Best Gay Romance 2012, page 11
In the days that followed, in my mother’s dingy lodgings, I poured out the whole tale of passionate love and delicious subjugation. Mother held me close in her big bed at night while I sobbed for all I had lost. I pressed my face into her ample bosom and was able to keep my sobs down to merely pathetic while she stroked my long hair, twisting it into ringlets round her finger, saying “Mother’s darling boy.” It was when she called me her precious Jade, my sobs rose to truly melodramatic heights. “He calls me that!” I wailed.
I had always thought a broken heart was something to aspire to, something that would set a boy apart, making him purer and nobler. I never expected a broken heart would leave me weak and empty. Snot dribbled down my face as I sobbed; I pissed in my mother’s bed two nights in a row. She forgave me, god bless her, but after a week she told me in no uncertain terms that there was a job available at the Adelphi Theatre cleaning the dressing rooms and that I had better take it and bring in some money.
I was humiliated to the very core of my being after my first day as a broom boy. I lay thoroughly exhausted, curled up in the middle of mother’s bed, watching her ready herself to go back there to “warble for the punters,” as she put it.
“Visitor!” was screamed up the stairs by the landlady whenever one arrived. I did not move from my prone position, not expecting anyone would want to see me. Mother opened the door and invited the visitor in.
“Get up when I enter a room, boy.” I heard my Master’s voice and reacted like a starved dog. I leapt to my feet, stumbled to my knees and kissed his black leather boots. Mother raised her eyes to the damp-stained ceiling, proclaiming, “Good god,” and sat down again to arrange her hair. “If your intention was to humble my sweet boy, you’ve done it. Now will you please take him back?” she said calmly.
I sat back on my heels waiting for his answer, looking up into the face I had grown to love and had missed desperately these empty days. I waited, afraid to breathe. “How do I know he is sufficiently humbled?” Master asked.
Mother swung around on her stool. She was in her silk corset and lace-edged pantaloons, her face half made up, and was not the slightest bit abashed by my fine gentleman. “He cries for you every night. He calls out your name in his sleep. He hardly eats.” Please don’t tell him I pissed in the bed, I thought desperately. “And he wet my bed the first two nights he was home,” she added for good measure.
I hung my head in shame.
“Excellent,” Master stated, smiling at mother. “I see where the boy gets his beauty.”
Mother was not averse to flattery even from a lover of men, and smiled back. “Too bad he didn’t get my voice. He has the face of an angel and he used to sound like one, but the minute he turned fourteen…” She shook her head sadly.
“Yes, I’ve heard him sing,” Master said. They continued talking as though I were absent.
“What made you come to get him back?” Mother asked.
I gazed up at Master adoringly, wanting him to say, I miss him, I love him, I need him. Instead he said, “I always intended to come for him. This was just another lesson. I could have flogged his bare arse until he screamed as a punishment for taking liberties, but I thought the gentler way might be better on this occasion.” He looked down at me, wagging a finger. “Pack your bag and come home. And this time, behave yourself.”
“Do you love me, Master?” I whispered. “Do you love me as I love you?”
After a long pause, during which mother turned her back to allow us a modicum of privacy in the small room, Master said loudly and firmly, “Yes, Jade, I love you. I love you very much.”
I smothered his boots with kisses and still do whenever I am overcome with gratitude that Master noticed me all those years ago when I was eighteen years old, presumptuous and foolish. He still calls me his precious Jade and he still tells me I am beautiful.
FROM A JOURNEY
Håkan Lindquist
Did you imagine one day the sun would not rise, that I would be left to bear witness to our friendship?
—Derek Jarman, Derek Jarman’s Garden
My first impression of you, Daniel. Do you remember?
You arrive at the cliff an hour or so after me. I’m already lying naked in the sun, listening to the clicking as you lock your bike, listening to your footsteps—at first dull in the moss beside the path, then clearer as you reach the rock—and I’m slowly turning to see who you are. Who are you?
