding it I was, not shaking; I didn't
want to let go.  There was a current flowing between us that could have
powered a sizable city, and I knew it wasn't just from me.  We fell into
each other's eyes and I wanted right then to say, "Come on, let's get out
of here and get started.  We've got a lot of time to make up for."  Instead
I told him I'd see him downstairs.  I wasn't going to leave that church
without him, unless he could convince me that I was only imagining the
attraction was mutual.  I was pretty sure he felt the same way I did
because he seemed to be in a state of shock identical to the one I'd gone
into when I first saw him.
     Finally I managed to let go of his hand, and followed the crowd to the
basement for the reception.  I saw the photographer lurking with his
equipment and knew it would be a while before I would see Timmy again.
Time dragged interminably; I kept checking my watch, as if that would speed
up the picture taking, and picked up a glass of champagne I didn't really
want.  Already I felt intoxicated.  I had never been in love before, but I
knew I was now.  I didn't want to get into a conversation with anyone,
knowing I wouldn't be able to put words together in any kind of articulate
form, but I was soon surrounded by a very friendly group of females
introducing themselves and asking if they hadn't seen me on TV.  I have no
memory of what I said to any of them; at one point in my life I would have
been trying to pick out one of them to get together with later on, but
there was only one person on my mind now.  I didn't couldn't see him
anywhere, but when Claire and Ed arrived I knew the photographer had
finished, and excused myself from my impromptu fan club to look around.
     He was just turning away when I located him among the crowd, and I
knew he had been looking in my direction.  Oh, shit, I thought, I hope he
doesn't think I'm interested in one of these women.  I couldn't get away
from them and to him fast enough.
     As I made my way across the crowded floor, I noticed that he was
putting the champagne away pretty rapidly.  I wondered if he was used to
drinking; I didn't think he was, from the way he didn't seem to take time
to register the effect of one glass before another disappeared.  Already I
was wanting to take care of him, and had to stop myself from taking the
glass out of his hand.  When I was very close to him he looked up into my
eyes, and I felt as if I were the one who'd been doing some heavy drinking.
I had to struggle before I could come up with my own name, but I managed to
dredge it up from the depths and introduced myself.  He did the same, and
finally I was able to put a name to this incredible vision.  Tim Garrett.
My Timmy, I thought.  My Timmy, my angel, my baby, my love.  In a few hours
I would be holding him tight and saying those words, but at that moment I
was still trying to tell whether my dream of being with him would be shot
down in flames.
     We talked as any two strangers do when they meet, but I felt that on
some unfathomable level we were already connected.  The small talk went on
seemingly of its own volition; we exchanged the routine information and I
found out that we had a lot of interests in common.  Great, I thought, that
gives us something to talk about, when we take time out to talk.  I was
already picturing us making love, and had to bring back the IRS auditor
image to stop myself from grabbing him right there in the church basement.
I wanted to feel his body against mine, and kiss him all over, and I was
having a hard time trying to have a casual conversation.  By now I was
convinced he wasn't used to drinking, though, and I knew any intimate
contact that might develop would have to wait until the alcohol had worn
off.  There was no way I was going to let him drive away from there, and
risk his getting harmed, so I offered to take him home.  He agreed, so one
worry was gone; I still didn't know whether he was feeling the same urge to
merge that I was, and I thought I'd better make sure he knew I was gay.
"Okay," he said.  Okay?  I realized he was feeling the effects of several
drinks in rapid succession and wasn't likely to put too many words together
at one time, but I still needed to know whether I would have a chance with
him, ever.  So I asked whether he was gay.  His answer: "Damned if I know.
Let's go find out."  I laughed, and it felt great.  The pressure was gone.
     I still didn't know for sure that we had a future together, but at
least he hadn't told me there was no possibility.  At the moment, though,
the most important thing was to get him home, feed him, and get him to lie
down--preferably with me, but I wasn't sure I could be horizontal with him
without some serious suffering from wanting him so badly.  If necessary,
I'd tuck him in and come back the next day; there was no way I was going to
be away from him any longer than I had to.
