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Ironically, a closeted bisexual man’s compulsion to seek out casual, anonymous sexual encounters with other men often has a lot to do with the very same factors that should logically warn him against engaging in such behavior. So it was with Russell Deacon. The cloak-and-dagger secrecy, the solitary sleuthing into forbidden territory added an extra degree of excitement unmatched by any other sexual exchange. Russell had come to crave the rumbling in his belly, the chill in his shoulders, the hot flush in his cheeks, the array of adrenalized sensations that invariably preceded a plunge into unpredictable currents. And, by simply observing and noticing things that happen every single day in every single town, thrill seekers like Russell eventually stumble into places where such clandestine couplings are likely to take place.
Russell first became cognizant of the existence of such secret rendezvous spots while taking his young sons, then seven and five, for a nature hike through a county park. Russell, Hank, and Rory were only a few minutes into their Saturday excursion, traversing a trail through the forested area leading to a natural granite edifice known as Rooster Rock. They had just rounded a switchback when Russell spied the illicit goings on. No more than a dozen strides into the shade, under a large Douglas Fir, one man was going down on another man. Russell stopped dead in his tracks, splaying his arms out like a lieutenant silently ordering his platoon to refrain from advancement. “What’s wrong, Dad?” Hank queried.
“I think I forgot something in the car,” Russell improvised, simultaneously ripping his gaze away from the pairing in progress and sensing an unforeseen, involuntary, electrified tingle in his man parts.
“What?” Hank asked. “What did you forget?”
“We have to go back,” Russell insisted, swiveling a quick about face. Suddenly, it was of the utmost importance to put maximum distance between his two young sons and what was happening in the dappled shadows beneath the evergreen canopy.
Ninety minutes later, the intrepid father-son trio sat atop Rooster Rock, wolfing down PB and J sandwiches, when Rory asked, “What were those men doing, Daddy?”
“Which men?” Russell responded, all too aware which men his youngest son was curious about. Picturing the scene in the woods, Russell’s soldier perked up once again.
“You saw them,” Rory contended. “I know you did.” Even as a kindergartener, Rory refused to let anyone get away with even the tiniest hint of obfuscation.
“Oh, right. Now, I remember,” Russell confessed. “Well...” he said, pretending to be hazarding a guess, “maybe one of them broke a shoelace and his friend was fixing it for him.”
“Okay. Makes sense, I guess.” Rory accepted this bogus theory with a head nod, while slurping the last noisy drops from his juice box.
“Whoa!” Hank exclaimed, pointing to the sky. “Is that an eagle, Dad?”
Happy to have the subject changed, Russell located the raptor sailing across the blue sky with grandeur and grace. “I think that’s a red-tail hawk,” he guessed. “We’ll have to look it up in the World Book when we get home.”
“Cool!” said Hank. This wholesome tableau had every potential of being a significant, bonding father-son moment. As the feathered predator tucked its wings and swooped down below the level of the tree tops, Russell hoped his boys would remember it that way. His mind, however, was busy speculating when he might be able to steal away solo to pay the Rooster Rock trail a reprise visit. And, when that opportunity presented itself, he wondered if he would come across yet another covert, male-on-male hook-up under the fir trees.
Over the three years to follow, Russell became extremely adept at keeping his “real life” — as a sales rep, husband, and father — separate from his same-sex interests and pursuits. Even though, over time, he devoted an increased amount of time to his voyeuristic compulsions, he was still maintaining what, to him, felt like a healthy and functional balance between his dual personas. Inside the house and at the office, Russell played the straight-man role convincingly. Outside those conscientiously controlled environments, he was constantly cruising for his next opportunity to seek out and observe men having sex. Russell’s perfect track record at negotiating these two disconnected lives eventually gave him a distorted level of self-assurance. Overconfidence, however, can lead to sloppy behavior which, in turn, risks disappointing a spouse or, worse yet, rousing suspicion. This was a lesson Russell would learn the hard way.
It happened the night Russell’s traveling college roommate was expected for dinner. Russell was motoring home from the office with more than adequate time to accomplish a short list of honey-do’s before his ex-roomie’s ETA. As his preferred homeward route took him directly past Centennial Park, he figured he might as well take a quick look-see. For someone like Russell, who had developed a finely honed radar for hook-ups in progress, an early-evening swing past and around The Parthenon told myriad stories. Two cars parked snugly parallel to one another; the driver of one car leaning against the open driver-side window of the other. Flirtatious conversation between the two men, followed by one of them sauntering around the other’s vehicle, opening the passenger door, and sliding in. Russell had even memorized vehicles driven by regulars who frequented the men’s bathrooms. Experience had taught him who the aggressive, grabby ones were, and to avoid entering the small, cinder block structure by the duck pond when a certain Jeep was parked in a nearby space.
