Long Way Out, page 8
“Are you going to clean that up?” Russell asked — a deliberate attempt at diverting the course of conversation.
“What?” As usual, Hank was either oblivious to his slobbery, or simply didn’t care about what untidiness he might leave behind for his parents to mop up. Following his father’s eyes, he had to acknowledge the white puddle and the rivulet of milk snaking its way toward the edge of the countertop. “I’ll get to it,” he promised, toting his bowl toward the table.
“No,” Russell retorted. “You’ll do it now.”
“I don’t want my cereal to get soggy,” whined the boy.
“Tough life, Kiddo,” Russell scolded. “You waltz in here. You open the pantry. There’s food. Billions of kids don’t have it so good. How would you like it if...”
“Okay, okay!” the boy interjected. “I hear ya. Cool it with the lecture, Pops.” While Hank occasionally revealed a snarky side, he was beginning to exert a new level of assertiveness, even defiance. Russell felt reluctant to read the boy the riot act in fear that it might deflate his newfound confidence. Lord knows, the chubby, pre-pubescent lad could use a supplementary cache of that all-too-illusive character trait. Still, Russell’s paternal authority was being disrespected. So, he wasn’t about to remain mute. Meanwhile, as the father mulled over what to say, the son proceeded to unroll a half-dozen paper towels and wad them up for the purpose of thwarting the spill.
“You should use that rag and sponge by the sink,” Russell stated. “You’re wasting paper.”
“Maybe you’re the one who’s gay, Dad,” Hank quipped, attacking the countertop with half-assed haste, doing more spreading of his spill than cleaning it up. By this point, white liquid was dribbling down onto the drawers and drawer pulls.
“For Chrissake!” Russell erupted, marching around the kitchen island to grab the aforementioned rag and sponge. He pushed his son aside with evident impatience and started doing damage control.
“I didn’t mean it, Dad,” Hank repented. “I know you’re not gay. And, I wouldn’t care if... you know.”
“What’s this talk?” Tess asked, as she shuffled into the room.
“Apparently,” Russell retorted, “Jolly Prince Henry is incapable of pouring milk on his cereal without creating a sticky lake in the kitchen.”
“Well,” Tess remarked, “If Hank made the mess, he should clean it up. If you keep coddling the boy, Russ...” The glower Russell shot in his wife’s direction stopped her mid-sentence. “Well,” she demurred, “Obviously, you know what I’m talking about.” That’s when the page on the kitchen island caught her eye. “What’s this,” she inquired, wryly, “a love letter?” Russell was at a complete loss for words. It was barely seven a.m., and his day had already turned into a steaming, stinking pile of manure. And, hearing that Bryan’s son had been having misgivings about his father’s sexuality only multiplied this mounting angst. What, he couldn’t help but wonder, might have triggered Carter’s suspicions? And now, serious or not, Tess was expressing suspicions of her own.
“Hank,” Tess addressed her son. As the boy looked up at his mother from his Apple Jacks, Russell sneaked the note pad off of the countertop. “Your father and I won’t always be here to clean up your messes. The faster you learn that, the sooner you’ll start taking full responsibility for your actions, the happier you’ll be, and the more successful you’ll be. Are you hearing what I’m saying here?”
“Yes, Ma’am,” Hank burbled, through a mouthful of partially masticated cereal.
“One more thing,” Tess stated. “And, this is important. No matter how your friends use it, the word gay is not to be used as an insult or a way of saying something’s not cool. Is that clear?”
“Yeah, but,” Hank began, “I wasn’t...”
“I mean,” Tess interrupted, with a chuckle, “you might think your dad is uncool. But, I can assure you, he is not gay.” She placed her hand tenderly on Russell’s shoulder. “Are you, Babe?” For Russell, this seemed like the perfect cue to drown out any further conversation by grinding some more free-trade coffee beans.
≈ ≈ ≈
“You are literally the most depressed person I’ve ever met.” This unabashed remark from Mary Ann came out of the blue.
