I WAITED FOR HIM.
I stood in the back of the auditorium watching as he finished a conversation with the organizers of the event—a short, wiry lesbian in a linen pantsuit and the disheveled gay academic who had founded the series. Richard towered over them, holding court. Their wide eyes betrayed an absolute submission to his charms; mechanical smiles appeared on their faces every time his booming laugh cut through the din of the exiting crowd. They were clearly no match for Richard, and I made a vow to avoid their fate. I couldn’t be dismissed—I needed to be desired.
I tried to catch Richard’s eye from my position in the back of the room. Even a small nod from him would have reassured me that my decision to wait was based on something other than fantasy, but he avoided my gaze. As the minutes passed and the auditorium emptied, my anxiety grew. Finally, Richard extracted himself from the conversation and made his way up the aisle.
Any doubt I’d had was quickly erased by Richard’s impish expression as he approached. Smug dimples pierced his cheeks. “You waited!”
“Yes!” I replied dumbly.
“Well, what are you waiting for?” he inquired with a teasing lilt. I paused for just a second too long, embarrassed by the obvious answer. Richard loomed over me, even taller than he’d seemed from afar. He was six foot five to my six foot one, and he possessed a well-fed heft that worked on his massive frame. He wasn’t fat—he was substantial. His face was fuller than it appeared in pictures, but it only made him more attractive. Flesh filled the small cracks that had previously marred his forehead, erasing the wrinkles I’d expected from my online research. He was, according to Wikipedia, fifty-five, though in person he could easily pass for ten years younger. He cocked a bushy eyebrow in my direction, and I worried that if I didn’t say something soon, I’d receive the same tacit dismissal the event organizers had gotten just moments before.
“Well, um, I’m waiting for you,” I said finally.
“Oh, dear, I hope I’m worth it.” He said this with the ironic confidence of a man who knows he’s worth a great deal. He spoke in a rapid-fire baritone, always anticipating the next sentence, searching for new topics before the old ones had a chance to get stale. “Hungry?” he asked.
“Starving.”
“Well, it seems like we’ll be forced to get dinner together, then.” He sighed with mock resignation. “Where shall we go? Ladies’ choice.”
“How about Odeon?”
Richard’s banter stopped for a beat, and he looked at me in surprise. “You’re not only cute—it turns out you’re psychic as well.”
“What do you mean?” I asked, feigning innocence.
“How did you know that’s my favorite restaurant?”
“I have to ask,” Richard said, then paused briefly to down the last of his wine, his eyes teasing me from behind his upturned glass. “What does a handsome young man such as yourself want with a curmudgeon like me? I’m old enough to be your father.”
“Are you trying to give me daddy issues?” I joked.
“Oh, I thought you already had them.” He smirked. “Isn’t that why we’re here?”
“No, I’m here to inherit your vast fortune,” I volleyed back.
Richard chuckled. “Honey, I’m a playwright. There’s no gold in these hills.”
“Why is it that rich people love to complain about being poor?”
“Would you rather we complained about the precocious twenty-five-year-olds who clamor for our affection?”
I laughed harder than his quip warranted. Our jokes were little pressure valves, each laugh releasing tension as we danced around the obvious: he was too old for me, too famous, too rich. By couching our circumstance in wry humor, we were able to dismiss May-December stereotypes and make space for something genuine to blossom. However calculated my efforts to ensnare Richard may have been, I did want something genuine to blossom.
I wanted love.
We sawed at our steaks, and an awkward silence descended on the table. We’d run out of small talk to kindle our connection, meaning we needed to throw bigger logs on the fire. I was too nervous to pry into Richard’s backstory, so I tore at my meat anxiously, waiting for him to make the first move. Mischief danced across Richard’s features; he seemed to enjoy the awkward quiet, to relish my discomfort, even, knowing that I longed for the conversation to continue but was too afraid to take the lead myself out of fear that I’d broach the wrong subject and offend my unlikely dining companion. This strange flirtation felt like a test—he was exerting his power, seeing if I’d submit.
