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Russell wasn’t in denial. He’d even spoken the word bisexual out loud — and more than once — just never within earshot of loved ones or workmates. He justified this choice under the pretext of protecting everyone else from unwelcome, potentially messy information. Russell had yet to grasp the reality that his sexual orientation was as vital to the entirety of who he was as any one of his limbs, as crucial to his health and longevity as were any of his major organs. In a matter of speaking, he had tap danced through more than two decades of adulthood on one leg. Still, self-delusion told him his life wasn’t broken. So, it didn’t need fixing.
The innate irony in maintaining this kind of dual persona seems obvious. Untold numbers of men — many of them, like Russell, married to women — go to great lengths and considerable risk to satisfy their closeted desires. And, even though names are rarely exchanged, a single, fleeting, chance encounter instantly makes these men aware of one of the most intimate, essential, and personal details about each other. Russell was concealing a fundamental part of himself from friends and family members who, for good reason, presumed they knew the real Russell. Meanwhile, the real Russell was exposing that same fundamental part of himself to strangers who didn’t know him at all. What Russell kept from the closest and dearest people in his life, he willingly put on display for folks he cared nothing for and who, in all likelihood, he would never encounter again. In fact, Russell’s sexual attraction to other men was the sum total of what those other men knew about him and all Russell knew about them as well.
Sustaining this pretense came with periods of high anxiety. In their original incarnations, these frets mostly centered around the health risk, the possibility of endangering his wife’s wellbeing or, absolute worst-case-scenario, getting found out. But one thing Russell had never lost a wink of sleep over was the possibility of falling in love with another man. Then, along came Bryan to throw a monkey wrench into Russell’s not-broke-why-fix-it, one-legged pogo dance. Bryan had left no ambiguity regarding his interest in taking the next step with Russell. All Russell had to do was give the go sign and the two men could begin exploring the kind of adventure Russell had never before considered feasible. As assertive as Bryan tended to be, it seemed out of character for him to sit back and let Russell make the next move. So, as Russell prolonged his fence straddling, he began to wonder how long Bryan would be willing to wait for a wishy-washy potential fuck buddy to give him the thumbs up.
For nearly three weeks, Russell was caught, helplessly riding a pendulum of emotions, swinging first to one extreme, then pulled by gravity to sweep back to the opposite oscillation. Some mornings, he arose convinced that he needed to cut off what seemed a certain catastrophe at its roots. By that same afternoon, he’d be drifting off into lusty reveries, with his niggling inner voice saying you’d be a fool to pass up such a dream setup. But, before he could take that step, his feet would get cold again, his cranium echoing with what ifs: If I did give the high sign, what if I couldn’t go through with it? What would that make me in Bryan’s eyes? What if we gave it a shot, and it didn’t feel right? Where would that leave us? And, oh dear! What if one of us got his heart broken?
By stark contrast, Russell never battled timidity in professional settings. On the job, he was armed with a smile, a business card, and a well-rehearsed script. He was there in an official capacity, representing a reputable corporate institution and a quality product. Knowing that a salesman’s first job is to sell himself, he wore affability like a finely tailored suit, one he could slip into and out of at will, without so much as snagging a toenail. Every sales vet also knows that an unreceptive response must never be taken personally... Ya win some, ya lose some. Every “no” just gets you closer to the next “yes.” Rejection comes with the territory. Russell could recite Zig Ziglar in his sleep. With Bryan, however, Russell was the product; and, not just a part of him, the whole kit and caboodle, soup to nuts, inside and out. Thus, even though his customer was itching to take a test drive, Russell found himself paralyzed with doubt, afraid of getting in over his head, incapable of closing the deal.
On the con side of the ledger, everything about accepting Bryan’s proposition stood in contradiction to Russell’s most basic policies of self-protection: Avoid physical contact; never share personal information; and don’t be with the same person more than once. Adhering strictly to this playbook functioned double duty, by preventing exposure to STIs and scotching any possibility of emotional entanglements. Now, Russell was contemplating tearing up the very rulebook he had authored for himself just to see what might happen with this impossibly handsome, undeniably sexy, but also promiscuous guy. Russell knew that sexual contact with Bryan presented another, very real potential peril, by exposing him to whatever germ Bryan might have picked up out there in the woods.
