Date: Tue, 16 Apr 2024 18:58:04 +0000
From: JD <JoshuaDraken@protonmail.com>
Subject: The Key of Jem

Dear reader - I've been writing on this story for a loooong time. This will
be my 3rd story on Nifty, but it was written many, many years ago.  Unlike
my other stories, the characters in this are of age - so no disclaimers. I
was inspired to submit this long story as a one-shot by reading the
fantastic slow burn story "Playing on the strings of my heart" here on
Nifty
(https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/adult-youth/playing-with-the-strings-of-my-heart)
Go read it - after you read my story - of course.

I enjoy hearing from readers. Send me an email me at
joshuadraken@protonmail.com

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The Key of Jem (m,t romance / coming out)
----------------------------------------------------------------------
It is a terrible day, an awful day, a grey Seattle day, and it is just
like all the others I've known for the last year. 1989, my first year of
college, was supposed to be fantastic, but I know I will remember it for
how awfully grey it is. I get off the Metro bus midway up Fremont hill
and begin the three-block walk to an apartment that isn't mine, but that
I really wish was.

I can't go back to my apartment, my dark cave of an apartment, with the
mold stains climbing the walls and the water pipes spitting rust. I
can't go back and face my roommate, my brother, and tell him that I
spent all the money that was to pay the utilities and my share of the
rent. I can't tell him I used it to buy a stack of comic books because I
am depressed -- again. I don't want to face him, and I don't want to
not face him if he has gone to his girlfriend's. I don't want to be
alone, not again today.

I trudge up the streets towards the other apartment, the one I have a key
for that is more precious to me than my college scholarship. The key I
hold tight in my hand, close to my chest, as it hangs on the end of a
leather lanyard around my neck. The key that I sleep with -- touching my
skin -- to feel its promise. The key I vowed never to lose, or to use
unless I really need to.

I walk slowly, dreading using the key because of what I might discover --
that I am not wanted, that the key was an offer made but one that was
never to be taken up. The closer I come to the building the slower I
walk. My long brown bangs hang in front of my face. I fling them aside
only to have them slither back into place. My brother always tells me to
get my hair cut; I don't want to. I want long hair like Mark's. I've
never had long hair before.

The black satchel slung over my green army surplus trench coat is heavy
with the guilty weight of comic books and unfinished homework. I went
downtown directly from my last class and blew the utilities money to feel
less empty, less alone. I faithfully follow each and every chapter of my
colorful outcast heroes' lives, seeking friends I've never had.

I had hoped that a big city college in a new state would help me find my
place and a connection. In one way I have. I found some people to talk
to, but they aren't the same as the people from my family's church. The
people I've met in this city are part of an enticing world that offers
more than I have ever known. But it scares me so bad -- it is so
different from what I left behind. These friends are new instruments and
I do not know the stops. I am afraid of making a fool of myself. I fumble
with their easy friendships, always feeling a step out of time, a bar or
more behind their music, and separate from them.

I want to belong, but I don't know the rules, and the past won't let me
go -- neither will my family. My brother was dispatched to keep an eye on
me to be sure I don't squander my one `God-given opportunity to become
an upstanding Christian man,' as my mother put it. I fought for a
college far away from my family because I had to get away, but their
leash won't let me. I used to feel comforted by it -- but not recently.

I hold the key in a tight grip as I walk the last half block to the front
door of the apartment building. I stop and stare at the door, my heart
pounding, my hand sweaty around the key. I want to run away. I want to
run inside. I want to be wanted.
What if all this is a terrible mistake -- me thinking I belong where I
don't? What if the key is meaningless? What if he doesn't want me
around him at all?

I am at the ship canal two nights ago. I am talking, talking, and
talking. I don't know how to stop. One of the guys at school had a
friend visit him, a girl looking at the campus, one year younger than I.
We stroll as a group to the canal, a sight that always stirs me, being
from a small town with no waterways.

The water is deep and fast. The ships pass by so close. I wave like a
young boy, getting surprised glances and a few waves in return. I talk,
and I talk. She says nothing and so I fill the air. I am more animated
tonight than ever. I never talk this much; I am out of my element. She
has unhinged me, and I begin to wonder for a brief span if I am finally
normal. Am I over my phase, am I passing out of foolishness? I certainly
hope so because I am so tired of guessing, fearing, and waiting.

In one of my few pauses, it all comes crashing down. She turns toward me
and grimaces.

"Don't you ever shut-up?" she says in the unfathomably scornful tone
of a trendy eighteen-year-old.

I freeze, I blanch, I don't know what to do. I don't know any other
meaning than the words, and so I do all I can do -- I turn and run away.

I flee from her, the stab of her words hot in my chest. I run to the
bridge over the canal and stop under it, panting as the giant mechanisms
raise the roadway for the boat to pass through. The dark churning waters
tempt me closer. The roar and echo drown out the shame and fear as my
body shakes with more than the bridge's mechanical thunder.

