Long Way Out, page 25
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“I guess I didn’t realize how hungry I really was,” Russell said, as he wolfed down his last bite of rice and vegetables.
The conversation thus far had yet to stray beyond an innocuous, humdrum landscape. Mary Ann had to break the ice. “So, you’ve got a therapy appointment tomorrow.”
“With Dr. White, yeah,” Russell responded. “I really like her...”
“I feel a ‘but’ coming.” Mary Ann’s intuition was spot on.
“Yeah,” he confessed, forcing another pursed-lipped smile. “A big ol’ but.” Russell’s eyes were darting around the room, looking everywhere but directly at Mary Ann. This was out of character for Russell. Typically, he was the one to initiate eye-contact and sustain it, a trait Mary Ann sometimes found unsettling. “How about we get some coffee?” he suggested.
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From the day of its grand opening, Bongo Java had clambered with activity. Still, as popular as the spot was, no other place in town offered a better atmosphere for intimate, face-to-face conversation. Caffeine — in this case, a double cappuccino — had a predictable effect on Russell, loosening his lips while suppressing his inhibitions. Tomorrow’s session, he informed Mary Ann, would be his fifth with Dr. White. The therapy process had been cathartic from the get-go, permitting him to investigate the sources of certain anxieties, insecurities, and unresolved issues. The sudden, premature death of an adored brother, for one example, was a scarring episode around which, for the previous six years, Russell had managed to tiptoe, leaving residual grief unaddressed.
During the previous week’s session, Russell finally dared to broach the very subject he’d steered clear of therapy for so many years to avoid. This meant not only coming clean about his bisexuality, but confessing to the intractable impulses that lured him into habitual, risky behavior. After listening to this part of Russell’s story, Dr. White commented, “I had a feeling there was something else going on.”
With these cats out of the bag — aptly named Sexuality and Promiscuity — Russell pre-emptively leapt to his own defense, expressing the self-delusional claim that, because he hadn’t cheated with other women, his nuptial vows remained unblemished and that his extra-marital adventures were actually a boon to his marriage. “I don’t see much difference between what I do and a guy who devotes his free time to dirt biking, or golf, or playing dominoes at the park,” he rationalized. “In fact, my little hobby — and that’s pretty much what it is — is even better, because it doesn’t cost anywhere near what some guys pay for clubs and shoes and greens fees.” Withholding her response, Dr. White kept listening with the expectation that Russell would hear what was coming out of his own mouth and realize the absurdity of this pretzel logic. “I mean, Ted,” Russell blathered on, “he lives like three doors down. This guy spent almost ten grand on a home theater system. All he does, every single night, is sit back in a cushy theater seat in this soundproofed cave, in the dark, and watch DVDs. Star Wars, Saving Private Ryan, Glory, all this macho-manly stuff, on a seventy-inch screen. He’s got the subwoofers and the Dolby sound system, and...”
“Russell,” Dr. White butted in.
“No, really!” Russell was determined to circumvent the subject he had, just a few minutes earlier, finally put out into the air of his counselor’s office. “This other guy, Roger Nelson, belongs to Belle Meade Country Club. Do you know how much that costs?”
“It’s expensive, I know,” Dr. White affirmed.
“You know?” Russell inquired. “How do you..? You don’t..?”
“Whether I... and, no, I don’t... or Roger Wilson...”
“Nelson.”
“Sorry, Roger Nelson,” she said, correcting her error. “Anyway, who belongs to the Belle Meade Country Club and how much they pay for their membership is not what we’re here for.” It was the first time Russell had detected this tone coming from Dr. White — assertive, almost stern. “Let’s concentrate on you. Let’s talk about what you can control.” The psychologist’s insistence on focusing on the issue at hand was disturbing. Sensing that he was feeling chastised, the good doctor tossed out a bone of encouragement. “You’ve just shared something important, essential even, about yourself. You identified as bisexual. You said it out loud. That’s huge!”
“Well,” he said, “it’s not the first time I’ve said it, so...” He chose not to elaborate.
“It’s the first time you said it to me.”
