I HATED ASSIGNMENTS like this—where I had no choice in the matter. There were fellow colleagues of mine who told me how lucky I was, because most of the time, I had the privilege of picking my own stories to write. Only occasionally had I bowed before the powers that be, and completed a story that I had to do. This, however, took the cake.
While most of my graduating class was still out looking for work in journalism, I was getting ready to celebrate my second year with an internationally known magazine, writing featured articles. Of course, it was a gay publication, and most would consider that not real journalism. However, I would wager that those who said that had never read it either. And while they were shacked up with their parents, sending out resume after resume, I was pulling down a decent paycheck, usually with an article in print every month. I shouldn’t be complaining. Right?
Thinking again about the subject matter and where I was headed made my stomach churn. I remember having a professor lecture on being objective to any article and not letting personal beliefs get in the way of telling the true story, but I bet he'd never had to deal with this subject matter. I personally thought it was disgusting, perverted, and so far out there that no one would want to read about it for those very reasons. I tried to put myself in the same situation, and it made me so sick to my stomach this morning that I couldn’t even eat breakfast, it so turned me off. Hell, it was all I could do to get some coffee down.
I flew into Louisville, Kentucky, the night before so I could get an early start this morning. I hoped I would be able to do this interview quickly, getting enough information so I could pump out a decent article—at least decent enough to keep my editor happy. Then getting the hell out and away from here was my goal. So here I was, in a rental car at seven a.m., following the GPS to some Podunk place in Indiana, just over the border of Kentucky. From what I could find out during my research, this place wasn’t even in a city. The closest town was twenty-five miles away, and calling it a town was being generous. The closest decent sized city was Louisville, and that was almost one hundred and fifty miles away. What kind of life could a gay man have that far from civilization? Didn’t take me but a minute to understand that, because of the life this couple lived, they would want to be secluded—would have to be.
Plugging my iPhone into the car’s stereo system, I cranked up the tunes. My mind drifting, I started thinking of my family and growing up. I snorted. What family? I was thirteen years old before I finally figured out it was distain on my mother’s face when she looked at me.
It was while at my Aunt Louisa’s house during summer vacation. Her house was a mansion compared to our house, and she had a swimming pool, which is why we were there that day. I knew growing up that Aunt Louisa was rich, which in part was why I hated visiting.
“Don’t speak unless you’re spoken to, and make sure you say Ma’am and Sir, and for God’s sake don’t touch anything!” It was my mother’s mantra. She said the same thing every time in the car while driving over.
On that particular day, my cousins, Brent, who was two years younger than I, and Margot, who was four years younger, had been swimming most of the morning. After lunch, while waiting the pre-determined time before we could get back into the pool, Brent was playing his new video gaming system while he allowed me to watch. It wasn’t different from any other time; Brent never let me touch any of his things. What Brent didn’t know was that some friends of mine had the same system and I had played it plenty of times. With that particular game, I mentioned that if he jumped at a certain point he could get the golden ring.
“What do you know about it?” He snarled. “Mom says you’re so stupid you don’t even know how to wipe your own butt!”
I sat there stunned. Brent had always been kind of nasty towards me, and I knew Aunt Louisa didn’t like me much, but never had Brent been so vicious.
“Mom said that if it weren’t for you, Aunt Bridget wouldn’t be stuck married to your loser of a father.” Brent must have seen the surprise on my face and laughed. “Yeah, you were a big mistake, Carter. You’re the reason why Aunt Bridget had to marry your old man. He knocked her up, and now she’s stuck with you just like she is with that pathetic bean-counter dad of yours.” He was laughing now, knowing he had gotten to me.
From that point on, I noticed the way other families interacted compared to my own. It was true; my mother hated me.
My father, on the other hand, looked at me like I was some sort of science experiment. He watched but rarely interacted. He was an accountant at a law firm downtown—the quintessential nerd. I never saw him in anything other than a white shirt, black or blue necktie, and black or grey suit. Thick black-rimmed glasses hid his most striking feature, his light brown eyes. One Father’s Day, I got him a red necktie. He wore it once, and I never saw it again.
That summer was very confusing for me. The first thing that turned my world upside down was the realization that neither of my parents seemed to love or care about me. That simple fact shattered my small world, forcing me to see them for what they were. Second issue was when puberty hit me full force. Wet dreams started, followed by the discovery of masturbation, and then learning about homosexuality. To my horror, I found myself fantasizing about other boys while I masturbated. It was yet another reason for my parents to hate me.