When the echoes fade, I continue my flight by walking wide of the girl
and back to my dark apartment. I want to dismiss her from my mind,
seeking a different conclusion than the total rejection I feel. I try
making it her fault, but it's all within me.

In my apartment I put on music, turn on lights, and take some private
comfort from the weight of the key against my chest.
He will accept me; I think to myself as I battle the urge to go to his
apartment. A voice inside of me cries Abomination! And so, I placate the
shame by going nowhere. It's enough that I have the key.

Standing in front of his building I admit to myself that having the key
is only part of it. I want to know...no, I need to know if he was sincere
when he told me to come by `anytime.' It's suddenly very important to
me to know if he told me the truth when he said no one else had a key but
me. I want to know but am scared of the answer. I want to be the only one
but am even more terrified of what that will mean about me. I push aside
the shame; I can only focus on one thing right now: Is the key's promise
true?

Months ago, I met him -- ten years older than I am and so perfect in my
eyes. He's tall, assured, and so talented. He is all I want to be -- and
am scared of -- at the same time. For months I worked up the nerve to
talk to him. Since that day he's been a lodestone to me, when he is
around, I am never far away. I circle him as a moth to his flame. He
burns so brightly in my eyes; I don't know if he's my salvation or
destruction. I don't want to think of it, I just want to be near him.

I step towards the door, the key still in my fist. I reach out and push
the button for his apartment, I don't want to burst in on him. I don't
want to know if he has someone else there, but worse would be if I walked
in on them unannounced. I have no claim to him, and yet I do. I want to
so badly the intensity stutters my breathing, and yet I hardly know what
it is I am wanting. I push the button and I wait.

"Hello?" It's him. It's Mark.

"Hi...it's me."

"Wha..." There's a click, and the signal shuts off.

I stagger one step backward, my throat closing fast. He hung up. I feel a
pain in my eyes, it's a poking, burning pain at the back of my eyeballs.
I hear the voice in my head, Don't you ever shut up? I begin to pant,
and I turn to run, the bridge is farther, but the hurt is deeper.

"JEM!" Only Mark calls me that.

I stop and spin around. I see no one.

"Jem, up here!"

I look up three stories, and he is leaning out of his window.

"Goddamn door phone broke -- again! Did you lose my key?"

I can't speak, and so I hold up the key on the lanyard around my neck to
show him.

"Then use it and get your hot heiny up here, I've had the gods' worst
day and need someone to bitch at -- good timing -- it's you. Shake a
leg!"

He disappears, and I leap for the door, strangling myself while unlocking
it because I won't take the key off -- ever.

I bound up the three flights breathing the building air deep within. His
door is open, and I hear him in the kitchen filling a tea kettle. I close
the door and step slowly into the apartment.

"Boyo, you can't imagine how aggravating it is to be told to arrange
group Opera seats to a sold-out show for a bunch of old biddies who
don't understand the term Standing Room Only. I called them all cows and
they wanted the manager. `That's me dearies, unless you want the
almighty Speight himself, and I know he's busy with a sold out opening
at the moment.'

"They tittered and sputtered. I sashayed to the lead hen, plucked at her
frock and handbag, and offered them all the senior citizens' discount
for a Saturday Matinee so that the retirement home could get them back in
plenty of time for their afternoon naps.

"They `Well, I never'-ed, and `Oh dear me'-ed themselves right out of
the lobby. They put me in such a foul mood that I snapped at everyone all
day -- well, all except this extremely cute boy from the ballet next
door. I tried to comp him into the tenth row, right next to me, but
wouldn't you know it, the tart was looking for two tickets -- for he and
his girl. Too bad. He was so very cute. I put them in the balcony. Maybe
they will break up over it -- I'm so wicked."

I stand in the middle of the apartment, the tears I've held in check so
long leak out and down my face. I feel so relieved that I cry.

"Jem? Dearest boy, what's wrong?"

He comes to me and wraps his arms around me. I lean in and cry harder. He
smells so good to me. His chin rests on my head, and he murmurs and coos
in his rumbling bass voice. I feel his words come from deep inside him. I
have longed for this embrace and feared it at the same time.

I stop weeping and pull away to explain myself.

"Ssh." Mark places a long finger on my lips. "Come, bring your wet
hazel eyes and floppy brown bangs to the kitchen. Let's have some tea.
The water is hot now."

He leads me to the kitchen table and then fusses and clucks over me as no
one has ever done. He takes my satchel and coat, setting them by the door
in neat order. He pours water for the tea and sets out honeycomb, lemon
peel, and skim milk. Before he sits, he sees the key on my chest. He
stretches out his long arm and touches it lightly with two fingers.

"My latch-key boy," he whispers.

I glance down and tuck it back inside my shirt. It's cold metal once
again warming on my pale, blue-veined skin. When I look at him, I see
something in his eyes that I can't define. He smiles to cover it and
stirs milk into his Darjeeling. A minute passes in silence.

"Jem, my darling boy, tell me."

And I do. About the money, the comics, my brother's dark looks, and the
girl by the canal.

"After the comic shop, I came here...but I wasn't sure you meant..."