“Correct.”
“How does it feel?”
In spite of the monumental nature of this breakthrough, had it not been for Dr. White’s cue, it wouldn’t have occurred to Russell to sit quietly for a moment and reflect. As he took mindful inventory of his emotions, a smile blossomed across his face. “Good,” he confessed, pleasantly surprised that the words he’d avoided articulating for so long hadn’t yet precipitated a cataclysmic seismic event. For the first time in four visits, his palms noticed the texture of the couch cushions. He drew a clean inhalation. And, upon exhaling, he reiterated, “It feels really, really good.”
“Congratulations! Good on ya, Russell.”
“Thanks. Thanks a lot.” With Dr. White reaffirming that he was on the right track, Russell allowed himself a modicum of pride in his progress. However, he was totally unprepared for the truth grenade the good doctor was about to hurl from her chair to the sofa.
“Now,” she said, “before we finish for today, I have two things to say.”
“Okay.” Russell’s gut warned him that he wasn’t going to like thing one... or thing two, for that matter.
“First, the impulses and behavior you’re describing might — and, I’m not saying this definitively — be symptomatic of addiction.”
“Sex addiction.” Russell was requesting clarification.
“Yes.”
For some time, Russell had suspected that his inability to control his elicit actions might suggest addiction. He found real appeal in the idea of having some legitimate syndrome to blame for his behavior, rather than faulting his own weak will and flawed judgment. Dr. White jotted a book title and its author’s name on a slip of paper. Extending it to Russell, she told him, “I want you to get a copy of this book. It’s primarily a collection of case studies. See if maybe you recognize yourself in any of them. Will you do that?”
Without glancing at the title, Russell folded the slip of paper in two and pocketed it. “Sure,” he promised, “absolutely.” Thing one, he mused silently to himself, wasn’t so bad after all.
“Good,” stated Dr. White. “Now, this may be somewhat harder to accept. But, I need to set you straight on something.”
“What’s this,” Russell blurted, half in jest, “conversion therapy?”
“No,” Dr. White responded, “why would you think that?”
“You said you needed to set me straight.”
“Oh,” she chuckled. “Sorry about that. I should probably pay closer attention to my word choices.”
“Ya think?” Russell was enjoying putting a point the board.
“Anyway,” continued Dr. White, “here’s the truth.” She paused for a second to presage the seriousness of what she was about to say and make sure Russell was devoting his full attention. “You are being unfaithful to your wife.” Any sense of liberation or well-being Russell had felt from coming out to his therapist abandoned him. “That’s the reality you’re going to have to face,” she emphasized. But that was only a warning shot. She was about to drop the bomb. “And you have to come out to her.”
“Fuck me,” Russell muttered. He had received thing one, as weighty as such a prognosis might have been, constructively. Thing two, however, was considerably less palatable.
“And, the sooner you own up to yourself and to Tess,” the therapist asserted, “the sooner we can start getting down to the real core of your depression.”
While draining the final drops of his cappuccino, Russell’s eyes took a quick survey of the adjacent tables at Bongo Java. “Then,” he recounted to Mary Ann, “The good doctor laid out the agenda for our next session...”
“Tomorrow,” Mary Ann assumed aloud.
Russell nodded. “Tomorrow, she plans to start helping me compose my coming-out speech.”
“She’s right you know,” said Mary Ann. Russell knew this was merely a kinder way of saying, “I told you so.”
“I guess...” he whispered, haltingly. The specter of setting off what would, in all certainty, be a world-destroying nuclear explosion was overwhelming. “I guess so. God dammit!”
TWENTY-SEVEN
Strong coffee had an additional effect on Russell. A mid-afternoon cup tended to rouse his libido. As he scanned through a 14-page policy-renewal agreement for a longtime client, a stirring in his lower belly effectively sent words on the page scattering like cockroaches on a linoleum floor. After attempting to read the updated exemption clause three times, his over-active brain still failed to decode the legalese. He checked his watch: 4:48. The Pirates’ game was scheduled for six. No harm in getting to the ball field early, he decided. And, right now, I could use some fresh air. In reality, his java-stimulated imagination was picturing a stroll down memory lane which, in this case, meant the path through the woods by the ball field. And, the more vivid that vision became, the more the cadence of his heartbeat quickened. He swept the contract aside and pushed his chair back from his desk.
