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Chapter or Story
Disclaimer: All characters and events in this story are fictitious, and any similarity to a real person, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and unintended by the author. "The Pretender" is a protected trademark of MTM Television and NBC and the characters of that series are used herein with no mean intent or desire for remuneration. It is, instead, a tribute to innovative television, that rare and welcome phenomenon.
Parts: 2
Rating: NC-17 (male/male sexual situations)
Feedback: yes
Copyright: 1997
The Passage of the Chameleon
Part One
of Two
There were two of them, an older man and a younger women, that showed up at the door of my loft one wet evening shortly after it all happened. They didn't bother to introduce themselves, show me identification or anything, they pushed right in, held a picture of the man I'd known as "Jarod" under my nose, with the woman barking perfunctorily: "Do you know this man? You do, don't you", while the man shrugged apologetically before putting the picture away.
"Do I get a chance to say no?", I inquired, backing down into my office area. I felt I didn't want them anywhere else in my place, if I had to tolerate them at all.
"Don't play games with me", the woman snapped. My, but she was an unpleasant piece of work. She sat down in my office chair, at my computer, crossing one business-suited leg over the other. "Come on, spill. I bet you love to dish. You've just been dying to tell someone - and look, here we are!"
I sat down on the edge of my desk, disdaining my rickety visitor's chair, while the older man leaned against my filing cabinet. Giving the woman a good hard stare, I tried to infuriate her even further, although I doubted that would drive her away. "You look as if you could do with a good long session with a hair stylist. And a facial treatment. Definitely there is something you could do for your eye zone. You should relax. And you definitely shouldn't smoke" - that to the fact that she'd just compulsively pulled a packet of menthols from her handbag and lit the first one -"or you'll soon look double your age."
The older guy suppressed a grin, while she stared at me with those reptilian eyes, eyes that were uncaring enough to deserve the cliché.
"Unfortunately, I am not in the beautification business, so I can't help you with any of these. You seem to have come to the wrong place after all. I am a freelance philosopher, and I don't think I have anything to offer to the likes of you."
"Perhaps this will help", she said, pulled out a dainty pistol from where the cigarettes had been, and began toying with it in a studiedly casual manner.
I saw no reason not to tell them, really. As I knew Jarod, that resourceful weirdo was two steps ahead of his pursuers no matter what I said; and to be completely honest, I felt that what I had to tell would gall the disgusting woman no end. I held my hand out to the guy still leaning against my filing cabinet. "Give me that picture again."
He handed it over to me, and I studied it. Not that I needed any visual aid to speed my recollection of him. He was completely serious in the picture, in some kind of suit before a dark background. No trace of that small smile I'd so come to love in him, or the big, infectious grin he had when he was up to something. No trace of my Jarod, relaxed on my sofa, head cushioned on my thigh while seriously and intently watching almost every single Star Trek episode I had in the house with me, or laughing helplessly and uproariously in my arms when he finally got what was so funny about the quadrotriticale.
I got up, crossed over to my pinboard, and hung up the picture beside the notes for my forthcoming article in Wired. "Thank you for giving me something to remember him by."
The woman dropped her ash on my desk, and eyed me with cold fury. I wished she'd stop that, or I'd sooner or later run out of descriptives for her nasty stare.
"You are welcome, if you would kindly share your remembrance with us", the man said calmly. I wondered whether this was the first time they encountered persons who wanted to keep the photos of Jarod they were shown. I bet it wasn't. I bet they carried a rather large supply.
"How long have you known him, what did he call himself in this little episode, and what exactly was your relationship with him?", the woman hissed with an expression I am loath to describe again; let it suffice to say it was her usual one.
I sat down on the edge of my desk again. "I guess you are the people who have done all this to him. I guess I shouldn't tell you anything at all, only I have a feeling that even your visit to me is part of whatever larger game he is playing with you, and he wants me to tell you. A bit unhealthy, that obsession he has with his former tormentors. He should just be glad to be clear of you, but then, this is really common behavior among victims of abduction and abuse, and even Jarod isn't above that. Or perhaps he still wants something from you, and that's why he's leading you on such an extended paper trail. Anyway, whatever you were doing to him, I think it was atrocious of you never to let the kid watch any television at all." I grinned at the guy, and he opened his mouth for a justification, but then thought the better of it.