"Go on." He narrows his eyes at me.

"...I didn't know if it would be okay if I came over." I swallow a
lump. "Or if you had someone with you..."

He sets his teacup down and places both of his hands on his seated hips.
"I have two keys to this apartment, two. I have one, and you have one.
Just who do you imagine might be here?"

I shake my head and shrug my shoulders. "I thought you might be mad if I
used the key and came in without asking first."

"And why else would I give it to you?"

I shrug.

"You know, for a nineteen-year-old on scholarship you can be amazingly
clueless."

I feel my face darkening.

"Don't get me wrong. You are also intelligent, talented, fit, cute,
troubled, and precociously naïve." He flicks his eyebrows at me. "I
must say those are all attributes that I find incredibly attractive." He
smiles.

I bow my head. Old shame floods my mind and emotions. "But I can't
be...that way, my family--"

"Is in another state. You are here, and you need to live your own
life." He pauses. "Look, I know some of what you're facing. My father
is a minister, and you can imagine his response when he found out that
his oldest son preferred boys to girls. It was not pretty. But I had to
tell him, I could no longer live a double life every time I went home
with a friend from college who was actually my boyfriend."

Mark stands and comes over to me.

"Jem, you are beautiful and worth so much more than the bullshit others
put you through. I want my apartment to be a safe haven for you. Other
than you, there is no one I'd rather have my key."

I am crying again. At the same time, I want to believe him, but I don't.
The leap to accept what he says is too big for me to make right now. I
want...need...crave someone else make the choice for me and tell me who I
am.
I want it to be Mark. I smile longingly at him through the tears.

"Finish your tea while I freshen up."

He takes two steps away and turns, but it's more than a turn. His long
limbs pirouette, his blond mane swings about his shoulders, and his eyes
pin me to my chair.

"I am going to take a bath, and you will not leave. Do you understand
me, Jem?"

"But, I..."

Fear grips me, fear of getting what I want, and I think of my brother who
is older and much more responsible than I. I think of what he will tell
my mother if I don't come home. I am afraid and excited.

"...I should go home tonight."

I am looking at the majestic disarray of his futon in the far corner,
already imagining and responding to my own imaginings. My body responds
because the guilt is only in my head. I am ashamed, but I want to be held
in an older man's arms so much.

My eyes dart back to Mark's face, and I see in his knowing smirk that he
has read me plain. His arched eyebrow and pursed lips tell me as much. My
face goes hot, and an emptiness of dread fills me -- I am found out. I
cannot move.

What will he say?

Then he laughs.

It's a deep, full, booming laugh. The same laugh that caught my ear and
brought him to my attention six months ago at Judith's housewarming. I
don't know where the laugh can come from. It is so full and deep,
resonant and joyful, mysterious and enticing. It is my father's laugh
when I sat on his lap and told him my silly dinosaur tales. It is more
laugh than Mark has body -- and I love it.

There is no fear anymore, no shame -- only a deep desire for his long
arms to enfold me. I am drunk on possibilities. The walls are down and
the inner core of who I fear to ever be is laid bare.

I cannot move, and I am his -- completely and unreservedly. I am
bespelled or set free. I no longer care. When his laugh fades away, I am
still wrapped in its intoxicating sound. I am light-headed.

His conspiratorial look changes to one of mild concern, as if he knows I
am drunk and very open to any suggestion. Maybe he doesn't read me this
way, maybe he hesitates for a different reason. I see him check his
movement, his natural tendency to reach out and run a hand down my
jawline or clasp my shoulder, or any one of the many physical endearments
that he gives people as easily as some give a handshake.

Touch, his touch, any man's touch is electric to me. His touch after
I've already gotten drunk on his laughter would undo me. And I am so
willing, so very willing to do anything right now, things that I
shouldn't know but dream about. Things that began to thrill me as a boy
when a friend and I explored each other for the first time in his tree
house. Things he was too afraid to try. Things other boys taunted me with
in locker rooms and school hallways as I grew older. Things I've only
experienced in the arms of one man, and that I desperately want this man
to do to me.

But Mark does not move towards me. He stands just out of reach -- and
smiles.

"I'm only going to take a bath. I will be out in thirty minutes, tops.
Surely your brother won't begrudge you half an hour more, will he?" He
pauses. "I also know your tendency to run away in the middle of the
party. That's why I want your promise you'll stay here and not flee
like a scared rabbit the moment I turn my back. Promise?"

I nod. The intoxication leaving me slowly.

"Jem, say it."

"I...I promise."

"Good. Now I believe you."

He turns and disappears around the corner and into his bathroom.

I am alone, and for a moment it is okay. Then, stealthily and sneakily,
the doubts, recriminations, and shames start creeping into my mind. I am
no longer drunk with his presence. I am horrified at my own reaction,
physical and mental. I have to leave, I have to flee, to run away from
here. To get as far away from the temptation to sin as I can. I have to
go now, it's the same feeling that forces me from the parties before
they are done, that pushes me into despair for being so weak and sinful.