Your dark hair is ruffled by the wind. The sunlight is dancing off your white T-shirt and dazzles me. I lift my hand to shade my eyes and I look directly into yours. You smile. I don’t really dare to respond. And so you undress—the boots, the shorts, the T-shirt. Ritually.
You are lying in the sun in the center of my sight. I guess there is seventeen feet between us. If I put out my left arm as far as I can, it’s only fourteen feet. And if you would reach out your right arm… Do you realize we could be getting even closer to each other?
An hour or so later: my eyes have followed you, followed your steps. You are not really tiptoeing but you mainly use the front part of your feet as you walk to the water. Now you are returning to your place on the cliff. But then something happens. You turn toward me. You are getting closer, now you’re really close, and you say something.
“Sorry?” I stutter.
“The water was warmer two weeks ago.”
You squat, and I clearly see your eyes, your lips, your cheek, drops of water glittering on your body.
I mumble something. Do you remember what? I no longer do.
Then you stand. You fold your arms across your chest, underlining the small silver object on the chain around your neck. It is the first day of our mutual life. It is the first day of our mutual journey, as far as we know. I don’t think I’ve seen you before. You don’t remember seeing me before. And while I’m following the smooth lines of your body and noticing its fantastic details, you suddenly shiver and go all goose-pimply. And I am in love. Do you realize that, Daniel? I am already in love with you, with us. In love.
Several years earlier
Eric is sitting at one of the long tables at the club. I am standing with my back against the raised dance floor with a beer in my hand. The music is throbbing through me. Hanging from the ceiling is a rotating globe of mirrors that, in a fragmented form, reflects everything and everyone. But all I see is him. Eric. And so he turns and smiles. I smile back, lifting my glass, thinking I am—no, knowing I am—in love.
Shortly thereafter Eric comes up to me, asking me for a dance. Of course we shall dance. And his light curls bounce in a dance of their own as we move over the floor. All the time I’m smiling, and I can’t take my eyes off his face, his mouth, his lips…
It is late at night or early morning on the street where he lives. The two windows in his bedroom are open to the dark and the January cold. As the bell tolls in the twin-towered church, we take off our clothes. Your, no, his white shirt has been stained at one of the collar tips. My white shirt smells of cigarettes. I am watching his naked body. He is almost as skinny as me, and his chest is slighter. His nipples are dark brown, small and beautiful. It is our first day together and my hand is shaking as I reach out to touch him.
The seventh time we made love, Daniel, do you remember? The morning after we woke up, realizing it was the anniversary of Eric’s death. Eight years. And I dare to say you remind me of Eric. Yes, I even dare to put another thought into words: you and I are continuing a journey that Eric and I started on one January night years ago. And you, Daniel, say we are out on a particular journey. You must remember. All of a sudden I feel much more present, more alive, and the years that have passed since the death of Eric and our first meeting on the cliff seem like a dark room that is getting brighter. And the journey continues. Do you realize I would very much like to use that big word love when I’m trying to explain what I feel for you, Daniel, but I don’t really dare. Some words are just too big.
I stayed in the bathroom after you had gone. The mirror over the washbasin was following my movements. I spit out the toothpaste, put the brush in its place, and met my reflected eyes. I tried to see those things you saw when you were watching me, but I wasn’t really sure what they were, though it suddenly struck me that I’m very pleased that you think me beautiful.
The next day I take my bike to the cliff.
“Daniel,” I whisper to myself as I park the bike against the huge pine tree by the path. And then, once again, “Daniel,” as I leave the path and cross the rock to look for a space among all those men, all those bodies that aren’t you.
I’m lying on my stomach after my second swim in the bay. The water is warm again. A small breeze stirs it and the reeds by the cliff side rustle in harmonious lamentation with my thoughts.
The sun is blazing down on my back.
