Fathers & Sons

I think I was eleven when I first started to accept that I was different. I don’t think I knew I was gay exactly, but maybe if I really understood what that word meant, what it meant to *be* gay, well… then... yeah, I might’ve.

I guess all I really knew is that I loved drawing and coloring and painting and would much rather play games with Daph than go to the stupid soccer practices Dad signed me up for.

I sucked at soccer, and when I got kicked in the shin and ran home to Mom crying, she told Dad to take me out of it. So he did and signed me up for baseball instead.

I should’ve taken that as a fucking omen.

It was probably on the third or fourth game that it all went to shit. This time, same as always, I was standing at the home plate, trying to swing at that goddamn ball. I missed the first three swings and dropped the bat, ready to walk off the field and go sit with everyone else, waiting for this stupid game to be over. But it was a practice game and the coach had it in for me, or maybe Dad asked him to, I don’t know why... but for whatever reason, he told me to stay up there at home plate.

I’d scrunched up my eyebrows and picked up the bat again. “Why?” I remember asking in my eleven-year-old voice.

He’d given me this up and down look, then smirked. “If you don’t learn how to hit a baseball, everyone’s gonna think you’re a pussy little faggot.” The words had spit from his lips and I’d felt this white rush flow through me, my cheeks flushed and my stomach clenched. I remember feeling like I’d been found out.

“I don’t care what anyone thinks of me,” I’d said back bravely.

He’d responded by throwing the baseball right at me. Like *at* me, not so I’d hit it, but so that it would hit me. Fucking Richard McCarthy playing catcher behind me snickered as I’d dodged to avoid the ball. Nearly clocked me in the chest, but even though I couldn’t hit a goddamn baseball to save my life, I could move pretty fast.

“C’mon, Justin!” I’d heard Dad’s voice out in the stands, watching me. Judging me. Expecting things from me.

Rich had thrown the ball to the pitcher and then it came flying back at me and I’d had the bat up, ready. I concentrated, I was determined and kept my eye on the ball, fingers tight on the bat... and I swung at the air, missing completely.

“Focus!” Dad’s voice rang out from the bleachers. “C’mon!”

And again I tried. And again. Five swings and when Dad yelled again, it was met with a chorus of snickers from the rest of the team. The swish of the ball as it skimmed by me, Dad’s yelling, kids laughing, taunting, my heart beating... it all rang in my ears, and I swallowed hard and my face had felt hot and red and then everything got blurry and I knew it was fucking over. Knew as soon as those tears welled up and slid down my cheeks that I’d be off the team again, out of this, out of this nightmare. I didn’t want to cry, standing there on home base, everyone watching me, Coach shaking his head and laughing behind his hand, Dad calling out over and over, saying my name with increasing frustration, kids chanting faggot faggot faggot in unison.

The tears spilled over my eyelids and started down my face and I’d wiped at my eyes with my sleeve and that’s when the ball got me right in the stomach. The little fucker had *deliberately* tried to hit me, I know that, and as I fell down to the dusty ground, crying in earnest now, all I could focus on was my father coming out to the field, coming to get me. And I know he kept telling me it was okay, that he’d take me home, but all I really could hear was, you really are a pussy little faggot.

Maybe he didn’t say it. Maybe he did.

Thus ended my illustrious baseball career. Dad tried for football next, but I refused to go. When I heard him talking to the hockey coach on the phone I begged Mom to make him stop.

She did. And instead signed me up for art classes and summer theatre school and I’d never, ever been happier in my life.

I still tried with Dad — I did what I could to make him proud of me, working my ass off in school to get the best grades. I’d always show them off to him to prove I wasn’t worthless or stupid. I just sucked at sports, that’s all. And I could do Math and English and History and Art... yeah, I could do Art really well. I wanted him to be proud, to make him smile and grab my shoulder and squeeze hard and tell me: “Way to go, Justin. I’m proud of you.”

I’m proud of you.

I did hear those words from him. Often, actually. An aced math test, a win at a debate competition.

“Good job. That’s my boy. My smart son.” Big grin on his face. Nice hetero handshake.

But since that day.