     By the time we got in my car, Timmy was definitely looking a little
green around the gills.  He took off his tie and unbuttoned his collar; I
was sort of hoping a few more buttons would come undone, and mentally
slapped myself for veering into territory that we obviously wouldn't be
exploring right away, if at all.  I needed a cigarette and gave him one,
too; I wasn't sure he smoked and wanted to know whether I'd have to quit.
There may be a few smokers and non-smokers who can live together without
constant conflict, but I thought we should both be one or the other.  I was
already planning on our living together, and we hadn't even gotten out of
the parking lot yet.
     I don't remember either of us saying anything in the car after he had
given me directions to his place.  By this time I was having to picture a
synchronized team of IRS number crunchers to avoid reaching down to
readjust.  It was almost impossible to hold an image of anything nonsexual
with his being so close.  When we got to his house I added Richard Nixon to
the IRS convention and was able to deflate enough to get out of the car
without taking the door off.  Timmy was leaning against the headrest with
his eyes closed.  When I opened his door those hypnotic amber eyes met
mine, and I wanted to pick him up and carry him inside.  I managed to stop
myself at taking his arm, and we walked to his door.  He couldn't get it
unlocked, and I tried to ignore the electrical charge that went through me
as my hand touched his to take the key.  Down, boy, I chided.  This is not
the time.  Timmy wasn't looking any better yet, but I was still hoping that
getting some food in him would help.  As I headed toward the kitchen on the
left he veered to the right, saying he was going to the john, and I soon
heard the unmistakable sound of his being sick.  The hell with formality, I
thought.  We were still little more than strangers, but that didn't stop me
from going to him.  I held him as he threw up, then dampened a washcloth to
wipe his face.  He wasn't quite as green, but he looked wrung out.  When he
said he wanted to get out of his clothes I thought briefly about leaving
while he undressed, but added Howard Cosell to my mental turn-off team and
was able to help him strip without attacking him.
     As beautiful as I had found him so far, I hadn't been prepared for how
breath-taking he was when he was down to his briefs.  Picture golden skin
covering tight lean muscle, a hairless chest with small dark nipples, tiny
waist and hips, long lean legs, and you still have to multiply that a
thousandfold to have any idea of what I was seeing.  I put both hands
around his waist, touching the bottom of his ribcage with my thumbs, and
wanted to crush him to me.  When I suggested a nap, he agreed, and I kept
one arm around him as we walked toward the bed.  After I turned down the
covers and helped him lie down, I did the chivalrous thing and offered to
leave until the next day.  I didn't want to be anywhere but in that bed
with him, but I wasn't sure how he felt.  I was indescribably relieved when
he said "I don't want you to go."
     "Okay," I said; I couldn't manage to get any other words out, so I
undressed and lay down beside him.  What now, I wondered.  I wanted to
gather him to me and never let him go, but I didn't want to rush him into
anything he wasn't ready for.  I dared to put one arm around him, and when
he didn't recoil but snuggled close, I pulled him into my arms and nestled
his head on my chest.  His hair on my skin felt like the brush of silk; I
found I was running my fingers through it without even thinking about it.
His eyes were still open but unfocused as I gazed down at him, and I heard
myself saying, "Go to sleep now, baby.  You've had a rough day."  I had
never used a term of endearment with anyone I'd ever been with, but the
word had come straight from my heart without my conscious volition.  I had
been thinking of him as my baby since I had first laid eyes on him, and now
that he was in my arms I couldn't stop myself from saying it.  He sighed
and slipped both hands under my back, and now we were holding each other
close.  I'm in heaven, I thought; I've died and I didn't even know it.
Then he raised his head and even in the near-darkness of the room I could
see his eyes shining like those of a wolf or mountain lion, too beautiful
to be human.
     "You'll be here when I wake up, won't you?" he asked, and it sounded
like a prayer.  I had to take a deep breath and swallow the lump in my
throat before I could answer him.  "Yes, baby, I'll be here when you wake
up.  I promise."