“Are you close with your parents?” Richard asked finally. I issued a nearly audible sigh of relief. It was a standard first-date query, well within the socially acceptable bounds of our circumstances. Richard had no way of knowing about my fraught relationship with my small, fractured family. I paused, debating how much to divulge.
“Not exactly,” I mumbled, staring down at my steak, watching as a pale lake of blood pooled beneath my french fries.
I had a choice. I could share my painful history or I could deflect with an evasive response. Thus far, our date had been a frothy affair marked by candlelit flirting and an avoidance of weightier subjects. Yet I could tell that he wanted more of me, more depth, more substance, and he wanted it now.
And wasn’t this what I wanted as well? The very discussion I’d planned for in my “Notes for Future Conversations”? Hadn’t I dreamed of the moment I would offer up my story in hopes that we could bond over our battle scars?
I told him the story of my childhood in Lake Bluff, Illinois. Told him of my auspicious beginnings, when I was delivered into the loving arms of two doting parents, the only child of a powerful megachurch minister and his loyal wife. Would my father, in an ideal world, have preferred a few more strapping young boys (or, in a pinch, some delicate little girls) to round out the picture of his perfect Christian family? Probably. But God—in conjunction with a string of defeated fertility specialists—worked in His notoriously mysterious ways. Did my father, despite his faith in God’s plan, nurse some resentment against my mother for denying him the family of his dreams? Most likely. But any tension that bubbled in their marriage was always tempered by my existence, the one child God had granted them. Their little “miracle boy.”
Before I could even talk, I became the foundation of my family, its sole stabilizing force and living proof of the Lord’s grace. My parents showered me with attention and were rewarded with the perfect pious son who sang in the church choir, made muffins for youth-group bake sales, and attended a Reputable Christian University. The son who could do no wrong.
Until he did.
“We love you deeply, Jonah.” Those were the first words out of my father’s mouth when he discovered a chat-room window I’d forgotten to close. This was during my senior year at Wheaton College, when I was still living at home with my parents, still dependent on them for shelter and money and support. There, glowing on our family’s shared desktop computer, was my discussion with Papa4DirtyBois, a graphic dialogue that explored the ways in which I hoped to choke on my internet suitor’s big daddy dick. “And God will save you from this lifestyle,” my father continued, frowning at our Dell.
Our family prayed. We went to church. We put on brave faces. We told no one about my shameful secret, now our family’s shameful secret. No one, that is, except “Doctor” Jim, the ex-gay counselor my father hired to cure me of my homosexuality. Doctor Jim’s “treatments” only amplified the misery and shame that constricted my lungs. I began to wonder if my panic attacks were, in fact, the side effects of exorcism, Satan’s desperate claws around my rib cage.
I wanted to die.
The irony haunts me to this day: my father’s love, the very force that should’ve saved our family, was ultimately the thing to destroy it.
I told Richard all this, fighting back sobs in the dreamy glow of Odeon. I offered it up like a question, one I hoped he could answer. How could I solve the riddle of my past, the problem of my father’s love? Despite Richard’s relative silence throughout my monologue, I was encouraged by his warm expression, the buzz of the wine, and my confidence that this older and wiser and brilliant and beautiful man would have the answer to buttress my collapsing sense of hope. I wanted to believe in love. And so I believed in Richard.
“Your courage is remarkable,” he said once I’d finished.
“Oh, I don’t know about that.”
“No, really. Even as your entire world crumbled, you maintained your strength. You stayed true to who you are. It’s so moving.”
“I hope I haven’t scared you away with all my born-again horror stories. I swear I’m actually fun when I’m not unearthing my deepest trauma.”
“Oh, please, I’m happy to listen. How are things with your family now?”
“Not great. My mom hates the idea of me living in New York, hates to think of my ‘lifestyle’ here, but I still lean on her for money”—I paused, emotion bubbling in my throat—“which hasn’t worked out well. I recently, very recently, in fact, stopped speaking to her.”
“I’m so sorry,” he said, placing a hand on my knee.
“What about you?” I pivoted, eager to redirect the conversation. “Are you close with your mom?”