The week before school started, my mother and I got ready to go shopping for school clothes, as we had done every year that I could remember. I hated shopping for clothes with my mother. She always complained about having to shop at what she considered ‘second rate stores’, stating that JC Penny was so blue collar. “Louisa never has to do this; she has her kids’ private school uniforms made each year.”
That year was significantly different however. She pulled up in front of the shopping mall, handed me $300.00 and told me to make sure that I got enough to last the year.
“Carter, you’re old enough now that you don’t need me to hold your hand while picking out clothes. Make sure that you get everything that you need,” my mother stated flatly. She never looked at me, never took her hands off the steering wheel other than to hand me the money, nothing, no emotion. That was the last time I would ever see my mother. She'd simply left and never came back.
One would think that things would drastically change at home, but they really didn’t. Instead of my mother opening up cans for dinner, I started doing the cooking. The biggest change in my life was that I discovered that the library was my lifeline to survival. It was at the public library that I was able to teach myself how to cook, learn about my sexuality, but most importantly, I fell in love with the written word. The world of books was my new world, and I embraced it fully.
The day I turned sixteen, I got the job of my dreams. I started working at the public library. There were many upsides to this. First, there was the money. More than anything, I wanted a car. What sixteen-year-old doesn’t? Then, there was the added benefit that I would be out of the house and away from my father, and I was able to spend time in the place I most loved. Mrs. Henderson, the head librarian, was very supportive, and became more of a mother to me than my own mother ever had been.
Even though I was working at the library, I was still able to get home, cook dinner for my father and me, and maintain a 3.8 GPA, as well as do most of the household chores. It wasn’t that I wanted to; it was just part of surviving. Everything was pretty routine. Dad got home at six, and he’d watch the evening news. Dinner was at seven, and then dad would go and watch TV while I’d clean the kitchen, then go to my room to do homework on the second hand computer my father got me. There was little, if any, communication between my father and myself. He would complement me on dinner. Once a week, he would take me to the grocery store while running other errands. Other than that there was very little for us to say to one another. We had nothing in common other than sharing a house, and, of course, genes.
One Sunday, when I got home from work, I knew something was up as soon as I walked in the door. My father was sitting in the living room, the TV turned off, no lights on, only silence. Sundays we normally went out to eat, since it was the one day I worked late. The air in the room felt heavy and still, like just before a major storm.
“Are you a faggot? And don’t you lie to me either.” My father’s voice was eerily quiet, never looking at me.
“Ye-yes,” I stammered, being completely caught off guard.
“You are no son of mine.” Without another word, still not looking at me, he got up and left.
It didn’t take me long to figure out how he found out. His computer was on the fritz so he got onto my computer to check email or something, and he must have looked at the history. Of course, he would see the gay porn sites that I had checked out, leaving no doubt as to my orientation.
Once again, I thought things would drastically change, but they didn’t. The biggest difference was that he would take his dinner into the living room to eat instead of eating at the kitchen table like we normally had. He didn’t look at me unless he had to and spoke even less. Of course, he didn’t refuse to eat the food I cooked, or decline the clean laundry I did every week.
That was the way things went for two years, until I went to college. Thanks to Mrs. Henderson, I was able to get a full scholarship to a good school. She was even able to help me get a job at the library there. The day I left, my father never said a word to me. Looking back, I wasn’t surprised or upset. The way I saw it, it’s just the way things were. I was used to it. After all, it was almost that way my entire life.
Following the GPS, my destination fast approaching, the apprehension settled heavier on my shoulders with each passing mile. Amongst seemingly acres of endless cornfields and cow pastures, I spotted a mailbox with two last names and turned down the dirt and gravel drive. I immediately slowed down to take my time on this driveway-road. There were several huge potholes, large enough to bottom out the rental I had. Looking in the rearview mirror, I saw a cloud of reddish-brown dust billowing out behind the car so thick I was unable to make out anything behind me. The road was narrow on both sides, outlined with barbed wire. On one side, I could see cows in the distance and on the other, rows and rows of cornstalks about four feet high. There was a slight curve ahead so I could see nothing but cows and corn, not much deviation from the last thirty minutes of my drive. I was starting to hear dueling banjos in the back of my head as I broke out in a cold sweat.
