This story details explicit gay sex between men, teens and boys. If you find this kind of thing distasteful, or if you are underage wherever you live, then stop reading this now, and delete this file. The story is completely fictional; the author does not condone or encourage any of the acts contained herein.


Chapter 32

By March, Jason is touring. Not all the time, like some musicians, but he's away probably a week or two of each month. I accompanied him to New York once, but I don't want to leave Kenny with the full burden of caring for Kevin and Kai. He says he doesn't mind, but he has his own studies and projects. It's just not fair. And aside from the fairness issue, I miss the little ones when I'm away from them. A good friend of mine used to do marketing for large software companies. One of his responsibilities was to speak at trade shows around the world, to establish brand recognition. This took him away from his family for extended periods of time, and when he came home, he'd realize that his sons had grown, or changed in some way -- become more mature or learned something that he hadn't taught them. After a couple years of this, he gave up the job. "They just change so fast," he'd confided. "I can't stand not to be a part of their lives every day." That's sort of how I feel about Kevin and Kai. I would not have predicted that I'd bond with these boys, but now that I have, I don't like to be away from them. I miss them, miss their love. Some guys, I know, in this networked age, are able to set up their computers so they can see and talk to their kids online every night, and that's enough for them. It's not enough for me. I need the hugs; I need to be able to tickle Kai and hear the explosion of giggles; I need to be able to hear Kevin's English improve. So, while I may say that I'm simply being considerate, that I'm unwilling to force Kenny to become the sole parents of these children, that's all bullshit. I absolutely adore them, and can't bear to be away from them...any more than I can bear to be away from Jason. I think I'm fucked.

The third week of March, Jason is in Cleveland. The Cleveland Orchestra used to be top-notch, with Georg Szell as musical director. These days, the musical director is a fellow named Franz Welser-Möst. I've never heard of him, and never heard any of his recordings. Jason says he's good, but I've no idea, really. You can't make a name for yourself as a soloist on multiple instruments, apparently, so Jason's manager has forced him to choose one, and he's chosen the violin. This week he's playing Paganini, Sibelius and Brahms. Paganini's Violin Concerto No. 1, Op. 6 is a monster. The passages of double-stop thirds, both chromatic and in harmonics, make audiences gasp. He has worked on this for weeks and has it now. He's looking forward to playing it on Friday night, and on Friday afternoon we chat on the phone.

"How is it?" I ask. He knows exactly what I'm talking about.

"It's good. I've got it technically, and I can feel it. It's mine, now."

I really want to kiss him. Really...really. But I can't. He's twenty-five hundred miles away. "I love you, baby."

He sniffs. "I love you too...and I miss you so much. I don't know if I can keep doing this. It just...umm...hurts...too much."

"I know. Get through this, and then come home to me, and we'll figure out what's right for you...for us. Okay?"

He sniffs some more. "Okay," he says, softly.

Eleven hours later, the phone rings. It's midnight, and Kenny and I have been in bed for half an hour. Who the hell calls you at midnight? This is probably a wrong number. I reach across to the nightstand and grab the phone. "Hello," I say in as surly a voice as I can muster.

"Mr. Jensen? Is this Mr. Tim Jensen?"

"Umm...yeah," I say, groggily.

"Mr. Jensen, I'm Dr. Fredericks. I'm the chief resident at Hillcrest Hospital." He pauses.

"Hillcrest Hosp..."

"In Cleveland, Mr. Jensen." Instantly I wake up.

"Jason. Is Jason okay? Is this about Jason?"

"Umm...yes...we have a Jason Jensen here with us. We found an emergency contact card in his wallet. Your name and number were...umm...included. We wanted to let you know that he's here. May I ask how you're related to Mr...umm...Jensen?"

This is fucking Cleveland calling. But, I'm stupid at this time of night, and just blurt. "He's my husband." There is a long pause. "Is he alright? Is Jason alright?"

"I'm afraid we can't discuss his condition with you, Mr. Jensen."

I'm frantic. "But he's my husband. If you can't discuss his condition, then why did you fucking call?"

Not a good approach. "I'm sorry Mr. Jensen. If you were a family member -- a father or mother, a sibling, a spouse -- we could disclose his condition."