“That’s a story that’ll take a lot longer than dessert.” He laughed bitterly. “We talk, but in the purely literal sense of the term. I call her on the phone, noises come out of my mouth, noises come out of her mouth. But we don’t really say anything.”
“Why not?”
“Because if I were to say one honest thing to my mother, I would have to say them all.” Richard sighed. “And even if I were brutally candid about the pain she’s caused me over the years, she wouldn’t hear it. Denial is my mother’s superpower.”
“Have you ever tried to articulate the issue? Even write it down for yourself? It sounds cheesy, but sometimes journaling really helps me.”
Richard issued a weary chuckle. “Oh, honey, there’s no money in journaling. But if you’re really that curious, you could come to the opening of my new play, which will give you a pretty good idea of where I’ve landed with my mommy issues.”
I stopped for a moment to gauge the sincerity of his invitation. It hit me by surprise, as it was hidden in the rhythm of our sarcastic repartee.
“I mean, if—if you’re serious, I’d love to,” I sputtered.
“I’m very serious,” Richard cooed. He got out of his chair and joined me at my seat on the banquette. He put his arm around me and we kissed for the first time, his mouth hungry for mine. I felt a surge of happiness in his embrace, became giddy with the possibility that after months of hell, filled with the pain of inventing an identity in an unforgiving metropolis, I might have finally found hope. Richard was the first person in the city with whom I felt a real connection, and our date marked the only conversation of substance I’d had with anyone since moving to New York. I couldn’t talk to my mother for obvious reasons, and the idea of therapy—even the legitimate, non-conversion variety—was far too terrifying. My only acquaintances were the waiters at my restaurant, and though we would go out for drinks after our shifts and do bumps of cocaine together in the bathrooms of gay bars, my fellow servers were not the types of people I could open up to.
But I could talk to Richard.
“What about your father?” Richard asked. “Do you two still talk?”
I stalled, anxiously wiping my mouth with my napkin. “He’s . . . he’s dead,” I lied. “Brain cancer.”
“I’m so sorry.”
It was a lie I’d told for years every time someone asked about my father. A cover story, much easier than telling the truth.
“So tell me, Jonah, what is it you do for a living?”
We cuddled over a devastated crème brûlée, our spoons abandoned. My cheeks flushed. I had avoided this subject all evening, rerouting the conversation every time I felt it moving toward the topic of my employment.
“I’m a waiter,” I murmured.
“But what is it you really do?” Richard said, squeezing my knee. “Surely a charming, intelligent, and handsome person such as yourself must have greater aspirations than simply being a waiter.”
“Well, I’m also a writer. Or, I mean, I want to be one. A playwright.”
“Two writers in the marriage?” Richard teased with theatrical flourish. “Oh, dear, this is a recipe for disaster.”
“It’ll probably end in flames,” I said dryly, returning to the comforting rhythms of our earlier banter.
Richard laughed and I relaxed. He rubbed my shoulders as he continued. “I’d love to read your work sometime.”
“I . . . I’d like that,” I said, though the idea of offering up my work to a man like Richard was unbelievably intimidating.
“Maybe I can help put an end to your career as a waiter.”
“Trust me, I’d love nothing more—”
“Your bill, sir,” the waiter interrupted, offering the check to Richard in an act of presumption that seemed designed to insult me. I watched as Richard opened the thin, black folder and panicked when I saw the total at the bottom of the bill: $325.00. The idyllic bubble of our date popped, and the cost of dinner brought reality crashing in. All my credit cards were maxed out, and until my mother’s electronic deposit into my checking account cleared the twenty-four-hour holding period, I had only fifty-six dollars to my name. A sum that would not cover even half the dinner.
Richard looked over the bill in silence. I watched, dread mounting. I had to offer to split it with him, at least. It was the bare minimum of social grace that the moment required, though I feared if he accepted my offer, our relationship would end with the waiter’s announcement that my card had been declined.