As I rounded the curve, I could see a house in the distance. Looking at the odometer, I saw that I had already been off the main road, if you could call it that, for almost a mile. Twenty-three minutes later, I pulled up in front of a red brick and stone single story, rancher style house with a large porch that looked as if it wrapped all the way around. There were several rocking chairs out front. There were hanging baskets, some with flowers and some with ferns. A large maple tree in front provided shade from the afternoon sun.
The drive widened out quite a bit and to the right of the house was an obvious parking area outlined by railroad ties. I parked my rental car, grabbed my satchel, and opened the door only to instantly start coughing, my eyes blinded and watering. Fighting my way out of the dust storm the car had caused, I was able to make it up the stone sidewalk, still hacking, almost sightless, tears running down my face. I made it to the front step, before I heard him.
“You Carter?”
With my eyes still watering and my mouth full of dust, I managed to look to the far left and see who had asked the question. I saw a man, but just barely. “Yes, I’m Carter Roberts,” I choked out.
“Nice to meet ya. Come on in the house and let me get you something to drink. Been a bit dry here lately, so the dust’s real bad.” The voice was a low baritone, the kind that vibrated through your chest if you were standing close enough. The surprising thing was how quiet it sounded, almost like a whisper. It made you want to lean in close to make sure you heard it. It made you want to hear it.
I coughed and cleared my throat. “Thanks. That would be greatly appreciated.”
Through teary eyes, I followed the voice into the cool of the house. I succeeded in walking into a large open room, without bumping into anything, with a black wood stove in the far right hand corner and a large leather sectional sofa. The oversized sectional dominated most of the living room area. An entertainment center with a huge flat screen television was mounted on the outside wall, and just beyond that, there was a hallway that must lead to the bedrooms. Off to the left was a dining room area and beyond that, a substantial breakfast bar and large country style kitchen. All in all, it was one long room. The ceiling was open to the rafters making it seem much larger. Overhead were several slow turning ceiling fans. The motors made a soft whirling noise that was almost hypnotic. The first thing I noticed was how simplistic everything was, but also how clean it was. I didn’t know what to expect, but for some odd reason I never quite expected this.
“We got ice tea, lemonade— I made this morning— some orange juice or water. Also got some beer, so what’s your pleasure?” the voice asked.
“The lemonade sounds great, thanks,” I responded.
I finally was able to focus on the person that went with the voice. I am glad he was busy setting about getting the lemonade so he didn’t see my mouth fall open. Moving around in the kitchen was a large man. I don’t mean as in heavy, I mean as in at least 6’5 with shoulders as wide as the refrigerator he was opening. The dark blue T-shirt he wore was snug, the sleeves straining, riding up the large muscular arms, exposing the hardened biceps and triceps. His waist seemed impossibly small compared to the shoulders, but his butt was a work of art.
Michelangelo’s David couldn’t compete with this one. The jeans covering his thighs were faded and threadbare. I expected those powerful looking legs to bust out the seams of the old denim at any moment. Sure enough, he had on cowboy boots that were jokingly huge. Of course they were huge, I thought to myself. Look at what they have to support.
He turned back to me. “Here ya go. There’s plenty so if you want some more just ask. Carl likes to mix it with his iced tea, so I try and have both handy. I’m Matt by the way,” he said, holding his hand out.
As I took his hand, I was afraid he was going to give a bone-crushing handshake, but it was only firm and warm. Looking down, my hand was dwarfed in his, making me feel even smaller than I normally did. Standing at only 5’7”, I always felt a little on the small side, comparatively.
“Thanks, I appreciate it. Didn’t expect all that dust I guess.”
“Let’s go sit out on the porch. I’ll call Carl and let him know you’re here. He wanted to go check on some fencing. We got a bull that’s been feeling a little randy here lately, so we need to keep an eye on him.” Matt opened the screen door, held it open for me, and then followed me over to the rocking chairs.
He pulled out a walkie-talkie. “Carl, you copy?”
“Yeah, Matt, I copy.” Another deep voice crackled from the handheld radio. I wondered how such a small speaker could contain such a voice.
“We got comp’ny,” Matt answered back.
“Awright. I’ll be there in a few. We got any more of that electrical fencing left?” The voice on the walkie-talkie drawled.
“Yeah, and got a new solar station and some other goodies delivered today.” Matt grinned as he replied.
“Awright. Out.” Then silence.
“You find the place awright? I know we’re kinda off the beaten path,” Matt asked me with the same twang-drawl that I’d heard on the radio. It was very soothing in a sing-song kind of way.