Still, even those blaring alarms failed to quash Russell’s Bryan fixation. He daydreamed about running his hands through the dark fur forest on Bryan’s chest. In vivid, sensual detail, Russell imagined rubbing his nose and cheek against the soft skin between Bryan’s upper legs. He envisioned nibbling Bryan’s scrotum, fondling his stiff soldier, licking its helmet like a lollipop, clutching the cheeks of Bryan’s muscular buttocks and plunging the entire shaft down his throat. Of course, Russell had never actually indulged in any of the pleasures playing out so luridly on his mental porn screen. The fact that Russell had zero hands-on experience and, therefore, could claim zero expertise when it came to the things he so longed to do added yet another reason for prolonging the stall.
Russell was finding it nearly impossible to stop such mind meanderings from affecting his concentration at the office. But these focus issues became far more irksome on the Little League diamond, with the object of his obsession standing nearby, always poised and ready to be of service. Oh, Russell mused to himself, Bryan could service me anytime. Just say when and where, Big Guy, I’ll be there. Russell’s self-discipline was growing weaker with every passing week. If Bryan had dropped trou on the pitcher’s mound in full view of the packed bleachers, Russell would have fallen to his knees and gobbled him whole.
Then, upon the midway point of the Pirates’ season, Bryan’s wife brought Russell’s Catch 22 a chapter closer to its conclusion by tendering a return dinner invitation. “What do you say, Babe?” Tess asked. “I told Diane I needed to ask you.”
“I bet Lady Antebellum loved hearing that,” Russell joked.
“Shut up,” Tess shot back, playfully. “You are so bad sometimes!” Russell’s better half had no idea how true this statement was. “Anyway,” Tess continued, “she said Bryan was totally into it. Actually, I think she told me it was his suggestion.” Russell’s heart skipped a beat. He felt faint. Hearing that this dinner invite had been Bryan’s idea made it an unambiguous signal. This was the impetus he needed to finally make his move, one way or the other. Knowing that he was approaching a critical fork in the road ahead made Russell’s knees wobble. He clutched the bar stool to prevent from folding onto the kitchen floor like a marionette with broken strings.
“You okay, Babe?” Tess inquired. “You look sort of...”
“Shaky, yeah,” Russell muttered, taking a seat. “I’m okay now.”
“Are you sure?” She was sincerely concerned. “Maybe we should call the doctor.”
“No, no, no!” he insisted. “I’m fine. Just a little dizzy spell. Happens now and then. Only lasts a second.”
“Russ! If you’ve been having dizzy spells, you should...”
“I’m fine!” Russell snapped, with far more intensity than he’d intended. The expression on Tess’s face was one of shock, with a dollop of fear. Her husband lashing out this way was out of character.
“I was just...” Tess began. She couldn’t seem to find the words.
“I know, Babe,” Russell said. “I’m sorry. But, I am fine. And,” — he summoned up his inner salesman, deliberately modulating his voice to convey cheerful enthusiasm — “And, I’m also totally fine with having dinner at the Bailey’s!”
“Okay.” A note of skepticism still lingered in her voice. “I’ll confirm it with Diane.”
“Book it!” Russell exclaimed, exhibiting a grotesque smile and slapping his hand on the granite counter top. Tess looked at her husband as though she suspected an alien creature had slithered in and seized control of his body. More often than not, Tess’s intuition could intercept and decode another person’s thoughts before that person even had a chance to unscramble them. Now, it was Russell trying to get a glimpse into his wife’s head. And, if she was thinking what Russell suspected she was thinking, her hunch was correct. Russell’s body — and his soul! — had been invaded. What she couldn’t have suspected was that the invasive creature hadn’t come from outer space. His name was Bryan. He had electric-blue eyes, thick, black hair, and a wicked smile to die for.
≈ ≈ ≈
Upon a Sunday evening in early July at six-thirty p.m., Russell, Tess, Hank, and Rory stood on the porch of a red-brick lot hog, nearly identical to every other domicile in an upscale, Disneyesque housing development. As the front door opened, Russell’s heart leaped in anticipation. Acting in the butler role, Carter extended a greeting. “Hi, Coach.” With his attention fixed over Carter’s shoulder, scanning for the boy’s father, Russell missed this salutation.