"I'm his husband," I scream.

Long pause. "I'm sorry, Mr. Jensen, but while you may be his husband in California, you're not his husband in Ohio. I did want to let you know that he's here, though." And with that, he hangs up.

Wanna know why marriage is important? This is why. And, if you don't believe me, ask John Langan of Vermont, who the New York appeals court said was not entitled to sue a New York hospital for malpractice in the death of his partner because the two men weren't in any way related. Ask Gita Deane of Maryland, whose doctor forced her partner to leave the room where Deane was giving birth to their child because she wasn't Deane's wife (and only gave Deane anesthetic after her partner had left). Or ask John Lestitian, also of Maryland, who did what the bigots tell us we should do if we want the rights of marriage -- contract with each other. He left a will, leaving his assets to his partner of 14 years. But his partner's family contested, found "irregularities," and left the partner penniless. Wanna know why marriage is important? Because they're not going to let me see my Jason until they discharge him -- or kill him.

Kenny is frantic, and nearly beside himself with worry. I haven't seen him quite like this since the night of Andrew's death. I, on the other hand, am very focused. I will absolutely fight this thing, but I have to take care of my Jason first. They're not going to let me in to see him until long after it matters, because that's how long it's going to take to win this. So, who will they let in? The answer is obvious, and I call her... at 1:12am.

"Mrs. Leong?"

"Yes," she says, very softly.

"This is Tim Jensen, Jason's husband."

And, suddenly, she is wide awake. I explain the situation, and she is almost beside herself with rage. I ask her to call the hospital to get a status on Jason's condition, and to be ready to travel tomorrow morning. I'll call back to let her know when our flight leaves. She'll need to bring her passport for identification, and I'll bring Jason's birth certificate. She agrees, and we end our call. Next I call the airline to schedule an early morning flight -- at 6:12am, the earliest out of the San Jose airport. Then I call Bob Titus, my attorney, apologizing profusely for waking him. He groans, but as I outline the problem, I can feel him waking up. Bob is, by training, a family-practice attorney, but over the years he's become more interested in civil rights law, thanks to me and about half-a-dozen other clients I've brought to him. He is, by now, quite passionate, and is planning a strategy as we speak. "Okay," he says, "tomorrow I'll get the hospital administrator on the phone, and the ACLU. They're really good in these kinds of cases. They'll have a lot more local experience than I have. I'm also thinking we should contact Ohio's Attorney General, and see if we can get him fired up. It's a long shot, but we have some cards we can play. You're flying out when?"

"The crack of dawn: 6:12am. But, I'll have my cell, so you can reach me either before we take off or after we land."

"Good. Let me get on this, and I'll give you a call tomorrow."

The minute I hang up the phone, it rings again. It's Mrs. Leong. It turns out that the hospital won't talk to her on the phone because they can't validate her identity and because she wasn't listed on Jason's identity card. She, too, spoke to the chief resident. He seems to be the impediment. I console her as best I can, give her our flight time, and we agree that Kenny will take us to the airport, picking her up at 5am. I advise her to get some sleep, and she laughs. "Sleep not for me tonight."

And, it's not for me either. Kenny I put back to bed, ordering him to shut his eyes. He does, but they're leaking -- he's crying with a mixture of worry, sadness, and frustration. He does eventually fall asleep, I see, but only a couple hours before we have to get up.

The flight the next morning is uneventful. We're able to fly directly from San Jose into Cleveland. Mrs. Leong doesn't fly much, and so is nervous, but once we're in the air, she calms down, and eventually falls asleep, snoring softly in her seat. When we arrive at the airport, I grab a cab and we go directly to the hospital where I ask to meet with the administrator. It turns out he's waiting for us with the chief resident. We're ushered into his office, and I introduce Mrs. Leong as Jason's mother, and she slaps her passport down on his desk, a very angry look on her face. The chief resident looks away. "Here my identification," she says. The administrator nods but doesn't touch it.