I leap from the chair and stalk towards the door. Halfway across the room
I stop.

I promised him I'd stay.

Now I am caught as surely as if he'd locked the door and taken his key
from me. I have to leave, and I can't. I begin pacing his living area,
arguing with myself. Sometimes closer to the door, sometimes further away
as I battle -- hope against despair.

On one of my pacings, I come as far as the corner where the front door
and bathroom are. I see my black satchel and coat, and then see Mark has
left the bathroom door open. He is singing opera tunes in the bathtub. I
scurry away, knowing he'll be able to see the door from the tub.

As my shame grows, I know I have to break my promise. I can't again face
my eagerness to have this man's hands on me -- not out of revulsion, but
because if I face the desire, I will want it again, and be unwilling to
run away.

I creep back to the entry and lift my satchel. A board under my foot
creaks, sounding the alarm. I freeze and Mark's singing stops.

"Jem, you promised."

"I...uh, am just getting my satchel. I need to look over some
reading...for class on Monday."

"Uh-huh." He knows I am lying. There is a pause in which I hear a heavy
sigh. "Jem?"

"Yeah?" I am standing still, satchel in my hands. I can't move till he
releases me. I am petrified.

"Look, you can go if you want. I'm not holding you prisoner." His
voice is heavy -- and vulnerable.

I step to the bathroom door but don't look in.

"It's just that I've had a really rough week, and when I saw you on my
doorstep...well, it's the best I'd felt all week. I'd...really like you
to stay...if you want. I could use someone to talk to."

The spell is broken, and I don't want to leave anymore, but I don't
want to tell him I did either.

"I'm going to look over my reading till you get done, and then we can
talk." I wait.

"Thank you," he says very quietly, almost to himself, and then much
louder as if he thinks I've walked away, "You did promise, after all."

"I know. I did," I say to him while standing at the bathroom door.

"Oh!" He realizes I am still close by. "I'd ask you to hand me a
towel, but I am positively a prune and must keep some dignity."

His tone is light and mocking. It's good cover.

"But if our positions were reversed, I'd hide all the towels and make
you air dry while I swoon. You young boys completely undo me. I am such
an old reprobate."

"I feel more comfortable with older men."

His comment about me being a young boy both thrills and disturbs me.

"And you're a silver-tongued teen."

"I'll be twenty this year," I say in my defense.

"And I'll be thirty. Oh dear gawd! Three-zero, where does the time
go?" I hear him stand. "Now shoo with you, or I shall think you like
peeping at naked and wrinkly old men."

I steal a quick peek around the door frame, but he has the bath curtain
drawn closed. I am shocked at my impulsive daring as I spin and scurry
back to the cold tea. I drink it in one swallow and pick up his phone. I
leave a quick message for my brother on the answering machine, telling
him I am studying at a friend's and don't know when I will get home.
It's close enough to the truth that I don't feel the need to elaborate
or say which friend.

I know my brother does not approve of me spending time with Mark.
Although Mark is six years older than he, I know my brother looks down on
Mark's worldly ways. I think that's the only way my brother can excuse
my lack of girlfriends, that Mark has bewitched me, or that this is a
phase I will grow out of.

Part of me really wants to get over not being normal. My family, my
church, even the Christian university I attend tell me that what I want
in my not-so-secret heart of hearts is not normal, good, or Christian.
And I want so hard to be all three in order to be loved by them.

I sit and stare out of the window in his kitchen; I smile at the abundant
light, light that my dingy apartment lacks, before turning back to the
apartment I love. It's so bright and vibrant. I feel calmed by all the
artwork, instruments, books, and sculptures. I see Mark's hand on
everything when he gave me the grand tour of his home on the first time I
was invited in.

Mark walks into the peace of the moment wearing a poofy white terrycloth
bathrobe. He is drying his long blond hair. I look at him worshipfully.
He has so much of what I want in my life: assurance, talent, poise,
friends, maturity, and poofy terrycloth bathrobes. The image of my father
comes to mind, and I think how he would have been fifty this year.

I think that Mark looks like I remember my father looking--though he
never wore robes, just underwear. I think of this and smile.

"What are you thinking of, you naughty boy," he grins at me.

"My father."

He stops abruptly.

"You sure know how to kill the mood. Are you saying I remind you of your
father?"

There's a cold edge in his voice, and I realize what I've done.

"No...it's just that you said you'd be thirty. I am going to be twenty,
and he would've been fifty this year. Twenty plus thirty equals fifty.
It would take you and me both to equal him."

"Now you flatter me, and quite nicely I might add. You're quick,
that's for sure...but, you said `would've been fifty'..."

"Yeah, he's dead."

"Oh, I'm so sorry. I'm being insensitive." Mark sits down across from
me and takes my hand in his. "Was it recent?"

I don't reply. I am staring at his hand touching me. I feel the edge of
a trance coming on as I move my fingers under his.

"Do you want to talk about it?"

He thinks my hesitancy is due to the weight of loss, and maybe it is.

"He walked out when I was twelve and died when I was fourteen. I saw him
only once in those two years. I miss him, even though I'm not supposed
to."