“Don’t mind him,” Tess said. “He’s rude. His mother didn’t raise him right.”
Peals of laughter from the three boys caught Russell’s attention. “What?” he queried. “Did I miss something? What’s so funny?”
Just then, the object of Russell’s obsession materialized, costumed for the occasion in barbecue apron and chef’s hat. Russell found Bryan’s guise so adorable, it was all he could do to restrain myself from scooting over and giving his host an affectionate smooch on the lips. “Come on in, you guys!” Bryan was offering a wave with his oven-mitted hand when he caught something alarming in the corner of his eye. “Shit!” he exclaimed, before vanishing as quickly as he’d appeared. A patio door was heard sliding shut. The next noise was Bryan’s distant voice shouting, “Get the fuck out of here! Damn it! God-damn, fucking pest!”
The neighbor’s cat yanking an eight-pound salmon off the marinating tray and onto the grass was merely the first debacle in what was to become an evening rife with mishaps. Diane scalded the rice, which was very garlicky as it turned out, making it impossible for Tess to eat, even if it had been properly prepared. The wine Russell brought had gone bad. The pie was undercooked, and the ice cream had melted into something resembling cold clam chowder. Under other circumstances, such a comedy of errors might have resulted in laughter over the absolute absurdity of it all. However, a final event — this one totally non-accidental — served to bring the occasion to its unceremonious conclusion. And, in a matter of a quick, inexplicable two minutes, a burgeoning friendship between two families found itself standing at a premature dead end.
Diane was already mortified by how poorly the evening had gone. But, her embarrassment couldn’t possibly provide adequate justification for the words that spewed so callously from her mouth. And, to further aggravate this offense, the context of those words revealed her blackest heart. Russell had never cared for women like Diane. Although he wasn’t one to toss individuals into generalized buckets, he couldn’t help but see Diane as a stereotype, one from which, in his eyes, she never deviated. Russell had met a thousand Dianes — prissy, entitled, white, southern Christian girls, mired in a starched, outdated tradition of presumed moral superiority, quiet judgment, and disingenuous gentility. Learning that Diane had attended Clear Creek Baptist Bible College only reconfirmed Russell’s initial impression. That she applied her undergrad degree to the sole purpose of snagging a handsome, successful husband also fell in perfect box step with generations of debutante culture.
Co-eds of such conservative Christian institutions wear promise rings to flaunt their pledge to remain virgins until their wedding nights. At the same time, they spend weekday evenings in their dorm rooms deep-throating bananas, preparing to dole out blowjobs to their Friday- and Saturday-night dates. She who waits not for marriage to do the deed God created for the exclusive purpose of making more little Christian babies is most definitely flirting with eternal damnation. Meanwhile, here in the mortal world, the randy little slut runs the risk of being shamed and shunned by her snotty, holier-than-thou sorority sisters. Imprint that inexplicable moral code on a girl whose rite of passage spawned from cotillion classes — learning the exact firmness of a just-firm-enough handshake and how to avoid stepping on a waltz partner’s freshly buffed Florsheims — and, whose debut into “respectful society” involved being put on display like a prize calf adorned in a dozen petticoats, and you get Diane. Too, you get suburban neighborhoods populated by phony, shallow, vindictive women from the same mold, whose lives revolve around unquestioned obedience to their husbands, maintaining a fixed smile no matter what, and popping out perfect replications of Great, Great Grandmother Beauregard’s pecan pie.
“I can’t eat this,” Hank blurted. “The crust is like... all gooey.” The boy’s unsolicited culinary review was indisputable. Diane should have left the pie in the oven longer. Speechless discomfort descended upon the dinner table like autumnal drizzle. Everyone felt the chill. For the first time since the meeting of these two families, Diane relinquished her Miss America smile to expose the wrinkles around her collagen-injected lips. She just sat there, making no pretense at refinement, jaw clenched, her squinted eyes shooting lasers across the table at poor, painfully candid Hank. Certainly, a proper gentleman from Diane’s crinoline-lined ecosphere would have kept such commentary to himself. A true son of the Confederacy would have gobbled up every crumb of his hostess’s under-baked pie, and asked for seconds. Still, not a single soul spoke up on behalf of the half-baked pastry.