"We're very sorry, Mr. Jensen. We've spoken with your attorney who...explained the situation to us. And...umm...we've spoken with an ACLU attorney and the...umm...the Attorney General's office. They've clarified your position. We're prepared to allow you...and Mr. Jensen's mother, of course...to see...Mr. Jensen...now."

Bob Titus is an amazing fellow. Now, I'll grant you, over the years I've financed at least one of his kid's education, but he's such a talented attorney, and throws his weight around better than anyone I know. He finds the buttons to push, and pushes them.

"Is there anything else we can do for you?" the administrator asks, hoping to get us the hell out of his office as quickly as possible.

"Actually, there is. While we visit with Jason, you can process his discharge papers because we're moving him to another hospital -- at least as soon as the press arrives." The press part is a bluff, but it sounds good. "And, you can fire this asshole," I say, indicating the chief resident.

There's silence in the room, a long silence. "I wouldn't advise moving Mr. Jensen...umm...Jason at this time, Mr. Jensen. He's still a little weak."

"Well, given that I have no idea why he might be weak -- because this asshole wouldn't tell me, I'll have to evaluate that for myself. In the mean time, I don't want him," indicating the chief resident, "anywhere near Jason. I don't want him on his case. I don't want him in his room. I don't want him calling me on the phone. The next call I get from this hospital I expect to be from you. Jason is an up-and-coming musician with quite a following even now. He has a publicist, and that publicist can help us get this story out there. If that's what you want, all you need do is keep treating us the way this asshole treated us last night."

Long silence. "I understand your wishes and...umm...frustration, Mr. Jensen. Dr. Fredericks has already been...moved to other cases. I'll be happy to introduce you to Jason's new attending physician."

I nod, and we leave the office, Fredericks remaining to slink away under some rock after we're gone. We board an elevator that carries us to the third floor, and then walk about fifty feet along a gloomy corridor to Jason's room. The good news is, the room is light and airy, very cheery. And Jason is awake, though a little groggy. And, his doctor is in the room, waiting to meet us. She's Indian, and very gracious, greeting us cordially the minute we appear. "You are Mr. Jensen's husband?" she asks, extending her hand.

I nod. "I'm Tim. And this is Mrs. Leong, Jason's mother."

"I'm very happy to meet you," she says, shaking both our hands.

Moving to the bedside, she puts her hand on Jason's forehead and pushes his hair out of his face. "Jason has been...assaulted," she says, softly. "He hasn't yet been clear about the details of the assault. The police are hoping that you can help us piece together those details. He has several bruises on his rib cage and back, a black eye and bruised cheeks, as you can see. But, no bones are broken. He did require several stitches for lacerations, however, and those will take some time to heal. He is sedated for pain and...trauma."

Poor Jason's face looks bad, but in truth, it looks worse than it really is, I think. His mother is in tears, kissing him gently on the cheek.

"Where are the lacerations that required stitching?" I ask.

The doctor, Dr. Singh, takes me aside, speaking very softly. "It was his anus that required repair, Mr. Jensen. We believe he was either raped, or sodomized with some object. It is not clear. The damage was not significant. He will heal very well. But there may be...psychological damage. He was hysterical and nearly naked when he was found -- by a passing motorist. He was bleeding. He was and will be in some pain for the next several days, hence the sedation."

Now I'm in tears, and no longer listening to the doctor. I cross to the bed and take Jason's hand, and he focuses on me for the first time. I think this is the first time he realizes I'm with him. And he starts to cry. "Where were you?"

"I'm sorry, sweetie. We just flew in. They wouldn't let me see you before this."

"Please, Tim, please hold me."

I look over at his doctor, who smiles and nods. I'm not sure how to do this. There are so many wires and tubes. But they all seem to be attached to his right side, so I go to the left, and crawl onto his bed, lying next to him. I squeeze him gently, and he starts to cry. "What happened, baby?" I whisper.

"I got beat up," he chokes out, between sobs.


"I don't know," he whispers, quieter now. "After the concert we went to a coffee house to chat, and we..." He's fading now. "...and we..." And then he's gone, fast asleep. I dislodge myself, and get off the bed.

"It's the sedation," says Dr. Singh. "He'll be in and out for the next day or two. I really would prefer that you not move him, Mr. Jensen. Dr. Lukas, the hospital administrator, said that that was your intent. I would really like to monitor him for a couple days."