     His head settled onto my chest again, and I felt his breath warm
against my skin as he closed his eyes and softly sighed.  I was sure he
could feel the pounding of my heart as I pleaded silently, "Don't let this
end, God.  Please don't ever let this end."

PART FIVE

     I didn't want to go to sleep; I wanted to be aware of every beat of
his heart and every breath he took, but sleep overcame me.  I awoke when he
shifted slightly in my arms, and immediately became aware that I had a
raging hard-on again.  He had drawn one leg up, crooked at the knee, and
now it lay against what was already a sizable erection.  It grew as I
became more aware of his body snuggled up against mine.  Now I had a
decision to make: did I get up to take a cold shower and risk waking him,
or stay where I was, grit my teeth and bear it?  I tried visualizing Nixon
and the IRS squad again; no good, even when I added the Mormon Tabernacle
Choir.  My body was still all too aware of Timmy's and demanding
attention. Reluctantly I rolled over far enough to lay his head on the
pillow, and risked a brush of my lips against his forehead.  He didn't
awaken, and I got up as quietly as I could and went into the bathroom.
When I stripped off my briefs I noticed there was a considerable damp spot
in front and wasn't at all surprised.  I had never wanted anyone this much
in my life; holding that warm, slender body in my arms for several hours
had been getting to me even as I slept.  I turned the shower on and stepped
under its icy stream and let it wash over me until I felt chilled.  It had
the desired effect, so I finally shut off the water, dried off, and pulled
my briefs back on over my now shrunken parts.
     Sleeping beauty--not original, but exactly what I saw as I stood
beside the bed.  I considered getting dressed and sitting in the living
room until he woke up, but I couldn't bear not holding him again.  I lay
down beside him, took him into my arms, and heard a soft sigh escape his
lips.
     "Are you awake, baby?" I asked, and again I was looking into those
eyes that took my breath away, as he answered, "Yes, but I'm not sure I
want to be."
     I stroked his temple and asked if he had a hangover.  He'd slept
through it, he said, and added, "I just don't want you to go."
     When I was able to speak I told him I wasn't going anywhere, and we
lay looking into each other's eyes, our heads on one pillow, his lips
temptingly near.  I was about to close the space between us when he drew
back slightly.
     "What's wrong?" I asked, afraid I'd driven him away by getting too
close too soon.  Then he said he needed to brush his teeth, and I knew he
was thinking the same thing I was.  I couldn't wait any longer, and brought
my lips to his, lightly at first, then his lips parted and we were swept
away.  Time stood still as we kissed, and when our mouths finally parted I
felt as if I'd been reborn.  Nothing that I had ever done, thought, or been
before mattered; this was all there was in the world.  Then Timmy
whispered, "Hold me closer," so I pressed against him, on top of him,
feeling every inch of him against me.  His arms held me tighter than I had
thought possible, and we kissed as if we had just invented it.  Feeling all
of him under me, with his mouth sealed to mine, had a predictable effect.
It had been months since I'd had sex with anyone and I hadn't missed it
much, but now I wanted Timmy more than I had ever wanted anyone in my life.
I told Timmy how much I wanted to make love to him.
     "Then take me," he said.
     We kissed and caressed each other; the silken feel of his hair and
skin, the fragility of his ribs and spine, the warm velvet of his anus--I
touched him everywhere and couldn't get enough of the feel of him.
Touching and kissing him was almost enough; almost, but we both wanted
more.  He said he wanted me in him, and there was nothing in the world I've
ever wanted more in my life, but I was so afraid of hurting him that I had
to ask if he was sure.  He was.
     Then we made love, and it was the first time for both of us.  For
Timmy, because he was a virgin; for me, because I had had sex more times
than I could count, but I had never, ever made love.  That is just what we
did.  We turned an act that has been performed since time began into
something that I could never have dreamed I would experience.  We created
love that night, and joined not only our bodies but our souls.  Then I
tasted Timmy's tears and was afraid I had hurt him. No, he said, don't
stop.