To Russell’s surprise, even Tess couldn’t muster up sufficient motivation to offer Diane reassurance. Nor did she insist that Hank offer an apology for his rudeness. “Would you like to be excused from the table, Hank?” Tess asked.
“Mmm, hmmm,” her son mumbled, guiltily.
“I’m sorry,” she replied. “Let’s try that again. Hank, would you like to be excused?”
“Yes, Ma’am.”
“Yes, Ma’am, what?”
Providing defense counsel, Carter whispered a prompt into Hank’s ear. “May I please be excused?” Hank asked.
“Now you’re talkin’!” Tess hinted a smile. “Was that so difficult?” A bit of a smirk crossed the boy’s face, as he awaited permission to leave the table. “Yes, Hank, you may be excused.”
Russell had brought a bubble-making kit, thinking it might keep the boys outdoors for a little longer. Fresh air would be much better for their youthful lungs than the stale, stifling atmosphere in front of the Nintendo screen. Hank, Rory, and Carter commenced floating large, glistening orbs over the grass. While Rory and Carter attacked the wobbly soap balloons like Wallace’s warriors on the Braveheart battlefield, Hank invented a less violent, clownish approach, twirling across the lawn like a wood nymph, leaping into the air, contorting his portly frame in slapstick attempts to burst the bubbles with his nose and forehead. Tess and Russell found genuine amusement in their older son’s silly, improvised, backyard ballet. Seeing him playing with such uninhibited, joyful exuberance was a rare treat. Diane, however, still smarting from an honest statement made by an 11-year-old child, was entertaining other thoughts. “You guys better watch out with that one,” she warned, her eyes leering at Hank’s Isadora Duncan parody in progress. “If you don’t cut this behavior off right away, you might just have a fairy on your hands.”
This tactless, wholly uncalled-for judgment of the boy — and of Tess and Russell as parents — plunged the ambient temperature to unprecedented depths of discomfort. Russell might have spoken up, and not the least bit civilly, had his wife not cut him off before he could make matters even worse. “Oh, dear!” Tess exclaimed. “Look at the time!”
“Oh, dang!” Russell was catching her drift. “What time is it, Babe?”
“Well, let’s see...” Tess checking her watch was a dead giveaway, revealing her sudden “concern” about the lateness of the evening for what it was: a deliberate tactic to prevent an unpleasant confrontation and make way for a quick exit.
“It’s only eight-fifteen,” interjected Bryan. “I thought we were gonna play Balderdash.”
“Pictionary,” Diane corrected him, with the absolute certitude of someone who desperately needed to be right about something. “We were going to play Pictionary.”
“But you know I hate Pictionary,” Bryan argued. “I suck at that game.”
“Everybody sucks at something,” quipped Russell. Perhaps, he was thinking, a little levity might ease the tension. Bryan and Russell exchanged knowing glances, both acknowledging the subtext of a certain verb.
“So true. So true,” Bryan agreed, faking pensive seriousness. “So, what do you suck at, Coach?”
“Well, Sir. In my lifetime, I’ve sucked at lots of things.” Despite the fraught nature of the moment, Russell allowed a wry grin. “But, not Pictionary.”
“Look out!” declared Bryan. “The gauntlet has been thrown down! Does that mean the game is on?” The wives had no clue their hubbies were speaking in coded language.
“Absolutely,” Russell responded, locking eyes with the man he’d been fantasizing about for weeks. “But not tonight.”
“Criminy!” exclaimed Bryan. “I was dying to find out who sucks more.”
“Well, Darlin’...” By now, Diane had repositioned her debutante smile mask across her taught, rigid face. “I guess we’re just going to have to wait for next time to find out.” Then, in blue-blooded southern-plantation speak, she drawled, “Apparently, our guests have grown weary of our company.”
In her world of artifice, Diane had just issued a cue, to which a true friend would respond with something like, “Oh, don’t be silly, Diane! We treasure every single moment with you and your lovely family.” However, the re-assurance she anticipated didn’t materialize. And, in the ensuing silence, that well-practiced smile once again became too heavy a lift.