“Should we split it?” I croaked finally. Richard looked up from the check, frowning. He held my gaze for an excruciating ten seconds. I felt a sudden, inexplicable pang of longing for my parents, a strange desire to see my mother’s name appear on my cell phone’s caller ID. A yearning for my father’s ghost to darken Odeon’s doorway.
“Don’t be silly,” Richard finally said, laughing. He was just fucking with me.
“Thank you,” I replied, an embarrassing amount of gratitude gushing into my tone.
“Don’t even think about it. I’m writing this off. Business dinner with a talented young writer.”
“I’ll get the next one,” I promised unconvincingly.
“Oh, please, it’s silly for you to pay. I have the money. Tonight you get a free dinner.”
I beamed in relief, too young and dumb to know that there was no such thing.
Later, we spilled into the darkened sprawl of Richard’s massive West Village loft, not bothering with the lights, eager to bring our evening to its climax. We stumbled into the bedroom, ham-fisted at first, attempting to find, in the words of the Diane Warren dance track, the rhythm of the night. But a consistent tempo eluded us; it was all offbeat kisses and ill-timed elbows. We ripped off our clothes and floundered onto the bed. Richard fumbled my legs into the air, pressing his hard cock against my ass. We stopped for a beat, catching our breath, recalibrating. Richard leaned forward, gave me a tentative kiss. It felt like an admission of defeat, something I refused to accept.
So I punched him. Right in the chest.
Richard’s jaw dropped, and his hot breath rushed at my face. His mouth twisted—challenge accepted. I struck him again. He slapped my face, gripped my jaw, pried it open with two fingers, and spit in my mouth. I lunged forward and latched onto his lips with my teeth. He pressed the full weight of his body into mine, pinned my hands to the mattress. With my legs in the air, I raised my ass to meet his cock, hungry to have him inside me, a desire he refused to satisfy, opting instead to shove me off the mattress and onto the floor.
I caught my breath, kneeling on the hardwood. Suddenly, I felt Richard’s foot on my back, a cold pressure that sent a shudder through my body and a pulse of blood to my dick.
“Open the bottom drawer,” he ordered in an unfamiliar voice, pointing toward the dresser in front of me. I grabbed for the drawer, but Richard kicked my hand.
“Slower,” he demanded.
“Yes,” I gasped.
“Yes what?”
“Yes, Daddy.” I reached for the drawer, slower this time, pulled the handle with care, and produced a thick leather dog collar attached to a long metal chain.
“Put it on.”
“Yes, Daddy,” I moaned, clasping the collar around my throat.
The leather was cold and tight. Richard took the metal chain in his fist and knelt behind me. He gave the leash a playful tug, teasing my ass with his spit-slicked cock, pulling my head back at random intervals.
Then he thrust his dick inside me at a speed that gutted me, left me breathless. With the air in my lungs fully expelled, he tugged at my dog-noose with new force, constricting my airway. The longer he prevented me from breathing, the stiffer my cock grew, until finally he let go. I gasped, choking on air, as he rammed my ass with increased speed until he roared in release, shuddering inside me, and my dick spurted hot liquid and my mind went blank and my vision went black and I collapsed onto the floor.
Tears spilled from my eyes onto the stained wood—something inside me had been purged. When I was in Richard’s bedroom, my helplessness was eroticized, transformed into a source of power. I was most alive here, close to death, panting on the floor with a collar around my throat.
That night, I felt at peace. Richard and I tumbled into bed, exhausted, blissful. His lips brushed my forehead as I drifted to sleep on his handcrafted Swedish mattress, under a massive, low-burning pendant lamp, in his stunning West Village loft, miles away from my own crumbling apartment deep in the bowels of Brooklyn where no amount of reading or television or masturbation could distract me from the persistent thrum of anxiety brought on by my friendless isolation, soul-crushing job, familial trauma, and overwhelming financial debt. But that night as Richard held me in his arms, something swelled within me, a feeling that stuck in my throat and pushed tears from my eyes, a feeling that was difficult to place but could perhaps best be described as relief. I felt protected in Richard’s embrace. Nothing could touch me here in this beautiful downtown palace.
I was safe, at least for now.