"Not supposed to? Why on earth would you say that?"

He's still holding my hand, and I hesitate to say any more. If I say why
I am not supposed to miss him, why I was told I should hate him, it will
lead to a much longer conversation. I don't say anything, and I feel him
beginning to understand I don't want to speak of it because of what it
might be.

But if I don't speak, then a wall will come down between us, a wall I
don't want. I want to be completely open with Mark, I want to be
transparent. I want to open myself and show him my darkest insides, the
pieces of me I shelter close, fearing to disclose and risk rejection. I
want -- no, I need to tell him, and I am sorry that there is no easier
way to say it, no easier way to prepare him for the secrets I hold
inside. All I can do is blurt it out, like vomit on the clean carpet. I
hope he forgives me.

"My father was on his way to prison for child abuse before he died of a
brain tumor, one day after my fourteenth birthday."

"Oh my."

He still holds my hand, but tentatively. I let the silence stretch for a
moment, hoping he'll ask the next question, so I won't have to say it.
He does not.

"He was charged with abusing me."

His first impulse is to pull me close, but he checks that as suspicion
enters his mind.

"Hitting you? Physical abuse?"

"No...sexually."

"Oh...and your brothers?"

"He never touched them."

"...only you..."

Now I know he wants to let go of my hand. He is suddenly reviewing all
we've said and done, and all my comments about my dad.

I know the reaction -- this rejection -- too well. I've seen it in my
uncles' faces, in the faces of mentors at school, in all the faces of
the men that I have told while hoping for understanding and acceptance.

Before he can pull away from me -- I do. I stand up and walk to the
window across his living area.

"My father was sexually molesting me -- and only me."

I leave the statement like a fresh dog turd on his clean carpet.

I want, dread, fear to know what he will do with it. Will he put another
carpet over it? Will he hurriedly clean it up and move on? Will he `oh
so kindly' show me the door? How will he proceed? I need to know.

The day has gone where I didn't want it to. I wanted his arms around me
without him knowing my darkness, but I'd never be able to trust his
acceptance of me unless I told him. And depending on how he handles this
mess will let me know whether I can tell him the rest.

I stare out the window and hear him moving around behind me. He pours hot
water into two mugs, and after a moment I hear him stirring them slowly.
I hear him shuffling around the kitchen and my heart drops. I close my
eyes and rest my forehead on the wall. The hope that he will say the
right thing is drying up and leaving me empty.

"Come, sit down here."

I turn and he motions to his favorite chair. I sit as I am told--miles
away from the energy and life I had only minutes ago.

"This is for you."

He sets a mug of hot tea on the table. He sits on the corner of the sofa
to the other side of me and tucks his long legs under him, arranging his
robe with a couple expert flicks of his hands. He wraps his long
pianist's fingers around his own mug.

"Tell me as much or as little as you are comfortable telling me, but
know this -- you will be talking, and I will be listening. So, if you
want to talk about -- oh, I don't know -- the Seattle Trailsonics...or
whatever they're called, then that's fine. But you are going nowhere,
that brother of yours can simply fret. This is an old wound and hasn't
been lanced in a long time -- that's what I'm fixing to do."

He sips his tea. He looks elegant and regal perched on the couch; I am a
disheveled mound--the pauper to his prince--sitting on his throne.

"Well? Don't think you're leaving. I will sit on you first."

I smile the littlest bit.

"That's an improvement."

"I already called him," I mutter.

"Hmm?"

"I left a message for my brother." I say it in a rush, pushing out the
first confession. "I told him I was at a friend's and may not get back
till late, if at all."

"Good boy. See, I knew you were smart."

I look around, steeling myself for a conversation I do and don't want to
have. It won't be an interrogation at least; Mark is sitting to my side.
I will not have to look at him unless I want to, and I am thankful for
that.

I take a deep breath and tell him my secrets, important secrets that are
terrible and dark. I tell him of missing my dead father, the darker shame
of liking men, and how my family condemns me.

I talk of testifying in court against the father I still desperately
loved, of how my family was torn apart because of me, and the deep wish
that I'd never told my friend about what I did with my father.

I tell of trying to like girls, but just not being able to think of them
intimately. I tell of my crushes on my male teachers and my family
putting me in special church counseling.

I tell him how I cut myself with knives to pay for my sins, and how
sometimes that's not enough. I also tell him how the dark water under
the bridge tempts me with an answer.

As the hours pass, I tell him one secret after another, one condemnation
after another. At one point he moves off the couch and sits at my feet
with his head on my knee. I continue to talk, a river undammed. He asks
questions where clarification is needed and remains silent but present
all the rest of the time.

The sky darkens and still I talk. He does not back away even as I leave
longer and longer silent moments hanging between us. He stays seated, and
in the darkening room I glance down at his upturned face. His forehead is
creased with the weight of my story, my failures, my weaknesses, and my
shame. I am suddenly very sorry I have laid it all on him like I have.