"He said his name was Jarod. I never knew his last name, and I was under the distinct impression he didn't, either. He first turned up for one of the self-defense classes for gay men I teach here on Tuesday nights, and he stayed on after the others had gone. He was desperate for any kind of attention or affection. I can't tell whether he was really gay, or just pretending to be for the sake of that elaborate game he plays with you, but I think he didn't perceive himself as anything at all in that way, neither gay nor straight. I really don't want to imagine what you must have done to him to damage him so fundamentally, to stop him from thinking of himself as a sexual creature. I realized there was something deeply wrong with him when I found out he'd never ever even heard of Star Trek."
"You said you were a philosopher, but now you mention teaching self-defense classes", the guy pointed out.
"I know it sounds inconsistent, but martial arts have always been my hobby, even when I was a kid. I kept it up when I found out I was gay, and even later when I found out I was a philosopher. I hold black belts in several of them, and I thought I'd share the basics of my knowledge with my gay brethren, as my contribution to solidarity and all that. Those classes aren't anything much, they're mostly about them overcoming the inhibition to hit back, to let out their anger."
* * * *
That had been odd about Jarod, too. My strange avenging angel had never hesitated to inflict bodily damage, and he instinctively took up the right positions for the fight, so I'd called on him often to demonstrate to the others what I meant, and he took to it like a fish to water, or a bird to the air. He certainly seemed to know what he was on about, and I wondered what he was doing here at all. Perhaps he wanted a friendly place to practice. I didn't mind. Any gay was welcome, and from the very fact he was here, I of course assumed he was gay. I'd noticed him the moment he joined our circle before practice the first Tuesday he came, about three weeks back.
"Hi, I'm Jarod", he said, artlessly, with that sweet, shy smile of his, glancing around at all of us.
"Welcome, Jarod", I said, grinning inanely. His body was a perfect example of manhood, his demeanor simple and extremely matter-of-fact, but there was some expression, perhaps in his eyes, of an utterly lost and disoriented little boy that made me instantly fall in love with him.
I threw him a few times during that lesson, and he me, to the good-natured cheering of my other pupils, who were greatly encouraged by his proficiency. He exuded a sense of taking no nonsense from any putative queer-bashers that might happen upon him.
After the others had drifted off, he lingered, and I felt compelled to comment on his style of fighting, just to have something to say. "You're brilliant. If there is anything you could work on, it would be economy of motion, though. You do a little bit to much of everything. I have always preferred the Mr. Spock approach to a fight to the Captain Kirk one, if you catch my meaning."
He clearly did not.
"You know, from the original Star Trek series. You don't look too young to remember it, no offense meant."
"Star Trek", he stated, neither a question nor a dawning recognition of what I meant. Just a term to be filed away for future research.
"You're not telling me you never even heard of Star Trek! Where have you been, with the Amish people or something?"
"Amish people?" That was clearly a question.
"Never mind. I have some on tape, in fact, I think I have almost all of them. You best go and take a shower" - I gestured towards the bathroom - "and I'll find a nice and typical episode for us to watch so you can see what I am on about."
There was such gratitude in his eyes for my offer, almost tears at being made welcome in this way, that I had to take him in my arms and stroke his close-cropped head, which he let drop against my shoulder, instinctively seeking intimacy as if it had been denied to him for an unbearably long time. I just held him and let him relax against me, let him discover the feeling of being embraced, caressed, not alone.
After a while, he pulled away and said "I better take that shower before the sweat dries on me", and turned to go as if to the gas chamber, anticipating the inevitable rejection. I kissed him lightly on the lips to reassure him.
"I'll be right here. And don't use up all the hot water, I need a shower, too. While you're in there, I'll find us the right episode. Towels are in the cupboard by the radiator."
