Best Gay Romance 2008

FALLING

Simon Sheppard

Dear You,

Of course I remember how we met, and so do you. After a decade together, though, there are some discrepancies between our two accounts. Actually, there always were. You swore that I butted into that queue to get into the movie sooner, but that’s not true. I only did it because you were waiting there with someone I knew. Okay, he was a fuckbuddy of mine with a really big dick, but I only went up to you guys to say hi, and then the line started moving and I was just sort of swept inside. Is that a crime?

Oh, and you claim that I was after you from the first. Well, if I had been, wouldn’t I have found some way to weasel myself into sitting with you guys for the film? But I dutifully let you two go sit alone, figuring it was some kind of date. Which you later told me it was. So “after you” would be an overstatement. “Intrigued,” yeah, probably. Intrigued enough that I was happy when I ran into you again less than a week later. And you were by yourself that time. Intrigued enough so that more than a decade after that movie (which turned out to be lousy, we both agreed), here we are.

Funny how once-separate lives become entwined. It can be so—yes, I’ll use the word—beautiful. I know, I know, almost every time I get like this, you make one of those wry faces of yours. David Mamet says, as you never tire of quoting, that “cheap sentiment is enduring, and so is cheap scent.” But maybe David Mamet never woke up, walked into the kitchen, and had you wave and smile that smile of yours at him before he went off to write another play. No, I’m pretty sure he didn’t.

And he didn’t go with you on that Caribbean cruise last year, either. “I’ll hate cruising,” you said—typically, after the nonrefundable final payment had been made—but you didn’t. And it turned out it was just as well we didn’t opt for one of those all-gay cruises, either. Our straight shipmates were just fine with us slow-dancing together, or if they weren’t, they wisely kept their heterosexual mouths shut. And, hey, you managed to suck off some married guy in the steam room. Twice. Which made for some interesting times when you pointed him out by the pool, he and his theoretically oblivious wife canoodling in the Jacuzzi like newlyweds. But, hey, I don’t judge. Much.

And the sex we had in that cramped little stateroom? It was amazing. Like we were the ones who were newlyweds. You hadn’t fucked me in quite a while before then, but we were both drunk on the cheap champagne the friendly cruise director kept pouring at the gathering for gay passengers. (The “Friends of Dorothy” meeting—hah!) We tottered back to our cabin, the rough seas not helping matters, and pretty soon I was straddling you, your big old condom-clad cock inside me. It was…well, far be it from me to get sentimental. But it was amazing. You know it was. I bet even the cabin steward, dealing with the stained sheets the next day, knew it was. Amazing.

That was, of course, just after I found out I had chronic hepatitis. I’d wanted to keep it a secret from you, till after the cruise was over, and somehow I managed to. You knew something was wrong, but I managed to bullshit my way through. While we were fucking, though, I thought God, we’re fucking like this is the last time we ever will. Pretty meaningless, really, since anytime anybody does anything, it might be for the last time. But, yes, that evening in the stateroom, I did have sex like my life depended upon it. I bet we looked quite the sight when we went down to dinner. Like we glowed. And, hep C and all, I knew that life was sweet.

It was tough on you when I shared the news. But you came through like a trouper, seeing me through the treatment, trying to keep my spirits up when the fucking dreadful cocktail of drugs made me want to lie down and die. We made it through that, you and I, and the day my viral load test came back marked “undetectable,” you said, “Let’s go on another cruise,” and I said, “Sure, but in the meantime, let’s fuck like we were back onboard already.”

And yeah, there were tears in your eyes, but I bet even David Mamet would have gotten moist.

Aw, shit, it’s later than I thought. More later.

Love,

Dear You,

It’s one of those gray, rainy days that call for cuddling. But since you’re not here, I’ll spend some time remembering. For all the “be here now” stuff—and hey, I know that Truly Living in the Eternal Present is the only way to go, honest I do—memories are lovely, ain’t they? Kind of especially when they’re memories of you.