"You seem very nice, Dr. Singh. Very caring. I'm willing to leave him here, but if I do, I don't want Dr. Fredericks anywhere near him. Your chief resident is a jerk. I don't want Jason to have to interact with him. Can you ensure that?"

"If that is your wish, Mr. Jensen, I can see to that."

"Great." We shake hands cordially, and she leaves. We stay with Jason until 5pm, the end of visiting hours, and then leave him to the nurses, who all seem very nice. We'll be back tomorrow, and maybe he'll be awake. He looks very peaceful when we leave, but certainly not at peace. His bruises are scarlet and black, moving toward that nasty shade of green that indicates that they're fading. He just breaks my heart. I couldn't live without this boy.

We go to dinner, and I turn on my cell phone for the first time since getting off the plane. I have six messages, one from Bob Titus outlining what he's done and telling me to ask for the hospital administrator when I get to the Hillcrest Hospital. I did that anyway. Old news. The other five messages are from Kenny, who is beside himself with worry. He wants to know how Jason is, and each message gets more frantic. I call him now, and when he hears my voice he starts to cry. "Is he okay? Please, Tim. How's Jason? Please tell me he's okay."

I explain Jason's status, leaving our table and walking to the bar. I don't want Mrs. Leong to hear about the rape, or whatever it was, unless she has to. It's just too brutal. Kenny is horrified, and then crying, and then more enraged than I've ever heard him. Finally he calms down. "When do you meet with the police?" he asks.

"I don't know, yet. I have to get enough time with Jason to piece together the story before I can do the police any good." Unless he saw the guys who assaulted him and can remember what they look like through the fog of pain and sedatives, this case will be hard to deal with. "I don't know, Kenny. I feel very guilty for letting him come here without me. I feel..." And now, I'm crying, releasing tears I've been holding back for hours, tears that draw the bartender's attention.

"Tim... Tim...," says Kenny, at the other end of the phone.

"I'm sorry," I choke.

"You're not responsible. This is not your fault. You can't protect us all the time."

"Why not?" I whine. But he's right, of course.

And then I hear a tiny voice at the other end. "Is that Daddy?"

"Yeah," Kenny replies.

"Can I talk to him?" asks that tiny voice.

"Okay. I think he'd like that."

And then "Hi Daddy." It's Kevin.

"Hey, Kev. How're you? You taking care of Kenny for me?"

He giggles. "Yup. He's okay. He been good today. He gave me a banana with breakfast."

"That's good. You have to get him trained. He's not used to feeding you guys."

"Is Jason with you," he asks innocently.

"Kinda," I reply. "Were both here in Ohio. That's another state, way far away from where you are."

"Can I talk to him?"

"No, `cuz he's asleep. Next time maybe."


And then it's Kenny back on the line. "Call me when you know something, please. I'm serious, Tim. I want to go through this with you. Please don't `protect' me from the hard facts."

"Okay, babe. I'll call tomorrow and let you know what I know, although it may not be much. I love you."

"I love you, too," he sighs, and then we hang up.


We arrive at the hospital at 9am the next morning, just as his doctor is preparing to leave his room. "How is he?" I ask.

"He is actually quite a bit better and...umm...healing rapidly, although he's a little...reluctant to let me see that," she says with a laugh.

This confuses me for a moment, until I understand what she's saying. "Umm...yeah, I think I'd be a little...reluctant too."

"Yes," she says. "Me, too. But he seems in good spirits. He is still a little drowsy. His face, you'll find, looks much worse, but is actually much better. Asian skin and coloring shows bruises more dramatically in some ways than Caucasians. But he'll have no scarring at all. I think we can probably discharge him tomorrow, although he'll probably want to stay on codeine for a few more days, and we'll need to regulate his diet, to keep him on liquids to ensure that he doesn't tear his stitches." She is very matter-of-fact which I find refreshing.

The hospital administrator called me earlier to check in, asking if I was satisfied with the care Jason was getting -- asking, in reality, whether I was planning to drag the hospital through a publicity war by publicizing their bigotry. "No," I'd said. "I'm very happy with Dr. Singh. She seems very competent, and has been nothing but supportive. It's a pity more of your staff aren't like her."