That day he found out, that day I came out, that day... everything, my life, my world changed... that day in the kitchen, when I realized Mom had told him I was gay, had told Dad all the things she knew, all the things I secretly told her... that day when I heard from them all the reasons why I shouldn’t ever see Brian, why I shouldn’t be who I was or what I was... after that day, Dad never looked at me the same way again. Hell, he hardly even looks at me, period. And when he does, it’s with discomfort, disdain, disgust. He looks at me like he doesn’t know me. And he doesn’t.

I pull my knees up to my chest and close my eyes, leaning back against the cold cement wall of the jail cell. The metal bench is freezing under my ass, but there’s nowhere else to sit and nothing else to do but sit here and fucking remember everything that brought me to this place. And try not to get upset about my fucking homophobic father that would rather put his son in jail than give him the rights deserved by any human being no matter who they are or who they love.

My father hates me. I tried to deny it for so long, tried to reason and wonder how he could ever hate me, his son. He hates that I’m queer, he hates that I’m proud of it, he hates that I want to have things like a marriage and a family and a home. And he’s punished me, ridiculed me, hit me, hit Brian, tried to change me, convert me, tell me I was wrong and disgusting and inferior and sick and...

Told me, in not so many words, that he hates me.

I just can’t believe it took me this long to hate him back.

I remember, a long time ago, telling Brian that I could never just forget my dad. Couldn’t pretend he’s not part of my life, who I am.

But Brian was right. He said that as long as I felt that way, I’d always be hurt. And I have been hurt.

I am hurt.

I told Dad once that no matter what he did, I’d always be his queer son. Always.

But now I’m just queer. Out. Gay. Proud of myself.

And I’m not his son anymore.

“Wake up sonny boy!” I remember the words like they were yesterday, like this morning, like right now. Remember the bang on the door, the rattle of the lock I’d put on my bedroom door. Remember the way he’d kicked at it, shaken it, pounded on it until I let him in.

And then I did let him in and he hit me so hard I fell back onto the floor, the carpet burning my naked back as I skidded across it. Then his feet kicking at me, and I curled into a ball to protect my face, my groin, my heart.

Usually I knew what I’d done wrong — stolen some liquor, stayed out too late, left my jacket in the living room — but this time I had no idea. I wanted to stand up and push him backwards, down the stairs, watch his neck snap and his limp, lifeless body slump over the bottom step, tongue hanging out and he’d be dead, dead, dead...

The toe of his boot caught me between the ribs and I’d coughed hard at the pain that bloomed up in my body and I couldn’t help the groan that left my throat as I struggled to catch my breath.

He’d stopped kicking me and took a few steps backwards. “Stand up, ya fuckin’ pussy,” he’d said to me and I struggled to my feet, head hanging low. I couldn’t look at him. I cleared my throat and bit the inside of my cheek to stop the sharp tears from coming.

“Got a lesson for ya,” he’d grumbled, and wrapped his fingers hard around my arm, pulling me with him, dragging me across the hall into his and my mother’s bedroom. She sat on the bed, wide-eyed and frightened, her nightgown torn off her shoulder.

“Take a look at this... this... fucking bitch,” he spat the words at her, pushing me into the room. “You see what I have to live with? What I gotta deal with? Goddamn wife. Goddamn kids. Goddamn fucking family...” his words slurred together and he’d let me go. I pulled my arm to my side, tried to feel as small as possible, hoping he’d forget I was here. But his eyes landed on me.

“Listen to me, sonny boy,” he’d reached out and grabbed my chin, rough hands scraping against my skin. “Don’t you ever let yourself get caught by a woman. Fuck `em and leave `em. They ain’t worth it.” I felt a rush of blood to my cheeks. I’d been thinking about fucking, but not a woman. Definitely not a woman.

“Jack, stop it!” my mother had spoken up, her tiny bird voice hazy and quiet.

“Shut the fuck up, you miserable cunt,” he’d yelled back at her. “I married you to shut you up, and this is what I get in return?” He’d stumbled towards the bed and I’d taken that as my escape, running down the stairs and grabbing a sweater hanging up to dry in the laundry room on my way out. Kicked on shoes and I was out the door and free.

Free. Like I am now.

Completely fucking free.

Goddamn Ted. I hadn’t thought of that memory for such a long time now.

I take a hit of the joint burning down between my fingers and lie back on the couch. Stare up at the ceiling. Think about how I’m gonna cross off number ten on my list and win this fucking contest.