     "Just love me like this forever."
     Then I was crying, too, and could not have said why, but all the love
I felt for him overwhelmed me and the tears came as I told him over and
over, "I love you, I love you, I love you. . ."
     We came together, and I felt as if the earth had moved.  I knew it had
for Timmy, too, and we held each other so tightly that there was no
defining where one of us ended and the other began.  And as Timmy held me
close and cried, I knew some dam had burst inside him.  I didn't know what
had hurt him in the past--I would learn later about his mother's suicide
and all the pain he had kept inside, and cry again with him--but I knew
that I would do anything I could to keep him from ever being hurt again.  I
gathered him up in my arms and rocked him, holding him as tightly as I
could, telling him I loved him, over and over again.
     Finally he had cried the hurt away, and lay quietly against me, warm
and trusting and inestimably precious.  Then I knew he was still troubled
when he asked me how I could love him when I hardly knew him.  I told him I
knew I loved him the first time I saw him, that I had been looking for him
all my life and I would never let him go.
     Then we made love again, and again we met and joined at a level far
deeper than I had ever felt before, and I could swear I heard angels sing.
Finally we were too exhausted to stay awake, and sleep overcame us as Timmy
snuggled against me and we held each other tight.

PART SIX

     I woke up to the sound of birds singing in the trees outside the
bedroom window, the feel of Timmy snug and warm in my arms, and the sight
of his tousled head on my chest, and nearly went into sensory overload.
This was almost too good to be true, and I wondered what I had done to
deserve it.  I'd always figured there must be some kind of cosmic checks
and balances system, that if you did enough good deeds you'd eventually
earn some sort of bonus points, but I was pretty sure I'd never done
anything spectacular enough to earn what I had at that moment.  Not that
I'd ever led a life of crime or been a menace to society, but I'd managed
to end up in heaven on earth, and I thanked God that I had been in the
right place at the right time.
     Timmy stirred in my arms, and I realized I had tightened my embrace to
the point that I was crushing him against me.  I loosened my arms, and he
raised up, looked at me, and smiled.
     "Hi.  Do I know you from somewhere?"
     I smiled back at him and answered, "Yeah, I think we've met.  Good
morning, baby."
     "Morning, love," he said, and we kissed, but managed to break it off
after an eon or two.  Timmy got up first to go to the bathroom, and I sat
up to admire the view.  Damn, he was gorgeous, from any direction.  I
retrieved my cigarettes from my jacket, sat back down against the
headboard, and lit up.  Funny, I hadn't smoked once since we were in my
car.  I hadn't even thought about it; we had been so wrapped up in each
other that a need for cigarettes, food, or drink hadn't occurred to either
of us.  Now I realized I was hungry, and could really use a cup of coffee.
A shower was going to be the first order of business, though; we hadn't
cleaned up after we had made love and as soon as I thought about the fact
that Timmy's semen had dried on my stomach I was horny again.
     "Want to take a shower?" Timmy called from the bathroom, and I stubbed
out the half-smoked butt and joined him.  He was turned away from me,
hanging a couple of towels over the top of the shower door, and I walked up
behind him, wrapped my arms around him, and kissed him on the neck.  I
nuzzled his ear and the tender hollow above his collarbone while I pressed
myself against his back and bottom, and he gave a little moan of pleasure.
     "I could really get used to that," he said, reaching one hand up to
caress the back of my neck.
     "Then the plan is working," I told him.  "You're supposed to get used
to it so I'll be indispensable."
     "You already are," he said as he turned around in my arms, and we
kissed until we were straining against each other, hard and needy.
     "Let's make love in the shower," I said, when I had to come up for
air.
     He grinned, and my heart did a somersault.  "Sounds like a good idea.
At least we'll be getting clean at the same time."