"Umm...yes. She's one of our best," he replied, choosing not to reply.

As we go into his room, it's clear that Jason is far more alert. He reaches out and hugs me for probably thirty seconds, and then hugs his Mom, who is very relieved to see him so improved. His face is a disaster, seven shades of green and blue, and his ribs are also badly bruised, I find, when he lifts the hospital gown to show me the damage.

"And the stitches?" I ask.

He blushes three shades of red, which is hard to see through all the bruises. I smile at him. "Could you excuse us for a minute, Mrs. Leong?" She nods and leaves the room. She knows what I'm asking.

"I want to see, Jason."

He nods, and turns on his side, and I spread his ass cheeks very gently. It looks like three stitches for three different tears. Not a huge amount of damage but there is some blood. I have to believe that this hurt him badly, and probably still does.

He turns back over, and I kiss him. "I'm so sorry," I say, and he nods. "What happened?"

"When the concert was over, one of the other violinists asked if I'd like to go out for coffee. He's a really nice guy, and I agreed. He took me to a café that was filled with mostly men, though there were a few women, and we chatted until about 2am. I was out to him, and he to me, so his choice of cafés wasn't surprising. At about 2am, he said he needed to go, and we walked outside with two other people to catch cabs. It turned out the two others were going in his direction, so they decided to share a cab. I needed to go in the other direction. So, we hugged, and the three of them took the first cab and I waited for the next one. And it was during that wait that I was attacked. I was grabbed from behind and dragged off into an alley at the side of the café where I was beaten and..." He loses momentum all of a sudden, and then stops.

"...and then?" I ask.

He looks at me and crumbles, covering his face with his hands, sobbing. I reach out and hug him. He drapes his head over my shoulder, and continues to cry.

He needs to face this. He needs to go back to that night, to face it, to exorcize it. "...and then?"

"And then...they tore off...my clothes. They were shouting `faggot' and `queer' and they...umm...they..."

"Did they fuck you, Jason?"

"No," he whines.

"Did they sodomize you with something?"

"Yeah," and he's sobbing again. I hug him and let him cry. After a while I ask him "What did they use?"

"I don't know," he responds.

"Did you see them?"




"Did you see anyone around while you were waiting for a cab?"


We're well and truly hosed I fear. We're never going to know who did this, and there's probably some consolation in that, because if I knew, I'd have to kill them. I would not be able to rest until I'd personally killed them in the most painful way I could devise, and I'm very creative. Even now, I find myself thinking about how I'd do it.

The cops come later in the day, and conduct a similar interview to the one I've just held with Jason. I sit on his bed, and hold his hand, and he cries. And when the cops leave, they have nothing, nothing that can possible help them catch the assholes who terrorized my little Jason.

That afternoon, while Mrs. Leong reads a magazine in the corner of Jason's room, Jason and I talk quietly. "I don't know if I can take this, Jason. I'm going to be terrified every time you leave the house. I could hire a bodyguard to travel with you, I suppose, but I'm not sure I'd trust him. I'm so afraid...for you."

He tears up, and takes my hand. He says nothing for several minutes. Finally "I don't think I want to do this anymore. All the travel, lonely nights in hotels. I miss you; I miss Kenny; I miss the boys. I need to look for alternatives. I love the music, but the sacrifice is too great. And...and...I'm...afraid," he sobs, drawing Mrs. Leong out of her chair like a magnet.

I understand what he's saying. For two years I worked for a company in San Francisco. Every morning I would get up and drive an hour and a quarter to get to that job, and an hour and a quarter home. I don't like to drive very much. It scares me to move at 65 mph. And when you do something that scares you over and over and over again, eventually you either get over the fear, or it turns to terror. Mine turned to terror. I was sure every day that this was the day I'd get into an accident, an accident that would kill me, an accident like any number of accidents I saw along the freeway that I travelled every day. Ultimately, I quit that job. It just wasn't worth it. Business travelers are, in a lot of cases, very unhappy people. I know I was. You feel vulnerable in places you've never been before, and solitary because the people you love are usually not with you. And then you end up in Cleveland, where you get beat up and sodomized. I understand why Jason is scared. I'm scared, too.