I don't want to look too deeply for fear of seeing the sympathetic
revulsion I've gotten from too many Christians when I confess my sins.
It is a delicate moment, and I know I will wilt if he says -- as so many
have -- There, but for the grace of God, go I. I hate that phrase more
deeply than any other. It says to me: You have no grace, you have no God,
and so you have no hope. It says all this to me in scarlet letters, the
words of Christ.

I muster all I can of a glare and dare Mark with my eyes, but I know I am
pleading with him to love me, absolve me, tell me who I am so the guilt
will drop from my neck and sink away. I shiver in the darkness, and I
stare down at the floor, no longer able to look into his eyes.

The phone rings and the rising sounds of the evening announce that
nothing has stopped, nothing has ended in fiery shards, the world still
spins, and the phones still ring. I glance at Mark. He sighs.

"I have to get this, it's Judith wondering where I am." He harrumphs
and I smile a little. "You can not keep her waiting." He uncoils
himself off the floor and flows to the phone -- a white robed apparition
in the fading twilight.

"Hello?...Judith! How good of it to be you; I was just talking to my
guest, saying this would be you...Oh, no dearest. Our Mystery Boy is
here..."

Mark turns and gives me the critical once over, and I laugh because I
know not only are they talking about me, but Judith has just asked how I
look. She has taken a concerned sisterly interest in me and my
misadventures in Seattle. I like her a lot.

"Yes, worn down, rumpled, trodden upon, and sporting an atrocious color
combo with absolutely no fashion sense. What else would you know?" Mark
winks at me. "Oh, yes. Mystery Boy and I have been talking. Well, he has
mostly. I can't shut him up."

I am not devastated this time. I know what his words mean because I am in
on the joke. Judith nicknamed me Mystery Boy because she can hardly get
two words out of me about myself. That Mark can will be a poke in her
ribs that he will use mercilessly for weeks to come.

"What of you, ma belle?...Oh, he is, is he?...Well have a good time with
him, and be sure to scratch his eyes out for me when you part ways."
Mark laughs and I am enveloped in the joy of the sound, it makes me feel
like a soft-eyed puppy, my tail all but wagging.

"I am going to feed the boy, give him some warm milk, and probably tuck
him in bed... Oh, you dirty minded woman! I said `tuck' and you full
well know it."

I am blushing hard at hearing Mark's side of the conversation. My
body's reaction -- much quicker and stronger than I am ready for --
makes me shift to relieve growing discomfort.

"Sit!" Mark points to the chair and arches his very expressive eyebrows
at me.

I settle down, the discomfort dissipating.

"Dearest, I must go, my guest is trying to rabbit on me, and I forgot to
bar the door. Yes, you know how he is...Yes, it's worked out marvelously,
go have a night, and I...Oh, stop it this minute! Au revoir mon amie."

Mark hangs up and turns back to me. He is all seriousness again.

"Judith has a date, and so I don't need to act all guilty for not
coming over. I am free for you."

"I'm sorry to take up so much of your time." I am worried that I've
imposed myself too long. "I should go."

I try standing. Mark places one hand on my chest and pushes me back into
the chair.

"Bad rabbit. And leave me all alone? With my social calendar suddenly
bare?" Mark frowns. "I am going to make you some dinner, and we are
going to continue our conversation, if that meets with your approval?"

I suddenly realize how hungry, drained, and relieved I am. "Yes, thank
you."

He knows the thank you is for more than the offer of dinner. He wraps me
in a hug. "You're more than welcome, Jem. My dearest Jem."

I wrap my arms around him and cling on for my life. I smell his clean
skin, his heady scent, and I feel safe. For once my body allows me a
moment of glorious peace by not responding to his touch, but only for a
moment. I pull away from Mark before he can know. I glance to his eyes
briefly, flittingly, expecting the familiar shock of revulsion I get from
men in the church. Instead, I see complete understanding, a soft smile,
and shared pain.

"We have much to talk about...But first -- food!" He grins.

"May I use your bathroom?"

"Such manners. Of course. You won't run out on me, will you? Or should
I bar the door?"

"No, I won't. I don't want to."

"Good. You know where it is. Wash up. I shall dress and fix us some of
my famous pasta and skinless chicken breast."

"Sounds good."

"Just you wait. What I can do to a chicken is positively sinful, and my
cream sauce...you are in for a treat."

He struts to his clothes closet, and I retreat to the bathroom. I stand
at his toilet trying to relax enough to pee as I look around his
bathroom. The painting above the toilet grabs my attention. A naked man
is sitting on the rocks with his legs drawn up and his head on his knees.
He is so beautiful; I look for a name or some indication of who he is but
see none. Maybe Mark knows him or painted him.

Looking at the painting gives me an erection which doesn't help me pee
any faster. With heavy regret, and some small shame, I look away and
begin conjugating Russian verbs. Halfway through the verb `to go,' I am
finally able to.

With one last look of longing, I turn from the painting, zip up, wash,
and leave his bathroom. When I return to the kitchen, Mark is hard at
work with pots and pans.

"The painting above the toilet. Do you know him?"