     We stepped into the shower, closed the door, and were immediately
locked in each other's arms again.  I kissed him again and again all over
his neck and chest, pausing to tease each nipple with my tongue; I had
learned the night before where all the little secret places were located
that would cause him to moan with pleasure at my touch.  This was entirely
new to me, wanting to please someone else so much that I could delay my own
need for gratification.  Sure, it had stroked my ego to make sure that each
temporary partner got off, too, but foreplay had only been a means to an
end.  Now I wanted to make sure that Timmy experienced every possible
pleasure I could give him, and looked forward to our learning all about
each other's needs.  We'd gotten off to one hell of a start, that was
certain; both times we had made love we had gone to plateaus I'd never
dreamed of.  Now we were ready for another new experience, and I released
Timmy from my arms to turn on the shower, adjust the flow, and reach for
the soap and a washcloth.
     "Turn around, baby," I said, and barely recognized the husky voice as
my own.  I wanted him every bit as desperately as I had the night before,
as if my hunger for him had never been slaked.  He turned, and rested the
back of his head against my chest.  He seemed almost in a daze, but I knew
all his senses were as alert as my own.  We were both yearning to be
joined, and the musky scent of our need was present even with the water
running over us.  I lathered the washcloth, and as I stroked lightly
between his buttocks, he moaned again.  I couldn't wait any longer; delay
was sweet torture, and we had reached our limit.  I lathered up my cock,
and as gently as I could I entered my lover, slowly, slowly, until I was
all the way in him, and he was so tight, so tight and warm and I had to
pause within him so that I wouldn't shoot.  I sucked on his neck and was
rewarded with a groan of desire as he pressed back against me, wiggling
that tight little bottom slightly against my crotch.  I caressed his
genitals with one hand as I held him tightly to me with the other at his
waist, and began to move in him, almost all the way out, then back in
completely as his internal muscles clenched me in a grip as tight as a
fist.  So tight he was, so warm and tight and he was pressing back into me
as I was moving my hand rapidly back and forth on his shaft, and in and out
of him I plunged as I pumped him with my hand and all too soon we exploded
together, both with cries that blended into one shout of love fulfilled.
     We leaned against each other gasping as we let the warm water run over
us, then I turned him in my arms and sought his mouth again with mine.  Our
tongues met and played together as we held each other as tight as possible,
and I thought again, This is what heaven is.
     Finally I took my mouth from his to say, "You brushed your teeth," as
we smiled into each other's eyes.
     "Sure did.  I didn't think you'd want to keep on tasting stale
champagne."
     "I didn't have any complaints last night," I reminded him before I
found his mouth with mine again, then left his lips to trail soft kisses
down his jawline to his ear, then down his neck, where I paused to suck and
nuzzle a while.  Finally I remembered that while we were necking we were
supposed to be taking a shower, and asked Timmy, "Do you think we're clean
enough yet?"
     He laughed, and it went from my ears to my heart.  I've always loved
the sound of Timmy's laugh, and I was just learning then what it does to
me.  Hearing it makes my soul smile, and warms me from the inside out.  We
stood there in his shower, smiling at each other like we'd just learned how
and wanted to make sure we did it right, and I felt my heart would burst
from all the love it held for him.
     "I love you," I said.  "I think maybe I haven't said that since we got
up.  I know I said it over and over last night.  I love you even more now.
I wouldn't even have thought it was possible, but I do."
     "I know," he replied softly.  "I love you even more now, too.  What we
just shared together--that was magic, it couldn't have been anything
anybody's ever felt before.  But we can do that every time, can't we?  Each
time we make love it's going to be better than the time before."
     "Yes, my baby, it will," I said, when I could speak around the lump
that had formed in my throat as I listened to his words and gazed into his
softly shining amber eyes.  "It's already perfect, but every time we make
love, we'll have the time before to build on, and the time before that, and
there will never be an end to how our love grows."
     We held each other tightly, not even kissing now, but just letting our
heads rest against each other as our bodies did, as the water we still
hadn't turned off washed over us gently, like a gift from above.  Finally
we were able to let go of each other, shut off the shower, stepped out and
dried each other off gently without speaking.  There was no need for words
at that moment; we would always be able to tell each other anything we
wanted to say, but we were filled with the words we had just spoken to
pledge our love, and no more needed to be said.