And then we discover that this isn't the first such incident in this neighborhood. There have been a string of assaults on gay people in this area, many of them ending, as this one did, in sexual abuse. The police haven't been very effective in curtailing the violence, it appears, assuming they want to curtail it. I'm not pointing any fingers, but I can imagine the probable comments: "They're just fags," or "They probably like it." I've heard these comments before -- in California which is sometimes more accepting of gay people than other areas of the country. Cleveland is said to have a fairly significant gay population, so you have to wonder why this kind of violence goes on unabated.

We stay with Jason throughout the day, leaving when visiting hours are over. He'll be discharged tomorrow, I'm told, and so I make reservations for a flight into San Jose at around noon. We'll get home at around 4pm. Kenny is beside himself when I tell him. He's been so anxious about Jason, he just can't wait to see him, and the boys have picked up on his anxiety, and are so happy to hear Jason's voice when I put him on the phone.

"You okay, Daddy?" Kevin asks in Mandarin, when he hears Jason's voice.

"Yeah. How about you, Kevin?"

Kevin giggles. "We're fine. But Kenny doesn't cook as good as you."

Jason laughs, and you can hear Kenny laughing in the background, and then Kevin screams with laughter -- as Kenny tickles him, we assume.

As we hang up, Jason is tearing again. "I don't think I want to do this any more," he says, pensive, "at least not regularly." I hug him. We kiss, and we leave to let him sleep, to get ready for the trip tomorrow.

And, when we arrive the next morning, Jason is ready to go. He's sitting in a wheel-chair, fully dressed. It looks like he's been ready for hours. His discharge papers are signed, and when the nurses see us, they call his doctor, who is with us in around 15 minutes.

"Jason has made a very good recovery," she says. "He will need to have his stitches removed in about a week; he will need to continue taking antibiotics for another ten days, and may need to continue to take a lowered dosage of Codeine for a few more days for pain. I've given him a prescription for the antibiotics and for the Codeine, which I'd suggest you fill here before you leave. Pharmacies are sometimes reluctant to fill out-of-state prescriptions, especially for pain medications. We have a pharmacy downstairs if that is convenient. I've also given him a letter that you can give your doctor with details of what we've done, and what needs to be done. He'll understand. It should be no problem."

I thank the doctor for her help, and Jason kisses her. She blushes, but hugs him gently, and we're on our way. And on the way to the ground floor, whom do we meet in the elevator but Drs. Fredericks and Lukas, on their way down as well. Dr. Lukas greets us. "Jason is looking much better, Mr. Jensen, and Dr. Singh has given him a clean bill of health, at least as clean as it can be given his injuries. I hope you've found his treatment...adequate."

"Actually, I think Dr. Singh is one of the best doctors I've met in some time. If we lived in Cleveland, she'd be our doctor. Very competent. Very caring. Unlike this asshole," I say, nodding toward Fredericks just as we reach the first floor and the elevator doors open. "He should be fired. Good day, gentlemen," I say, nodding at them as we exit the elevator. We stop briefly at the pharmacy to pick up Jason's prescriptions, and then exit the hospital, wheeled out by an orderly. We load Jason into a taxi, and make our way to the airport, where our flight leaves as scheduled. We arrive in San Jose at 3:56, and Kenny is waiting with the boys. The head flight attendant has called ahead for a wheel chair to meet the flight, and I insist that we wait for it, despite Jason's whining. We're therefore the last to leave the plane, and the boys are nearly frantic, jumping up and down when they see us. Kai is in Jason's lap instantly, and Kevin is nearly strangling him with hugs. "You okay, Daddy?" Kevin screams in Mandarin.

"I'm okay, Kev. Let's go home. I'm really hungry and want to sample some of Kenny's sub-standard cooking." Kevin isn't sure what that means, but Kenny starts to giggle furiously, cuffing Jason playfully. God, it's so good to be home.

Published first at: http://groups.yahoo.com/group/Nemo-stories/