He slouched towards the bathroom, obviously much reassured, and after he'd closed the door I heard something resembling a triumphal whoop. Smiling to myself, I searched my video shelf for the perfect episode to introduce my guest to the wonders of Star Trek. I shortly considered the Tribbles episode, the Pon Farr episode, even the last one where Kirk exchanges bodies with a woman, or the wonderful "This Side of Paradise", but then decided to begin with "The Enemy Within", in which Kirk is split in two halves, a "good" and a "bad" one, as result of a transporter accident. That might ring a bell in Jarod all right.
Having found the tape, put it in the VCR and wound it to the beginning of the episode, I began to ruminate whether I should offer my strange guest something to eat when he himself emerged from the shower, dressed in one of my old track pants, and a t-shirt depicting that funny outtake of Spock with a lollipop in his mouth. "Sorry", he said sheepishly, "but I really didn't feel like putting on my street clothes."
I laughed. "You're welcome. That is Mr. Spock, by the way."
He peered down on himself and said "Nice ears."
"It's not only the ears", I grinned, "but yes, they're very much part of it. Just wait and give me a few minutes to take a shower, too."
When I emerged again, I found him in the kitchen area, assembling some rather fascinating sandwiches involving ingredients I didn't even know I had, including insta-cheese. "I hope you don't mind, but I felt hungry."
Something in the way he just went straight ahead to satisfy his needs moved me. There was a curious lack of limits in him. He'd freely give all of himself, and take from others what he needed, but he felt vulnerable at having been caught at it. I don't know how much of this is mere hindsight, though.-
I went to him and took him in my arms, burying my face in his strong neck and the little hairs there. I kissed him behind the ear, then let go of him and invited him and his sandwiches to my sofa. "You are allowed. In fact, you feel as if you'd belong here already." I meant it as an expression of my emerging love for him, and to reassure him, but in hindsight I feel that this exactly was his great talent in life.
* * * *
"There was something absolutely fascinating and disconcerting in the way he watched Star Trek", I told the woman. "He took it all in, extremely intent and alert till the last closing credits finished. He'd cuddle up to me on the sofa, putting his head on my thigh, or my chest, or my belly (his favorite place), relaxing totally against me, and then he couldn't be stirred up again. He was so incredible methodical about it; from the very beginning it was clear he'd have to watch the whole series, and would come back again and again until he'd seen all of them. And in the commercial breaks, he'd ask endless questions. He wanted every gap filled in. There was something compulsive or obsessive about it that would have scared me if it hadn't touched me so much. He'd let me kiss him, but his eyes couldn't be swayed from the screen. He was catching up on something he'd missed out on all his life. In the end, he almost admitted as much to me. He was on a binge; and it seemed to me that he normally didn't share these things with anyone, and I felt very privileged that he let me come so close."
I could almost see the green fume coming from the woman's ears, so I kept right at it.
"He was extremely affectionate, almost as if he was bingeing on tenderness as much as he was on Star Trek. I began to suspect that he'd been deprived of all theses things, systematically deprived. Something in the way he held onto me told me that he had been indescribably lonely during much of his life, and I just gave him whatever he wanted."
* * * *
Sex didn't really enter into it, but I wasn't going to give her the satisfaction of telling her. From the first, I felt that it would be some subtle kind of abuse to sleep with him. Oh, he was prepared for that all right, but that in itself made me wary. He ostentatiously carried some condoms in the back pocket of his jeans, brightly willing to do whatever was necessary to win my confidence, my affection, my love, whatever it was he wanted. Maybe all of these. But I wasn't going to make him pay. He was too innocent for that. I was sure I'd feel it when he arrived at the stage of really wanting it for its own sake.
We quickly developed some kind of pattern for our life together. After the last Star Trek episode of the night, when I'd be almost asleep, he'd sit up and hold me even closer for a while, kissing me and pressing his face against mine, then he quickly got up, went to the bathroom, changed into his jeans and leather jacket, while I sleepily ambled over towards the door, where he'd kiss me a last time before letting himself out. He would do whatever it was he did during the day, turning up at my door sometime during the evening, knowing full well that he was expected and welcome. A training session first, during which we would give each other real hell, and then, after an hour or, so we would shower, strictly separately. I always got to select the tapes for the night while he was in the shower, and he'd make us dinner of sorts. His taste was eccentric, to put it mildly. He sometimes brought bags of the weirdest groceries and would proudly show me what he'd bought for us, with that big grin of his, like a kid with a new toy. All the world seemed made up of new toys for him.