     We passed the rest of that Sunday in a haze that blocked out
everything but each other.  Once we'd again made love, we got dressed and
drove to the church parking lot to pick up Timmy's truck, left it at his
place, then went to mine.  We finally fixed and ate breakfast, although by
then it was after noon, then went to bed again for hours.  It was
impossible for us to get enough of each other (and still is.)  That evening
the call came from Claire, and after I had talked with her and she'd given
me her friendly offer of slicing and dicing, Timmy took the phone.  I was
going to leave the room while they talked, but Timmy took my hand and said,
"Stay."  I heard him tell her that he was finally in love, and we were
going to be together for the rest of our lives.  Hearing him say that to
someone else gave me a thrill to the bottom of my soul; we had already said
the same words to each other, but this was making a statement to a third
party of our love for each other, and I could hardly wait for their
conversation to end so I could carry Timmy in my arms to bed.  I have no
idea how many times we made love that weekend, but each time was another
miracle of joining not only our bodies but every element of our beings.
That night we again slept locked in each other's arms, and we knew we had
already set the pattern for the rest of our lives.  We can't sleep without
holding each other; if one of us gets up, the other is immediately awake.
Timmy's head is always on my chest, our arms around each other, and every
night is as filled with magic as the first.
     For the next two weeks we trekked back and forth between both
apartments, then found the house we wanted to live in together.  That was a
milepost for us; from that moment on we had a joined life.  No more his
place or my place but OUR place, something that neither of us had ever
thought we'd be saying.  I had called Meg during the first week after Timmy
and I had met; we had always been close and I wanted to tell her first
about Timmy, as I had told her first that I was gay.  Timmy was nervous at
first about talking to her on the phone, but I convinced him that she
wouldn't bite, and they ended up talking longer than she and I did.  She
flew down the weekend after we moved into our new home to meet him, and
immediately loved him (how could she not?) as another brother.  I had
written Mom and Dad about us, since Timmy drew the line at talking to them
by telephone; he said he just wasn't ready for that yet, and I didn't push
it.  I knew I would get them all together eventually, and as soon as Meg
had gotten back home she called our parents and described Timmy in such
glowing terms that they called us and demanded to know why they hadn't yet
met the love of my life.  We flew to Pennsylvania the next weekend, with
Timmy still nervous about meeting his new in-laws, but he needn't have
worried.  My family immediately became OUR family, and that's how it's been
ever since.

PART SEVEN
Our Story

     We thought we should both write this part, although we're not calling
it "the end."  There's a finality about those words that's distinctly
unpleasant, so we'll just say this part is the summary of our life together
up to this point.  Timmy's sitting in my lap again, so we'll both be doing
the talking.  ---Matt was right about my being nervous about meeting the
family; he was also right that I shouldn't have been.  Now they're Mom and
Dad to both of us; they introduce me as their son-in-law, so now I have a
husband, two sisters-, mother-, father-, and brother-in-law, not to mention
Sarah's husband and two kids, who call me Uncle Timmy.  Not too shabby for
a kid who used to be an orphan.
     When we'd been together for six months, we had a commitment ceremony
with an exchange of rings, the whole nine yards, at Mom and Dad's with the
whole family there.  It was Christmas vacation from school for Timmy, so I
took off from work and we spent Christmas with the family, then went to the
Bahamas for our honeymoon.  It couldn't have been more perfect.  ---Neither
could much else about the years we've been together; we built our house
just the way we wanted it during our second year, and we've filled it with
a dog, a cat, and a lot of love.
     So that just about brings us to the end of this narrative, but not the
end of our story.  It's going to be a long, long, time, God willing, before
that ends; we figure we'll be sitting out on our front porch in rocking
chairs when we're in our nineties.  ---It may be hard to tell then if the
creaking is us or the chairs, but that's okay; we'll be together, and
that's all that counts.
     Forever and ever, amen.