After a particularly dismal start, Russell’s day had done an abrupt and welcome shift toward the sunnier side. Arriving at the office, he was immediately bolstered by the sight of the contract for the stair-lift company policy lying on his desk, fully executed and notarized. He had worked diligently to court this account. It wasn’t the biggest sale ever. But, having been in a bit of slump of late, finally landing this fish provided a long overdue measure of self-satisfaction. Too, closing the deal would surely put some handsome plumage in his cap and boost his profile around the office. These factors made Mary Ann’s unsolicited observation about Russell’s emotional state all that much more unexpected.
To Russell, his job seemed to be the sole aspect of his life in which he felt completely comfortable and settled. His marriage, though by all appearances stable, even ideal, was not what it appeared to be. Tess, after all, believed herself to be married to a straight, devoted husband. And, while Russell actively disproved that notion on a regular basis, she had no reason to suspect otherwise. The Pirates were midway through the best season of Russell’s coaching tenure, as yet undefeated, and winning their games by substantial margins. Still, Russell had been unable to take sustained joy in coaching Little League, due to the constant presence of a certain someone with whom he constantly imagined getting naked — a circumstance he yearned for, but had yet to write himself a hall pass to allow.
In the interim between dinner party #1, when Bryan first put certain tempting ideas out there on the table, and the more recent reprise disaster, during which Bryan’s spouse trumpeted her bigotry, Russell’s dilemma had been a simpler, more binary internal deliberation — not exactly simple to resolve, just more cut and dry. It was basically should I or shouldn’t I, presaging the ultimate resolution of will I or won’t I? The devil on one shoulder represented the pro side of the debate: Go ahead, jump in! You know you want to. You’ll always regret it if you don’t. The angel on the side of caution made a sober and convincing counter case based upon risks and possible consequences: Don’t be impulsive and foolish. Think about everything you stand to lose. If you succumb to your weakness, you may very well regret it for the rest of your life. Post backyard barbecue #2, another voice began chiming in, revealing a third angle Russell hadn’t anticipated being part of the debate. We might call this one the voice of moral principle. Diane’s attitudes regarding homosexuality didn’t directly pertain to Russell’s yet-to-be-made, final decision about whether to get down and dirty with her willing husband. Still, it did seem important to know whether Bryan shared her bias. Perhaps, Russell worried, Bryan was one of those self-loathing, closeted men who behaved one way, while simultaneously holding disdain for others with similar needs and desires.
Up until now, Tess and Russell had never felt compelled to discuss the possibility of having a gay son. But, to one degree or another, every parent ponders the prospect and considers how they might feel and/or respond under such perplexing circumstances. If Carter were to express ambivalence about his sexual orientation or gender identity, it seems improbable that his mother would show much compassion. Diane, Russell guessed, would be far more likely to insist on sending a sexually confused offspring to conversion therapy for the cure. The question remained: would Bryan exhibit more understanding and support? Would he be willing to stand up for the boy, in spite of his wife’s myopic intransigence?
Prior to Diane broadcasting her intolerance, Russell had been on the verge of making a decision. But the woman’s bigotry, along with her husband’s lack of response, had called a timeout on Russell moving forward. And, before he could give Bryan the high sign, Russell needed to know where his potential fuck buddy stood. Russell kept running this conundrum through his puzzled brain. Still, he had yet to find an acceptable way to broach this thorny issue. After all, even a husband who is painfully aware of his wife’s character flaws often feels obliged to leap to her defense, should she come under criticism from a third party. Russell definitely wanted to avoid being confrontational, as in, “So, Bry, how do you really feel about your spouse’s homophobia?” Perhaps he should simply be frank about how disturbed he and Tess had been by Diane’s insensitive remark and the implication her words made about their parenting. A strategically asked question might get the dialogue started, something like, “How did Diane’s statement strike you?” after which, Russell might offer Bryan an easy escape... “Surely, you can’t be on board with that kind of attitude.”
But the longer an issue like this languishes in awkward silence, the tougher bringing it up becomes. Thus, due to Russell’s continual, ever-increasing discomfort, when he was in Bryan’s company, he conscientiously cut a wide swath around any subject that didn’t pertain to the basic pragmatics of coaching Little League. Too, Russell very deliberately steered clear of those woods, for fear of once again catching Bryan in the act.