“Yes. I only made a few wrong turns, but with no road signs, I kind of had to guess at some of the roads.”
I was having a hard time answering the question, I was so enthralled with this hulking hunk of a man. The front side was even better than the back side, if that were at all possible. Bright blue eyes in a very masculine face, square jawed with a few days’ beard growth, the same color as his honey-gold hair. He had a CAT ball cap on and the hair that stuck out from underneath it was curling on the ends. His lips were full and always seemed on the verge of smiling. Matt’s chest was well developed with his nipples underneath the T-shirt showing prominently. The crotch of his jeans was also rather threadbare, scarcely holding the packed-in meat that was there. From the look of things, I didn’t think he was circumcised either, as I noticed a tubular shape snaking down his left leg.
“Yeah, well we don’t get many visitors out this way and most anyone who is driving around here pretty much knows where they’re going, so road signs aren’t all that important, I recon.” Matt smiled at me with bright, white teeth showing. Damn, this guy has it all.
From the little information I had, I knew that Matt was twenty-eight, just a few years older than me, and Carl was forty-five. Matt had a degree in Agriculture, specializing in animal husbandry. The first time I read that I had to re-read it, not believing it at first. Of course, I had to go and look it up to make sure there was such a thing. Sure enough, there was. I didn’t even want to know how or what that entailed.
Not sure of what to say, I took a long swig of the cold lemonade. It was some of the best I’d ever had.
“Wow, this lemonade is really good,” I complimented Matt.
“Thanks, I make it fresh ‘most every morning. The secret’s in the making of the sugar syrup,” Matt revealed.
Just then, I saw a blue pickup truck slowly pull up and park beside the rental car I came in. Just like when I got here, there was a large dust cloud. Thank goodness, it blew in the other direction from where we were sitting. I noticed that the cloud dissipated before the truck door opened. Now I felt a little foolish for not having done the same thing. Out stepped a large man, wearing a grey tank top T-shirt, a John Deere ball cap and tight blue jeans. Once I got a good look at him, it was like looking at an older Matt. A little thicker in the neck and waist, but it could have been the same person in time-lapse photography. The resemblance was amazing.
As the man walked up on the porch, I stood up and held out my hand to introduce myself. “Carter Roberts.”
“Carl Foltz.” Once again, a massive hand that could crush mine without even trying took my hand in a firm but gentle handshake.
“Thank you for agreeing to this interview. My editor wanted me to assure you of complete anonymity. I know that there are only a select few who even know about this article at all and only three people know your true identity.” This was true. My editor wanted to make sure I emphasized that fact personally.
“That is the only reason why I agreed to do it. Actually, I’m still not sold on the whole idea but Matt here said he wanted it done. I told that Mr. Strong you work for that I wanted to read the finished copy before I would sign off on it. I don’t need no shit coming down on us because of it.” Mr. Foltz was looking me dead in my eye and I knew he meant business. I could also see his reluctance, which told me it wasn’t going to be easy interviewing him.
While Carl and I were introducing ourselves, Matt had gone back into the house. He returned now, bringing me a refill of lemonade, and Carl an ice tea and lemonade mixture. With Carl and Matt standing side by side, I again was astonished at how much they looked alike. Matt was probably an inch or so taller than Carl, and the age difference was obvious, but other than that, they could have been the same person. Both were naturally masculine and never would anyone suspect that they were gay.
“I think I’ll go in and get some lunch going,” Matt announced.
Carl only nodded towards Matt as he sat down and took a long sip of his drink. The simple act of watching him as he swallowed, his Adam's apple bobbing up and down, made my stomach quiver. The man was pure sex on legs.
“Um… mind if I tape our conversation, Carl?” I asked as I pulled out a digital mini-recorder, writing pad, and pen.
“Uh… No. I don’t guess so.” He didn’t seem upset but still not quite trusting either.
“If there is anything that is uncomfortable for you, just say so. I don’t want to make you feel pressured in anyway, but I do think that your… um… situation is quite unique and very intriguing, for a lack of a better word.” For some reason, I was now anxious and wanting these guys' story.
“Okay, no worries there, bud. If something bothers me, I’ll let you know up front, no question about it.” He smiled, but not a happy smile, it felt more like a challenge.
“All I ask is that you don’t kill me or anything,” I tried to joke. It didn’t go over very well from the look I got from Carl. “Let me first get the biggest question out of the way and break the ice here. When did you and your son, Matt, first become lovers?”