Our first year or so was the hardest, I guess. At least for me. You’d just broken up with Pablo, and were not, by your own admission, over it yet. Which meant that I would hear about him. Not a whole lot, but more than I wanted to, enough to make me wonder what you were thinking about when you got that faraway look in your eyes, enough to make me wonder if you were thinking of him while you were fucking me. Fortunately, we’d agreed from the first that whatever relationship we were going to have would be an open one, so when the strain of being The One Who Was Not Pablo became too much, I was able to go out and, almost guilt-free, get fucked elsewhere. But I never really told you—till now—how hurt and confused your bloody masochistic nostalgia sometimes made me feel. I mean, darling, it really got to be a drag. Really.

Now that I come to think of it, you really can be a putz sometimes. But I suppose I got my own back when I fell for Brian, huh? Jesus, what a fiasco that turned out to be…though it was fun while it lasted. I guess…

Okay, maybe it was less than fun, chasing after a manifestly unsuitable crush while you waited patiently at home. At least when you weren’t trolling the bars or fucking your brains out with some hot stranger. But I digress, don’t I? Brian…Jesus. Brian…

Oh, sweetie, it is so damn gray outside, the sort of day to cuddle under the duvet with you and kiss. Whenever I read something out of those tacky erotica anthologies you for some reason like to drag home, I’m always struck by how undervalued cuddling is. Kissing, too, for that matter—porn’s always all about cock. But sometimes I think that cuddle-time is the sweetest part of the day. It’s certainly what I miss most acutely just now.

Later: I’ve taken a break from writing, but I’m back. I’ve been thinking about you. Well, I always think about you, but I’ve been thinking about the blog thing. You always were a lovably opinionated scold about politics, ever since I met you. But then your nephew got killed in Iraq, and you got angry, so angry. You started your blog more as therapy than anything else, just threw the words out there, not knowing if anyone would read them, and you were genuinely surprised when it took off, began receiving thousands of hits a day. I was always more reticent about speaking my mind than you, so I suppose you never knew how much I shared your delight the day you discovered that you’d been taken to task, by name, by some rightwing cock-sucker at the National Review Online. Now I’m sorry I didn’t bake you a cake or something to celebrate. If you were here right now, I’d give you a big, belated congratulatory hug.

But you’re not here.

Love,

Dear You,

The last few days have been rough. With you gone, it’s been hard to care about anything. Haven’t hit the gym, called in sick to work, dishes have piled up. You, neat freak that you are, would be appalled.

And I haven’t been able to write you a letter, either. I’m only writing this now because, well, because I forced myself to.

I just went online to read some of your old blog entries. It’s sort of hard, knowing you wrote that, yet not quite being able to reconcile all that righteous indignation with my memories of the sweet, insecure, often-depressed guy who shared my life. Wow, what a firebrand I fell in love with. Who knew?

Certainly not the straights at our dinner table on the cruise. Looking at the polite, well-dressed fellow tucking into his lobster tails, I bet they never suspected you’d written a piece excoriating monogamous married homos for “betraying the promise of early queer radicalism.” And Jesus, you have no patience, no patience at all, for men who remain in the closet, not out of economic necessity or fear for their lives, but just because it’s easier for them that way.

Oh, wow, why am I writing about politics, when all I want to do is kiss you, kiss you forever?

I miss you so much.

I’d better go do the—long overdue—dishes before I break down. Again.

And then maybe I’ll head over to Blockbuster and rent a David Mamet flick. Glengarry Glen Ross, say. Or The Spanish Prisoner—I always liked that one. He writes so well about scams. Being cheated. I won’t rent Hannibal, though, regardless. There’s a limit.

Love,

Dear You,

The sun is out at last, and I feel, for no reason at all that I can discern, giddily happy. David Mamet, eat your heart out. And no, I never did make it to Blockbuster. I figured a story about being cheated was the last thing I needed to see just now.

Your father has sent me a letter. I just couldn’t get myself to open it, though. I need at least a few hours of feeling great. Remembering your smile. All those little things that a couple builds up over the years—common experiences, catchphrases, sentences that one guy starts and the other finishes. But most of all, your smile. Even when I first saw you waiting on line for that long-ago movie, I bet that I noticed your smile. How could I not, when it’s the very best smile in the whole wide world?