≈ ≈ ≈
“I’m not depressed,” Russell contended.
“Right. Whatever.” Mary Ann’s response dripped with disbelief.
“No, seriously,” Russell insisted. “I’m not a depressed person. I have no idea why you’d say such a thing.”
“Get help, Russell,” she advised. Aghast at the woman’s brazenness, Russell watched, tongue-tied, as Mary Ann exited the breakroom.
TEN
“No way!” Russell exclaimed. “You’ve gotta be kidding me!” David had aged very little over the 20 years since Russell had last seen him.
“Hello, my old friend,” gushed David, opening his arms and grinning like a jack o’ lantern. Russell, gob-smacked, and buzzing with a swarm of chaotic emotions, strode directly into the hug.
“How are you?” Russell asked, as if anyone could possibly answer such a loaded question in a single sentence.
“Good, good,” David answered, tears welling up in his eyes, as he released an audible sigh of relief and resignation. Certainly, Russell assumed, additional details would be forthcoming. For now, other curiosities begged for attention.
“Well, come on, you guys,” Russell demanded. “I’m dying to know! How did this happen? I’m... Well, I don’t know what to say!”
Tess had been observing this reunion from behind the kitchen counter, beaming proudly for having so successfully pulled off the surprise. “Well, David...”
“I...” David butted in, then immediately realized his rudeness. “Go ahead, Tess. Sorry.”
“No, no, no,” she insisted. “By all means, you go ahead.” Butterflies fluttered in Russell’s belly. He was on pins and needles, preparing to hear some explanation as to how and why the man responsible for glorious Blowjob #1 two decades ago was now standing in his home, apparently at the behest of his wife.
Originally, David recounted, he and Tess had met four years earlier at the Georgia Bridal Show in Atlanta. She was there to introduce her line of artificial-silk boutonnieres and corsages. David — this came as no surprise to Russell — was running the event. Tess, being a newbie within the insular world of wedding planners, dress designers, and cake makers, was frustrated and flailing. Sensing her consternation, David offered her a sympathetic ear and some helpful tips. If not for David’s encouragement and sage advice, Tess might not have returned to the event that, four years hence, had become her most essential lifeline to the lucrative wedding industry. Tess’s annual interaction with David had remained cordial, but businesslike, until this past Spring, when David invited her out for drinks with a group of the most prestigious vendors from the bridal world. Chitchat over cocktails revealed that Tess was married to someone named Russell Deacon. As serendipity would have it — or, perhaps, David suspected, Karma at work — this turned out to be the same Russell Deacon who, back in the summer of 1976, had interned for a company where David was a co-founding partner. Tess, who took over the story from here, was pleased to hear David speak about seeing real potential in the younger Russell. Then again, an open, supportive spirit seemed entirely consistent with David’s character, as she had come to know him.
When David emailed Tess, indicating that he was scheduled to be in Nashville to attend a July trade show, she insisted that he come over for dinner. While accepting the invite, David suggested that Tess keep his pending visit a secret. Imagining how much more fun a surprise reunion would be, Tess agreed enthusiastically. (In fact, David was harboring serious trepidation about seeing Russell again and feared that, should Russell catch wind of their plans, he might put the kibosh on the idea altogether.)
≈ ≈ ≈
Blowjob #1 took place during the summer between Russell’s freshman and sophomore years of college. Russell was thrilled about being accepted for a summer internship at GRMN8, Atlanta’s most cutting-edge advertising agency. Effete, ruddy-cheeked David Martin Mangold represented the “M” in the company moniker. At 24, he was the youngest partner in what was becoming a buzzworthy success story.
Russell, just shy of 19, green as a leprechaun’s cap, and eager as a three-month-old beagle, was one of a handful of summer gofers. David, being closer to Russell’s age than the rest of the execs, seemed cool as a banana popsicle, and exhibited a thousand-percent more pizzazz than anyone else for whom the interns becked and called. Young Russell, in particular, felt immediately drawn to David and inspired by his young boss’s energy and sardonic sense of humor. Too, he had never met someone who inhabited homosexuality without the slightest hint of shame. David also wore southern-ness like a finely tailored seersucker suit. In his throaty rasp and lilting drawl, he somehow managed to stretch a single vowel into three separate vowel sounds. For Russell, David was like a surrogate Tennessee Williams.