It was very hot the summer Eric died, hotter than it had been for years. I had a long vacation and I was swimming and spending most of my time in the sun. I was a long way from home, the sun was blazing down on my back, and the sky was as clear and blue as a picture postcard. How could I ever have guessed what was to happen? Surely no one would die on a day like this? Do you remember how much I loved you, Eric? Can you remember how it felt when I was touching you? Can you still feel my fingers?
I wake up on the cliff.
The wind is stronger and the reeds are even more upset. They call out sadly as the wind forces them to bend. Their voices reach me and I suddenly feel a tremendous desire for your hands on my body, Daniel, and my hands on yours.
I think of you, of us. Of the two of us making love. I imagine myself being strong, lifting you up, steadily and firmly, turning you over and whispering, “Ephphatha! Ephphatha!” [Be opened…] I come inside you while you sigh in that moving, irresistible way that is yours alone. Your left hand glides back and forth over the mattress, as if looking for something to touch, something to hold. I would very much like to kiss the back of your neck, the soft and curly hair there, to inhale your scent, to whisper to you all the emotions I feel, all the sensations I wish for. You know them already, you’ve heard them so often. In spite of the fact that it’s just two weeks since our first meeting on the cliff, we’ve already said so much. With and without words. But I tell you all this once again. My grandmother says: “What’s important is worth repeating.” I’ve heard her say it a hundred times.
The things I write to you are important, Daniel. The things I tell you are important.
The sun is still blazing and I am dazed as I stumble down to the water for a final dip. Have I forgotten anything? Any unrepeated thing? Of course I have. And therefore I will have to write to you again, talk to you again, Daniel. Repetitions and additions. What’s important is worth repeating.
I think of your body as the refreshing water closes around me. Your chest, your beautiful chest…the soft V-shape that so gracefully holds the outline of your ribs. Your nipples, so unlike mine, so unlike Eric’s. I desire touching, being touched. Do you, Daniel, believe I love you?
The wind is cold now. I shiver as I come out of the water. There are many men on the cliff, but I don’t want to talk with them. I don’t want them to talk to me. Soon I’ll be on my way home, longing.
My lips, my hands, my ears, my eyes, my chest, my nose, my legs, my stomach, my bottom, my dick, my arms, my long back… Every part suffers from abstinence, every part longs for closeness. Daniel-closeness.
Now the reeds are bent over.
Eric’s mother died when he was eleven years old. She had been ill for a very long time, which to him must have seemed like an eternity.
We were lying in the inherited dark-brown oak bed at Eric’s house. The morning sun was shining through the window, but the light had not yet reached the bed.
“What are you thinking of, Eric?”
He was still and silent, watching the light as it reached the green-painted box we used as a bedside table. The light made it shimmer in a peculiar way. On top of the box stood a photo of his mother.
“What are you thinking of, Eric?”
“The last time I left my mother I slammed the door after me. I was angry ’cause she didn’t give me something I wanted. So I yelled at her and left without saying good-bye. I just slammed the door.”
By now the light had reached the photograph. The silver frame was sparkling, the glass protecting the picture reflected the strong light, preventing us from seeing her face.
“There is always a last time,” I said carefully, “but that doesn’t mean it is the only occasion that counts, the only moment that matters. You must have shared many good moments with your mother.”
Now he was close to crying.
“Yes, of course,” he replied, his voice almost inaudible. “I know. But I still feel bad when I think about it.”
I was lying on my side, resting my left hand on his chest. Under my palm, I could feel his heart beating.
I hesitated, then said:
“Sometimes when we are lying here I can sense her presence. It’s as if she’s here, supporting us. As if she is giving us her consent, her approval. I feel it quite often.”
There were tears in Eric’s eyes, but he was smiling.
“I know,” he whispered. “I know.”
We are making love. And once again, a church bell accompanies our passionate breathing. But this time it’s us, Daniel. This time it’s you and me. It’s our breathing, our journey. And the bell is one of the bells in the church near where I live. You often say the quarters seem shorter at my place.