On this particular evening, however, such activity in the park was scarce. After two complete laps, Russell pulled over into the shade. He was paging through the Nashville Scene when an SUV pulled up and into the adjacent spot. The driver motioned for Russell to roll down his window. Russell complied. And, without so much as a perfunctory, “Hi. How’re ya doin’?” the guy leapfrogged over any and all small talk. “What do you like?” he inquired.
Russell knew exactly what his query meant. Still, he played naive. “What do I like?” he asked in return.
“Well,” the man responded, with a wry smile, “do you like getting sucked?”
The fellow’s brazen question took Russell totally by surprise. After all, a more typical park meet-up would go something like this...
Guy One: “Hey.”
Guy Two: “Hey.”
Guy One: “Nice evening.”
Guy Two: “Yeah, perfect.”
These introductory murmurings might be followed by a pause, during which the two men would check each other out with closer scrutiny, while trading a couple of shy smiles.
Guy One: “Any special plans for tonight?”
Guy Two: “No. Not really. I’m just on my way home from work. Thought I’d stop for a few minutes and get some fresh air.”
Guy One: “Yeah. Me, too.” At this point, one of them might dare to cup his own crotch, to make his intentions and interests absolutely clear. From there, only after it was firmly established that both men were (a) there to hook up and (b) interested in doing so with each other, would they turn to the “what are you into” page in the script.
On this particular evening, however, all of that usual verbal foreplay had been edited from the conversation in advance. Did Russell like to get sucked? Was this guy kidding? Is the Pope Catholic? “Yeah, of course,” said Russell.
“Okay, then,” the fellow answered, re-starting his engine. “Follow me.” Before Russell had a chance to respond, the SUV was backing out. Then, the vehicle sat there, idling, with its driver’s intense eyes looking at Russell in his side mirror, as if daring him to turn down this audacious proposition.
A dozen red flags were waving. The fellow could have been a vice officer. Still, in spite of the obvious danger signs, Russell’s internal daredevil grabbed the steering wheel. As he followed the stranger home, Russell chastised himself repeatedly for being stupid and weak enough to even consider accepting this invitation, especially when he was resolved to prevent this man from carrying out the act he’d so audaciously offered to perform. Still, Russell stuck to the fellow’s bumper. After no more than a half mile, the SUV slid into the driveway of a tiny, yellow-brick box of a house. Russell pulled in next to the curb and watched, as the man sashayed to his mailbox to fetch an armful of mail. A faint voice was shouting, almost indiscernible, as if reason was crying out from the bottom of a well. “Don’t turn off that engine!” the distant warning demanded. “Put the car in drive and beat it!” But, by now, Russell was under the sway of two bosses... the fellow waving come hither from his porch and the stiff shaft in his trousers. Russell killed the motor, climbed out, and pocketed his keys.
The dwelling was not significantly larger than a typical two-bedroom apartment. The living room had been converted into a beauty salon, with an old-school, swiveling barber chair dominating the space. Folding tables were strewn with hair products, alongside the various tools of the hairdressing trade. “Come over here,” the host commanded. As if he had no will of his own, Russell obeyed. Spying the obvious bulge in Russell’s crotch, the hairdresser licked his lips, and muttered, “Ooo, la, la! Whatever do we have here?” As he reached for Russell’s belt buckle, Russell took a stride back. “Just relax, Honey,” the man said, “this won’t hurt one little bit.” By now, he’d snatched Russell’s belt and unhooked the buckle.
“Look,” Russell managed to utter. “Please. Stop. For just a minute.”
“Okay,” said the hairdresser, withdrawing his hands from Russell’s by-now, half-unzipped pants. He struck a Baryshnikov pose and looked down his narrow, pointed nose, directly into Russell’s eyes. “Is there a problem?”
“Not exactly.” Russell spoke haltingly. “I said I liked, you know... blowjobs. I mean, what guy doesn’t? Right?”
“Right.” Once again, the eager hairdresser grasped for Russell’s zipper. “Wish granted.”
“No! Hold on!” Russell protested loudly. He felt like a frightened, lost, little boy. “Look,” Russell continued, deliberately dialing back his vocal level by several decibels, “I really appreciate you wanting to do this. I really do.”
“You appreciate it? What the fuck does that mean? Believe me, you’ll appreciate it a lot more when I’m deep throating your Johnson.”
“I’m sure I would,” Russell admitted. “But...”
“But what?”
“Well...” Russell took a deep breath to summon up his resolve. Meanwhile, his host put a hand on a hip, cocked his head to one side, and widened his eyes, silently indicating that, while he was all ears for the moment, he wasn’t about to wait all night. “It’s... it’s just not gonna happen.”