"Know him?"

"Did you paint him?"

"Oh, heavens no. I could only be so lucky. That was done by Bouguereau,
or Caravaggio, or some fantastically talented dead artist a long time
ago. That is a lithograph a former boyfriend gave me. Do you like it?"

"Very much."

"I have some writing cards around here somewhere that I believe have a
print of that very painting on them. I will find you one as soon as I am
done fondling this chicken."

"Oh, uh...I couldn't accept it. Thanks though."

"Why not?" He is glaring at me.

"My brother would not approve. I couldn't keep it; it's pornography. I
just wondered who it was."

"Pornography?"

"He's...naked."

"That doesn't make something pornographic. Have you not taken Art
Appreciation yet?"

"No."

"Jem, you have got a lot to learn about being gay in Seattle."

"But...I'm not."

"In Seattle?"

"No, the...other." I daren't say the word, it's taboo.

"Hmm." Mark squints his eyes at me. "That's not what you told me no
less than thirty minutes ago."

"I never said I was...gay, or a homosexual."

"Could've fooled me."

He sighs.

"Just a piece of advice from an old queen: the hardest part of the
journey you are on is admitting to yourself who you really are. There's
more to coming out than stepping out of the closet, throwing your arms
wide, and telling the world you're gay. You have to believe it of
yourself, accept yourself when you are all alone and the lights are off,
and hold onto it for yourself despite what others think or say. To be gay
and love yourself is what being out really means -- at least it does to
me, and I've only managed that in the last five years."

"I can't do that..."

"Maybe not now, but someday I hope you will. You can never truly love
someone else, man or woman, if you hate yourself."

Mark pauses.

"Now wouldn't my father be surprised. Here I am preaching when I vowed
I never, ever would. See what you've turned me into, Jem? A preacher.
Now, granted, Dad would say that I am preaching for the other team...well,
let's say we see things differently. Why don't you clear off that table
and set out some plates and silver?"

I do as he instructs, and I wonder if this is what it's like to live
with another man. It's a wispy thought that floats through my head,
enticing me. I allow myself the fantasy of imagining I live with Mark
without putting any name on it. The fantasy is beautiful and warm. I set
it aside just as quickly.

The apartment fills with the smell of good food, and I am ravenously
hungry. When the food is ready, we sit down to eat. Mark offers a
blessing, and I am stunned that he prays. I've always been told gays are
godless. That Mark prays confounds me.

"There are many faiths," he says. "In the one I believe; God loves and
accepts me as I am."

We begin eating and I am moved by his words. I want them to be true, but
the shaming voice inside shouts it down. I concentrate on the food, it is
superb.

Our dinner conversation is light and airy. He tells me of the Opera, of
being in college with Judith, Fred, Marjorie, and Sue -- all people that
I have come to know through him.

As we wash the dishes, he begins to tell me more of himself, of his
father, his first lover, and his journey. I listen, enthralled. He opens
to me his hidden fears and insecurities, and I begin to see him more
human and less hero. I am more and more infatuated with each passing
minute, and I think he knows it.

As midnight approaches, and I stifle another happy yawn, he announces it
is time for bed.

I nod and smile, willing. My pulse quickens and tiredness vanishes
completely. There is some fear, but I tell myself that this is where the
whole evening was headed, so it's too late to have second thoughts.

He pulls a mattress from behind a door and lays it on the floor. I am
confused.

"I'll get you some blankets from the closet."

He goes away to come back with a couple fluffy throws. He lays them on
the mattress.

"Sleep well. I will be right over there. Don't worry about waking me --
I am a deep sleeper."

He walks away and I begin to comprehend.

He doesn't want me at all. The thought burns itself through my mind as
fast as the stabbing pain of the knives.

What did I do wrong? Why doesn't he want me? Shame, guilt, and rejection
war within.

I don't move. I can't move. I can't breathe. If I could move, I would
run away, but it's dark now, and I am alone. I feel cold emptiness -- I
feel the pit of me yawn wide -- I feel burning shame.

I stand in the dark room, and I weep silently.

"Jem? What's wrong?"

Mark comes padding back from his room. He is wearing shorts and nothing
else. With him near I am shamed more. I turn away and try to end the
tears and sniffles.

'Grow up, son. Boys don't cry,' a familiar voice, the voice of my
father, says in my head. 'Sissy boys cry, are you a sissy boy?' He cocks
his head at me. 'Are you my sissy boy?'

I nod and fall into his outstretched arms. I feel his skin against my
face, his hands smoothing down my hair, and his harsh tone of voice
whispering gentle words.

'Can I sleep with you...please?' I ask my father.

'Oh, all right, but, remember, we mustn't tell anyone. How can I refuse
my favorite boy?'

He pulls me close and leads me to bed. I drop my pajamas on the floor and
crawl under the covers of the big bed. He climbs in and enfolds me in his
strong arms. I put my head on his warm chest and let the last of the
nightmare trickle from my mind.

I am in bed with my daddy, and I am safe.