My fingers are playing inside you. I like to warm my fingers in you, Daniel. I like to listen to the soft whimpers my movements conjure up in you. I like to see your eyes shaded by lust, by love. I very much like to make love with you, Daniel, to know all your scents.
Afterward we are lying like twins watching the soft light that has found its way into my room and is entertaining us on the ceiling.
“My apartment is different when you’re here,” I say. “Everything’s the same, but more so. Like when it’s cloudy outside and the colors are clearer than usual.”
You are smiling. And the light in the room is in your eyes, causing them to shine.
I turn to rest on my side, my left hand caressing your chest, your stomach, your scrotum. Now it’s resting in my cupped hand, small and warm. Cautiously I let my fingers follow the sensual windings on its surface. During our first night together I was afraid of getting lost. Now I could make maps of your body, Daniel. One would show where all the scents are, another one would place all the different temperatures, yet another would reveal the spots my tongue, my lips find most attractive, and so on…
The church bell marks yet another short quarter.
Next morning when I wake up you are already gone, but you have left a note on my table and your scents in my bed.
I close my eyes, pull the blanket over my head and bury my face in my pillow. I’ve never been touched by anyone’s essence the way I’m being touched by yours, Daniel. You are a whole temple of odors. I pretend to run around its pillars and along its passages, its smooth lines and structural vaults, its secret galleries and resting places, in search of strange and enchanting fragrances and flavors. Do you remember one of my first letters to you, where I likened you to an amusement park for my senses?
I ride my bike to the cliff. It’s strangely autumnal and the small bay pretends to be an ocean, gray and dangerous, with long, sweeping waves. The reeds are bending wilder than ever as the wind playfully and often rather brutally grabs them for a moment, and then, just as suddenly, lets them go.
I take off my clothes, wedge them in a cleft to prevent their being blown away, and go down to the water. I miss you and I’m not really tiptoeing though I mainly use the front part of my feet. The wind is playing with the water. Drops are lifted from the gray waves to waft away. Of course I think of you as I dive and split the surface of the water. Eleven strokes later I am forced up to breathe. The water splashes over my head again and again. It is soft and warm and sad, as if knowing there will not be much more swimming this season. The water thrown up by the wind hits my face and makes me think of what I would like to do with you, what I know you would like to do with me.
There are a few men on the cliff, all more or less dressed. I’m the only one insisting that it’s still summer. I’m the only one denying the cold. I conjure up your image. I think of your skin, which would have been goose-pimpled by now, and thus the process which had already started within me is even more intensified: a lust for touching, loving, whispering, penetrating…
I stay on the cliff for three hours, for three dives into the water. As I dress I now feel cold, at first unintentionally, then with a more conscious appreciation, as if I am welcoming the autumn, although I’m still a bit sad and doubtful. Never before have I experienced a summer like this. Never before have I been on a journey like this. What’s next?
Eric and I made a long geographical journey our third year together. Among the countries we visited were Germany, Austria and Italy. We were in Florence for two days. I had a fever the whole time and don’t remember much. I do of course remember Michelangelo’s David, the one in marble at the museum, and the one in bronze looking down on the hazy city from a hill with a magnificent view but very few seats for a tired and feverish traveler. And I do remember, when we had descended to the houses and the streets, the dome of Santa Maria del Fiore suddenly looming over us as we passed an alley, and how something in its exterior, something that looked like an eye, watched us in an almost frightening way. And I remember looking out of the side window of a bus rumbling down a much too narrow street, seeing the terrified twisted face of a teenage girl the second before she and her bicycle were crushed between the bus and a projecting building. But she wasn’t crushed. The bus driver or God or someone else quickly intervened, and the frightful moment was gone. But I still remember the girl’s scream. All my other memories of Florence have been wiped out by the fever I had and the years that have passed. Eric didn’t have a fever. He was sound and very present in Florence. He must have had a number of memories from our stay there. Do you still remember Florence, Eric? Are your memories, our memories, intact?