As Russell pulled his Celica into the gravel parking lot, the only people on the diamond were a pair of boys from the opposing squad, playing catch. He checked his watch again: 5:14, 46 minutes until game time. Jogging around the bleachers prompted his still-sore ribs to advise, “Walk. Don’t run.” By the time he reached the path, players and coaches from both teams were arriving and readying themselves for the evening’s contest.
“Barry Larkin takes the field!” Russell immediately recognized Rory’s boyish impersonation of his major-league idol. Midway into the 1995 season, the 10-year-old was making major contributions to his team’s competitiveness, becoming more adept with the bat, wilier on the base paths and, much to Russell’s pride, emulating his father at the shortstop position. Logically, Russell should have let his son know he was there and offer to help the Pirates go through their warm-up routines. Reason and fatherly responsibility, however, were being shouted down. He stepped onto the path and began power walking. As he rounded the bend and out of sight of the baseball diamond, a man came into view, ambling in the opposite direction. As they drew nearer to one another, a subtle exchange of smiles suggested they had both come there for the same reason.
The man stopped next to a trailhead veering off into the pines. Russell slowed his pace. The man shuffled about 20 feet into the shade before turning around to see if Russell was following. Russell gave him a two-second, head-to-toe evaluation. Wiry, ginger-haired, and freckled wasn’t Russell’s favorite flavor. But he wasn’t there to fall in love. Every other thought said, Don’t do it. The game would be starting soon. But, his animal brain wasn’t interested in what time it was. The ginger-haired man fingered his crotch. Russell initialed the silent contract with a head nod and took his first stride into the woods.
Approximately 50 yards down the trail, the ginger-haired man slipped behind a large boulder. Russell stopped to survey the environs and listen for voices. Reassured that he was not being observed, he joined the ginger-haired man, who, by this time, was unzipped, and freeing something quite magnificent into the humid July air. Involuntarily, Russell’s salivary glands responded, secreting slippery fluid into his mouth. Resistance was futile. He dropped to his knees.
All human beings need and seek connection, heart-to-heart, mind to mind, body to body. Behind a boulder, beneath a canopy of green, Russell was, at that moment, directly connected in the most literal sense to another human being. The fit was finely engineered: Insert tab “A” into slot “B.” Could such impeccably designed tooling be anything but intentional? One orifice, expandable and self-lubricating, provides a round hole for a round peg. The entire concept of intimacy was taking on new dimensions. There is good reason, Russell realized, that the phallus has been revered since the dawn of history. While he’d always found immense pleasure being on the receiving end, this was fulfillment on another level altogether.
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It was the bottom of the second inning by the time Russell slipped into the bleachers. That Tess was absent from the crowd provided him a measure of reprieve. He relished having time to savor the delectable aftertaste of his encounter under the trees. Right on cue, Rory proceeded to bunt for a single, steal second, and score on a dropped fly ball. The boy’s assertive play gave the Pirates a one-run advantage, a lead they never relinquished on their way to winning the game handily.
As a spectator, Russell cheered boisterously for every strike the Pirates’ pitchers tossed, every out executed by the defense, and every swing at the plate. He was filled with a rare feeling, one he had seldom known, and one to which he had never assigned much value. Happiness, he’d always posited, is superficial and transitory. Russell assigned far more importance to a more lasting experience: fulfillment. Thus, he’d chosen to assess the quality of a day in his life based on whether he’d spent his time productively, if he’d accomplished something tangible or, at the very least, made measurable progress on a worthwhile endeavor. Still, there he was, a passive bystander watching a Little League game, feeling genuinely happy. Certainly, witnessing the Pirates’ impressive performance was a source of pride — as their previous manager, he’d played a substantial role in setting these youngsters on the path to self-belief and ultimate victory. But this mood was actually born of something else altogether, something intangible and mystifying. Fellating a guy behind a boulder in the woods was nothing to crow about. Bringing another man to orgasm wasn’t some great accomplishment. He might even have felt shame after having participated in such questionable activity. Russell, however, felt neither pride nor shame. He simply felt happy.