And don’t think about how easy it is to blame Jack for Justin leaving me too.

Missing You

A knock, the squeak of hinges, the unmistakable sound of high heels walking across a hard floor. Soft voices, then thump, thump as the shoes go down. The sigh of springs as the mattress is tested. Silent moments pass.

Then...

Squeak.

Squeak.

Squeak, squeak, squeak, squeak, thump, squeak, thump, squeak, thump, squeak, thump, thump, thump, thump, thump. Louder voices, a women calling out, a man’s grunt.

Well. At least my neighbour is getting some.

I put the pillow over my head and nestle down into my second-hand sheets, permanently borrowed from Mom’s linen closet. They’re yellow and striped and still smell like fabric softener and now they’re mine. On my bed, in my studio, with my pillow and my dripping faucet. My cracked windows and broken radiator and buzzing space heater in the corner. Mine, mine, mine...

My fucking frostbitten fingers. I curl them up into the sleeves of my sweatshirt and twist my feet over and over to try and warm my toes through my woolen socks. Christ, it’s cold in here. To think I’ve taken interior heating for granted all this time.

To think I’ve taken other things for granted too.

Christ, it’s been weeks. No fucking, no sucking, no kissing, no rubbing or touching or anything. And I know I could go to Babylon or Woody’s and let someone pick me up, but somehow that just seems so hypocritical and stupid after leaving Brian. And I don’t *want* some trash from Babylon or Woody’s.

I want someone.

Someone.

His face flashes behind my eyes. Sense memory of the way he smells, the way it would settle in my stomach, make my cheeks flush, my dick get hard.

Miss him.

Miss fucking, miss kissing, miss dancing at Babylon. Miss sucking his cock in the backroom, miss him rimming my ass, miss morning showers, afternoon showers, showers at night after coming home from Babylon hot and sweaty and sparkly with glitter.

Miss being warm in his arms. Miss his breath on my shoulder, his fingers in my hair. Miss his body pressed to my back and his hand wrapped around my cock. Miss feeling full and hot with his dick in my ass. Miss that intense bloom of color when he makes me come. Miss everything.

Him.

But I left him, left that, left everything for... it’s hard to remember why I left him, curled up in a ball in this cold place.

Right... love, marriage, commitment, home, family, children...

It’s hard to imagine who I will end up sharing those things with, when every time I picture my future, I see myself with Brian.

I guess in time that’ll fade.

I guess in time I won’t think about him when I jerk off, won’t think of his body pressed to mine, his cock in my ass. Won’t remember that first fuck like my gateway to heaven, won’t see his face every time someone pushes inside me. Won’t remember his taste every time I wrap my lips around someone else’s dick.

I miss him. Miss him.

I slide my hand under the band of my sweatpants and cup my dick in my fingers. Touch myself softly, then start stroking through the fabric of my underwear. It feels good and familiar and if I close my eyes, I can almost imagine it’s Brian’s hand on my cock, imagine I feel Brian wrapped up behind me... he used to put me to sleep like this sometimes. After we’d fucked and I’d come, he’d put on a new condom and slide his semi-hard dick into my well-lubed hole. I’d be all stretched and relaxed from our fuck, but when he’d come back inside me like that – not all the way, not fucking, just there – God. It would be intense and comforting and he’d put his hand on my cock and stroke me lightly with his thumb and I’d fall asleep like that. Hot and hard and sated.

And then I’d wake up hours later, before dawn, still hot and hard but definitely not sated and need to get fucked. Need to suck him. Need to be close. It was like he was winding me up, giving me such fantastically erotic dreams that would spin into these incredible waking plays. I’d wake him up by pulling his soft dick into my throat, get high on the smell of me all over him, suck him till my mouth was full and warm with his cock. We’d fuck silently, watching as the sun rose, playing stripes of light across the loft, moving across the room till setting on us, illuminating our joined bodies as we rode and crested, rode and crested.

It was always good. Every single time. He knew me, knew what I wanted, needed. He’d know when to play rough, snapping a collar around my throat, strapping me to the bed and fucking me into the sheets. Fast hard fucks that sent me to oblivion in seconds, let me lose control and give everything up to him completely.