“Okay, then, why are you here?” the flummoxed fellow snapped. “What do you think is gonna happen?” While he appeared to be genuinely peeved, he was also indicating that he might be flexible enough to consider accommodating an alternative scenario.
Okay, Russell thought to himself. Maybe this wasn’t such a horrible idea after all. “Well,” he proposed. “I’d like to... you know, do it myself. And, I’d like it... if... if you watched.”
“Okay. If you wanna pass on the best blowjob in Tennessee,” the hairdresser quipped, forcing a pinched smile, “ain’t no skin off my back.” He nodded in the direction of Russell’s bulging crotch. “Show me what you got.” Tentatively, Russell unveiled his package and, as had always been his habit, he proceeded to pull his boxer briefs and pants down below the cheeks of his buttocks. “Oh, my,” the hairdresser remarked, with a note of remorse, “such a lovely one, too.”
While masturbating in front of another man was usually a turn-on for Russell, he felt like he was on display, as if his engorged penis had been transformed into a performing sea lion. “Go ahead,” the hairdresser commanded, assuming the voice of a bitchy schoolmarm. “Do your thing, Honey. Get your rocks off.” At the moment, Russell was hard-pressed to determine if he was being mocked or if his host was actually offering encouragement. Of course, Russell’s most insecure self-speak decided that this guy was determined to humiliate him out of spite. And, for the first time ever, in a circumstance when such an opportunity presented itself, Russell’s erection began to soften and droop.
Witnessing this sad unfurling, the hairdresser remarked, “You’ve got a lovely cock, Honey. Now you know where I live. So, don’t be a stranger. You just drop on by any ol’ time. But, next time, be prepared to shove that pretty thing down my throat.” There would be no next time.
≈ ≈ ≈
Russell had left his pager in his car. The screen display showed three missed notifications... all from Tess. His head still dizzy, as if he’d just endured a brain-bruising rollercoaster ride, he sped to the closest 7-Eleven and grabbed a payphone.
“Didn’t you get my pages?” Tess queried.
“What pages?” Sensing a crisis brewing, Russell quickly realized that more concern was called for. “I’m sorry. What’s going on?”
“Well, James has been here for a half hour.”
“Fuck!” Russell exclaimed. “What time is it?”
“Almost six-thirty.”
“Oh, Jesus. I’m really running late.”
“Ya think?” she spat back, sardonically. “Where the hell have you been? Did you pick up the sweet peppers and the olive oil?”
“Of course I did.” This statement was a fabrication. But he dared not provoke additional indignation from his already fuming spouse. One lie, however, naturally leads to the next, and the next, and so on. And now, he had to come up with another excuse for why he wouldn’t be home for at least another half hour. Russell began spinning a veritable litany of falsehoods. He’d had a last-minute, late-afternoon sales appointment in Goodlettsville; a fender bender on the Interstate had tied up traffic; his pager was acting up.
“Well, just get here as soon as you can,” Tess said.
“You know I will, Babe. Still love me?” The lack of response meant one of two things: either his furious wife had already hung up, or she was intentionally leaving him dangling in the frosty breeze, without an iota of reassurance.
≈ ≈ ≈
For a time in his teens, Russell harbored aspirations of becoming a stage actor. With that goal in mind, he auditioned for and won roles in several high school theatrical productions. Twenty years after abandoning those ambitions in favor of an elusive concept called “security,” his thespian background was coming in handy. It took an Oscar-level performance for Russell to walk into his own home with a smile on his face. Tess, too, pulled off a masterful charade of pleasantry for the benefit of their guest. Russell was about to inquire why places hadn’t been set at the table for Hank and Rory. But the pizza box protruding from the trash can answered his question before he had a chance to ask.
Tension between Russell and his fed-up wife wasn’t a side dish, but sauce for the main course. Tess was finding it difficult to chew with a rigid jaw and clenched teeth. And, her being forced to endure unrelatable reminiscences between two erstwhile college mates made suffering through the evening that much more challenging. James, either oblivious to the bad vibrations or pretending to be so, paid high compliments to the chef. Russell took his own praise to absurd extremes, exuding exemplary reviews for each and every item on the menu. He knew his five-star ravings were ringing hollow. And, with his gut tied in knots, he, too, could hardly eat. Still, while poking at and pushing his food around on his plate, he did manage to swill close to a liter of wine.
Inebriated and fatigued, Russell stood at the sink, scrubbing pots and pans. He began envisioning his house of cards teetering and fluttering to the ground in disarray. For the first time since Blowjob #1, internalized confusion about his sexual identity was making the road ahead appear iffy and precarious. And, there was no one he could talk to about it.