He knew this meant he would have to sneak off to the clinic for STI testing. It would require dodging sex with Tess until he had conclusive (hopefully negative) results. But, he didn’t care. Those delicious 15 minutes had injected him with contentment on a level he’d seldom experienced. Even knowing that this feeling would be short-lived, he didn’t fight it. He marinated in it.
“Where were you?” Rory asked. “I saw your car.”
“I got here early,” Russell responded. “I decided to take a walk.”
“What happened? Did you fall or something?” Rory was curious about the soiled patches on the knees of his dad’s pants.
“No, no,” Russell responded quickly. He’d had some time to anticipate this question. “Some creature crawled across the path into the bushes. And, I wanted to see what it was.”
“What was it?”
“A snake.” Although Russell hated lying to his son, at least this fib had an iota of truth to it. “Yeah. Turned out to be a snake... a big one. Where’s your mom?”
“She had that thing.”
“Oh, right...” Russell nodded, as if it was all coming back. “That thing.”
“Some meeting... about recycling, or whatever.”
Father and son shuffled through the parking lot. “Great game!” Russell said. “You played really well!”
“Except,” the boy grumbled, “the ball got stuck in my mitt, and we missed getting that double play.”
“Happens, you know... even Barry Larkin’s glove gets sticky sometimes. Besides, it didn’t cost you any runs. And that’s the important thing.”
“I wish you could hit some grounders to me. I really need to practice my move to second.”
“Won’t be long,” Russell said, pointing the key remote at his Celica. “Another week or so, my ribs should be right as rain.”
Rory tossed his bat and glove into the back seat. As he slid into the passenger seat, he noticed his father dawdling by the open, driver-side door. “What’s goin’ on, Daddy-O?” On the adjacent field, the Ynonah’s Tavern team was taking infield practice, preparing for a 7:30 p.m. contest. Jamal, standing at home plate, punched a grounder to Bryan at third. Sending a wave in Russell’s direction had left Bryan totally unprotected against the bouncing orb that struck a bullseye in the center of his groin. Jamal seemed less concerned about his stricken teammate and far more interested in what (or whom) had distracted Bryan. Discovering that the attention grabber was Russell, he stood transfixed, gazing across the hundred-yard expanse.
“Isn’t that the guy?” Rory asked, squinting through the windshield glass.
“What guy?”
“You know, the guy who knocked you on your butt.”
“Yep,” Russell said, his eyes still fixed on the large, chocolate hunk with the aluminum bat poised on his shoulder. “He knocked me over alright.” On impulse, Jamal blew Russell a kiss.
“Why did he do that?” Rory asked. The Celica kicked up dust, as Russell steered toward the road.
“Why did who do what?”
“Why did that guy blow you a kiss?”
“Oh, that?” Russell explained. “It was just a joke. Not a real kiss-kiss. More like a mock kiss.”
“You guys are weird.” Russell wondered how weird Rory would think he and Jamal were if the truth were revealed. Or, would his son use a different word to describe his father and the man for whom his dad harbored a hopeless crush. Russell detected a trace of acidity on his palate. He asked his son to grab a bottle of water from the floor behind the passenger seat. After sloshing the warm liquid around in his mouth, he stopped the car, opened the door and spit out the mouthful onto the pavement. The flavor of sperm was lessened somewhat. But the memory of where that taste came from could not be rinsed away so easily. By taking a prayerful posture in those woods, Russell had crossed the Rubicon into new, wondrous, and potentially treacherous territory. He was astonished by how much he had loved being on the giving end of oral sex with another man. And, he couldn’t help but wonder how it might feel to take communion at the altar of someone he knew and genuinely cared about. Surely, he was convinced, receiving Jamal’s offering would open up even more inexplicable dimensions of joy.