And he’d know when to be gentle; long, sweet sessions that lasted for hours that felt like days riding that edge of ecstasy. Knowing when to back off, when to push further, filling my body and soul completely, kissing till my lips were raw, the warmth of his tongue in my mouth lapping at me, caressing me, touching me forever. He knew my body better than I did, knew how to make me come so hard I’d think my heart stopped. And then he’d start it again with kisses on my face and another slow, deep fuck.

I’ll never find another lover like Brian. Never love anyone like I loved Brian.

The funny thing is... I didn’t leave because I didn’t love him enough. I left because he didn’t love *me* enough.

Or maybe he did, but he’d never tell me. He wouldn’t.

And in the bright, warm light of day, when I’m being rational and reasonable and realistic... that seems so very important. But now, in the suffocating, cold darkness of night, when I’m lonely and wanting and overwhelmed with my life... it’s so easy to forget. And it’s so easy to love him, to want him, to need him. I feel like I always will.

I wonder if that’ll fade too.

But somehow I don’t think it will.

Fucking is a great way to get your mind off things.

In, out, in, out, in, out.

All I’ve done is fuck since he’s left me. Contests and reputations to uphold. Fill my bed with someone different every night.

Much, much easier that way.

And I win the prize and have pretty little Brandon with his model boy haircut, perfectly tanned ass, and blue blue eyes, all lying in my bed, stretched out with his ass in the air...

Go slow... take it easy...

All I can think about is another blond that used to share my bed with me.

And I’m reminded of what I gave up to have the freedom to do this.

Somehow doesn’t seem worth it. And I’m not so pathetic to need this asshole to prove to me that I’m not who I think I am.

I kick him out, and he smirks as he leaves. And now he’s gone, outta the loft, outta my life.

And it’s quiet in here. I walk around the loft for moments, sparing side-glances at the pile in the corner.

It’s secretly labeled: Shit Justin forgot.

The first time he left I had a pile like that and I somehow never ended up giving it to him. This time it sits there in the corner, by the door. Gets bigger as I find CDs and DVDs, books and socks. A t-shirt. Some paperwork. Hand lotion.

His stuff.

Just waiting for him. I should drop by his new place and give it to him. Or call him to let him know it’s here. But...

Maybe I’m waiting still.

I know it’s stupid, I know it’s selfish and foolish and arrogant.

But let’s face it. He *has* been known to come back.

I sort through a few things and pick up his Artist’s Way book and take it to the couch. Flop down and light a joint and flip though the pages idly.

Then something slips out. A drawing.

I pick it up tentatively, and close the book, putting it on the couch beside me. Then stare at the drawing.

It’s a self-portrait. Dark and almost abstract, but I can tell it’s Justin. I draw my fingertips along the pencil strokes and look at his face reflected back at me.

I don’t have that many photos of him – some that Deb or Linds or Mikey have given me from random parties and get togethers. But this...

It’s not just his likeness, it’s him. A little confused and mixed up and the way he sees himself I guess. And I know he’s just confused and mixed up right now. I know that. I just wish he could’ve sorted himself out here.

I heard from Ted from Emmet from Deb from Michael that he’s living in this shithole studio in a crap part of town. That he’s got nothing, really.

I close my eyes and try to picture him in some dark little studio. Surrounded by his work, busy, working... flecks of paint on his face and hands, in his hair. It makes me think of when he’d come home to me like that, after late hours at school, covered in paint. I’d pull him into the shower and scrub him clean, running a washcloth over every inch of his body, then fall to my knees and take his cock between my lips, into my mouth, sucking him till he shot ropes of come into my throat. Getting him off that first time of the night, knowing that he’d last so much longer for the second and third. His fingers twisting up wet strands of my hair, palm pressed to my cheek, as I swallowed his come, keeping his softening dick in my mouth. Just tasting him.

I’ll miss that.

Everyone keeps telling me what I’ve lost, what I’ve given up. But I can’t feel like that yet. I see him every fucking night in my head, have dreams about him, think about him, fantasize about him in the morning when I jerk off in the shower. It’s crazy and stupid, but I’ve somehow convinced myself he’s gone back to California.

And I’m just anticipating the sex when he gets back home.

He’s coming back home. He always comes back home.

He will this time too.

I stare at his image reflected back at me and will it to happen.