I breathe in the familiar smells, and I slide my hand down his chest,
across his stomach, and onto his underwear. I expect his hands to stop
caressing my back and slide down between my legs.

I give him my body, and he gives me his love. My body is ready for his
touch, achingly ready. As is he.

"I'm a good boy. Please don't leave me again."

When I try to reach inside his waistband, he pulls away from me.

I am confused.

He's told me I must not do it anymore, but I want him to hold me again,
to love me like he says he does. I move towards him.

"Daddy?" I plead.

"Jem! No, stop."

I freeze.

I am in bed with Mark, and he is holding me by the wrist.

"Don't. Not like this. I am not your father. Please Jem, stop."

I pull away from Mark.

The past lurches away and the present crashes in. I stare at Mark,
realizing what I've done and said. I roll off the side of his futon,
onto the floor, and scramble back against the wall bringing my knees to
my chest. My head is swirling.

His eyes show me that my darkest secret is in the open now, he knows that
the abomination at the core of me seduced my own father, traded love for
my body, and then testified against him in a court of law. Mark sees that
I am the one that should have gone to prison for tempting my father with
my inherent wickedness. I see that Mark no longer wants me near him. Now
he won't love me. He sees me as an abomination, just like my family, my
uncles, and all my former mentors do.

I can't speak. I stare at Mark as he looks at me. I am thankful he
leaves the light off. I wouldn't be able to handle seeing the disgust on
his face.

Mark shifts to the edge of the bed and sits facing me.

"Jem, I am not, nor will I ever be, your father. Do you understand me?"

"You don't want me?" I whisper, my breathing comes in quick gasps, my
chest hurting, fire in the corners of my eyes.

"Hmph. You'd know I was lying if I said I didn't -- you found that
out. But not like this."

"You...want me...to leave?" I try to move.

"Sit!"

I do.

"You are more of a frightened bunny than a scared rabbit, aren't you?
No, never mind. I don't want you to go anywhere."

He sighs, and I wait.

"Jem, I like you a lot, I may even love you, god knows I think you're
one hot number."

"Then why...?"

"Hush. I don't want to add to the wound that lies at the core of you.
If we...have sex, then that is exactly what I will be doing, and I can't
do that to someone I care about -- even smoking hot bunnies."

Mark shakes his mane of hair.

"What I'm trying to say is - sex is not love. Unfortunately, too many
people think it is, much too many in the gay community. You'd have no
trouble at all finding a daddy to make you his boy, but I don't think
you will find the love and acceptance you so deeply need by giving
yourself away. That attitude has killed too many of our brothers and
sisters over the years. A stiff dick may have no conscience, but neither
does AIDS. Don't lose your life by trying to recreate your past."

Mark moves to the floor and sits next to me. I am shivering and so he
puts his arm around me. He pulls me close.

"Jem, you are talented, gifted, beautiful, intelligent, and deeply
wounded. I gave you that key for a reason."

My hand reflexively goes to the key around my neck.

"I just didn't realize what that reason would mean for you. In so many
ways you are still that young boy who so desperately wants his father's
love. I am, too. We are both wounded boys who have been shut out of our
fathers' houses.

"Every song has a key. Every house has a key. Every man has a key,
whether it be to his heart or his destruction. This key..."

Mark pokes at my prize possession.

"...is the key to my apartment. This key..."

He takes my head in his hand and tilts it so he can kiss my crown, then
taps my chest.

"...is the key to my heart."

I glance at him sideways.

"You mean it?"

"Jem, you can't be as dense as that. Of course, I do. I've been
falling in love with you for months. Ever since you rabbited on me at
Judith's open house, I've been trying to get you to stay still long
enough to get to know you. I know what my key is."

Mark smiles at me.

"But, more importantly for you, is to find what the key of Jem is."

"You?"

"No, not me. Another person cannot become the key to unlocking yourself
until you know who you are first. Your key is somewhere deep inside you,
and it's going to take a lot of work to find it."

There is a long silence where he holds me and my heart slows, my fears
ease, and I begin to hope.

"Of course, having someone who loves you can help you find out who you
are just a little bit quicker, or they can hold you back from
self-discovery."

"What about you?"

"I don't know yet if I'm good or bad for you. That's a chance we'll
have to evaluate day by day...if you'll let me."

I nuzzle up against Mark and breathe him in.

"Can we still sleep together?"

"Yes, but no sex."

"Awww..."

"I mean it."

He lifts my chin to look in my eyes.

"That's going to be one of my rules. I want to show you that love and
sex aren't the same thing. We can cuddle, nuzzle, spoon, or whatever.
But until I know if I have a young boy or a young man in my bed, all
affection will be above the waist. Do you understand?"

I nod.

Something inside me begins to sing. A voice of deep, comforting emotion
begins to croon in my heart and mind. I vibrate with its warm tones.

Could this be love?

I smile with pleasure as I lay beside Mark all night, his arms close
around me and his breath soft in my ear. Although my body responds to the
intoxication of so much touch, I do not feel compelled to answer it.

I lay in the warm glow and smile.

----------------------------------the end