Oh, god, I sound like a schoolgirl with a crush, don’t I? But you know me. If anybody does, ever has known me, you do. You know what a bitch I can be. Okay, maybe you don’t know everything. That guy who posts on your blog all the time, the “dude411” one who always launches into straight-acting closet cases? And insults the President? Hey, that’s me. At first, it started as a one-off experiment, but then it was fun to have a secret identity, a little concealed corner of my life. And don’t tell me that you knew all along, because I really don’t think you did till now.

Fuck, your smile.

I wonder what your dad wants. He never writes me unless there’s bad news or a request. God, you were right. He’s such an unhappy man. Can’t deal with him just now, though. Have to stay happy, for your sake if nothing else. And I wouldn’t want to start another huge pile of dirty dishes, ha ha.

Okay, enough of thinking about your father. Let me think of pleasant things, instead. Us in Mexico, you climbing up that pyramid, scrambling up toward me. Us in bed, fucking like rabbits. Us. No one who hasn’t been part of an “us” can quite understand it, I don’t think. I mean, I always, like the old song says, wanted somebody to love. Needed. But I didn’t understand what it would really feel like. To have somebody. To love.

It feels great.

And sometimes it feels like it could rip my fucking heart out.

Love,

Dear You,

How could you? I mean, how could you?

Love,

Dear You,

So what, really, am I doing writing all these letters to you? It’s not as though you don’t already know everything I’m telling you—okay, except the part about writing postings to your blog—and this isn’t a conversation. I wish I could give you something of real value, instead. It’s starting to feel almost as though I’m writing these for some stranger to read.

And let’s say for the sake of argument that somebody somewhere did read these letters, some stranger. What would they mean to him? Would he be able to read between the lines, see all the desperate, glorious delusion? Or would he, like Mamet, just hear the tinny sounds of sentimentality?

Oh, fuck, without you I feel all alone. Without you, what use are words?

Now that sounded mawkish, didn’t it?

When all I want is to remind myself of how much I love you. To remember all the good times.

Oh, fuck. I should give this up, for the time being. I’m going to go watch “Entourage,” I guess, then jump in a warm bath, smoke a joint, jack off, and get to bed.

Love,

Dear You,

So pain is always inherent in love, huh? Especially great loves like ours? I know, I know…it’s a truism, a cliché. But it’s still and all kind of amazing that anyone takes the risk at all, considering.

Hey, I know you always like to hear about my weirdest tricks, so….

The other day I found this guy online, a bi with a great picture who wanted to get his dick sucked. Well, you know, that was an offer I couldn’t refuse. So he shows up with his laptop and lays it down next to us on the bed, and there I am giving the guy the very best head I possibly can, and meanwhile he’s fiddling with the mouse pad of his iBook, watching Quicktime clips of straight porn. Tits. Chicks with big boobs. Suck, suck, suck. The things I get myself into when you’re not around, huh?

Oh, Jesus, I’m rambling. But I need you. I need you so much. Yes, it’s only words, but words are all I have to…Christ, now I’m channeling the Bee Gees…

Okay, that’s better. Just took a break, got myself a cup of coffee, wiped the tears from my eyes.

At this moment, I would give anything to see your smile, hear your voice, smell your smells. Anything.

The thing we started so long ago, waiting on line for that movie. It’s been quite a thing, huh? Quite a thing. People started mistaking us for brothers, then twins. Even I couldn’t tell where you left off and I began.

And then.

Nothing lasts forever.

It’s been so long, months now.

Fuck, I am so fucked up.

I will love you forever.

Love,

Dear You,

I didn’t sleep at all last night. Oddly, though, I’m not the least bit tired. Now dawn has come, as perfect as dawns get. I’m looking out the kitchen window, out at your favorite view.

The sky is a softening pink, the birds, twittering like crazy, can be heard through the half-open window, there’s a delicate but definite promise in the air. Whether that promise will be fulfilled, or will be broken, as so many promises are, is still up for grabs. And—not to sound maudlin, which you hate, or at least say you do—for each and every one of us, every dawn can be the last. And yes, I wish you were here beside me. I do, I wish that most of all.

But no, I’m not the least bit sleepy. Still, maybe I’ll go lie down. I have those pills.

No, don’t worry, sweetie. I won’t hurt myself. I know you always worry about that. But there was just that one time.

It’s a beautiful day. A beautiful fucking day.

Love,

Dear You,

Okay, maybe David Mamet was right, and yet—