Within days of Russell’s arrival, David began showing special interest in the pretty, blond lad, inviting him into his office, prying into details about his life. “Do you have a girlfriend?” David asked, an innocuous query on its surface, but one that, considering the characters involved, carried its own pointed subtext. It just so happened that Russell was enmeshed in the kind of emotional crisis that, for an 18-year-old, feels like the end of the world. A month earlier, his longtime girlfriend’s mother had inadvertently discovered birth-control pills stashed in the back of her daughter’s dresser drawer. This revelation resulted in a threat from the girl’s parents: should she insist on seeing Russell again, they would no longer pay her college tuition. Eliza was Russell’s first real love. Now, their relationship, already strained by the distance between two university campuses, had been put into limbo.
David began inviting Russell over to his tony Buckhead apartment in the evening to hang out. There, David would uncork a bottle of wine and spin a record album — his favorite of that long-ago summer being Barry Manilow II, featuring the passionate breakthrough hit, “Mandy.” The pair passed the time gabbing about movies, music, books, current events, and simply enjoying each other’s company. Although he made no secret about his sexual orientation and candidly admitted being attracted to Russell, David was never aggressive or pushy. Eventually, he informed his youthful protégé that, should Russell ever be curious about having sex with someone of his own gender, he (David) would be available for a freebie trial run, no strings attached. It was an offer that remained on the table, but one Russell didn’t seriously consider — for most of the remainder of the summer, that is.
David shared anecdotes about growing up in Fort Worth and honing his ever-sharp wit for his own self-preservation. On occasion, he’d also pursued relationships with girls to beard his real inclinations. Russell was pining away for Eliza, suffering an unremitting heartache over their forced estrangement. After listening to Russell’s sad nightly update, David would offer to massage the tension out of the younger man’s shoulders (whatever tension remained after several chilled glasses of Liebfraumilch). Gradually, as the weeks rolled on, Russell’s inhibitions melted away. He was becoming more comfortable in physically proximity to David and with having a gay man’s gentle hands touching his body. He was, after all, starving for physical human contact. The conversation gradually turned away from old wounds to the here and now, and finally to the near future. Russell harbored no strict moral hang-ups that might have prevented him from accepting David’s open invite to try a gratis, no-obligation, same-sex sampler platter. He’d come to know David as someone he could trust. So, at long last, Russell admitted that he was indeed curious.
And so it came to pass, one fateful night, after indulging in at least double their usual volume of vino, David walked Russell back to the no-frills living quarters the company provided for its summer interns. Inside a tiny bedroom, they undressed silently, as to not draw undue attention from slumbering roommates. As he slipped under the sheets of his single bed, Russell’s heart was pounding in his ears and his hard-on was pulsating in anticipation. David followed. Although that first whisker-stubbled kiss felt strange and altogether new, Russell was surprised not to be revolted as another man’s tongue mingled with his. The foreign flavor of David’s kiss served as a delicious appetizer, priming Russell’s palate for the main course to come. And what David did next with his well-practiced tongue switched on the flashing neon lights and set off the earthquake sirens.
It soon became evident that, while David was an ascending star in the advertising world, he’d already achieved hall-of-fame status in the bedroom. David ducked down to treat Russell’s nipples with some playful biting and ran his tongue around his armpits and back up to his neck and earlobes. He licked and kissed Russell behind his knees and up the tender flesh of his inner thighs. Every cubic centimeter of Russell’s body tingled with an electric charge, as the older, more experienced man stimulated yet another never-before-tickled erogenous zone. Eliza had no knowledge of these secret buttons. A man knows the mysteries of another man’s body and what provokes the greatest exhilaration. A woman can’t be expected to be aware of these spots — unless, of course, giving men pleasure is her profession.