When Tuesday rolled around again, and it was time for another class, he made no pretense of being just another pupil. He let everyone see how proud he was to belong with me, and we teamed up to teach the others.
On that Tuesday, things really began to happen. Well, the guys from the class of course made some swish remarks about us, and he took them all in good nature, camping along with them in a way I'd never seen him when we were alone. He just fell right in the mood. I had been a bit defensive at first, thinking I'd need to protect him, but he handled them all right. He didn't do anything to discourage sexual allusions, either. He gave me a short glance, as if to make sure I was with him on that, and then went right ahead, laughingly implying we had about the greatest time in bed since the invention of sex. I didn't quite get yet why he needed to pretend, if he was masking some imagined or real inadequacy, but I let him feel that I was with him on this, that I was on the inside with him while all the world got to see only the outside. Again, I got the distinct impression that I was an absolute first in this, that this complicity was in way deeper than even sex for him. I got to pretend right along with him instead of being a mere recipient of his art.
There were more people at the class than usual. The need to defend themselves had grown among gays, it seemed, and after class I got to hear why, and that was pretty dramatic. I had been rather out of things for a while, first writing my contribution to a collection of essays on human-machine interaction, and then closeting myself away with Jarod, but it seemed there was a serial killer of gay couples loose in the city. Three pairs of them had already been found beside the river, in a favorite cruising area, bled to death, their genitals having been cut off. It was utterly gruesome, and I wondered how I could have lived in such ignorance. Apparently the killer struck once a month, the last attack having been three weeks ago. Police were trying to keep things quiet, but something had leaked, and the monthly gay newspaper had carried an article about the killer last Friday, hence the increased attendance. What really made me gasp was that Jarod, my innocent Jarod, seemed to know all about it, and was morbidly curious, pumping them for information in his campest manner, so they didn't even notice they were being systematically questioned. Again, he simply trusted me to back him up. When I suggested just avoiding the area until the killer was caught, I was hooted down. It seemed to be a matter of principle to them. Jarod became extremely and astonishingly angry, too. He said he wasn't going to tolerate anything of that kind, that we couldn't hide away further and further until there was no longer a place left to hide. That would mean going right back into the closet.
Someone from the class suggested the police would get the killer, but Jarod wouldn't have any of that, quoting a string of unsolved serial killings of gays all over the country. It seemed he didn't trust the police one bit. Everyone vaguely agreed that the community needed to take some action, although I shortly questioned the shape that action might take. "If you happened upon the killer, I'm sure you'd fight, too", Jarod said to me after the others had left. The question was serious, and I answered it seriously.
"Of course. I'd deliver him in shreds to the police."
Jarod gave me that sweet, small smile of his. "Good", he said, kissed me, and went to the shower.
While I showered, Jarod made a guacamole that made me finally lose my composure. Not because it was so good (although it was very good), but because of the way he explained it all to me, about how the woman in the shop had told him to do this and that, and told him her secret ingredient, but he wasn't telling me, because he'd promised. He was so clearly doing all this for the very first time. While he was still going on about it, I broke into tears. He turned to me, dropped the fork he'd been stirring the guacamole with, and took me in his arms, holding me against his shoulder, kissing my neck, letting me cry. "Whatever have they done to you?", I sobbed, and when I looked up, I saw he was silently crying along with me, although he hardly knew why. "What have they done to you so you missed out on so much in life. Star Trek, cooking, all this stuff."
He heaved a deep sigh. "You really don't want to know about them", he said, kissing me until we'd calmed down and he could return to his guacamole.
Parts: 2
Rating: NC-17 (male/male sexual situations)
Feedback: yes
Copyright: 1997
Part One
of Two
There were two of them, an older man and a younger women, that showed up at the door of my loft one wet evening shortly after it all happened. They didn't bother to introduce themselves, show me identification or anything, they pushed right in, held a picture of the man I'd known as "Jarod" under my nose, with the woman barking perfunctorily: "Do you know this man? You do, don't you", while the man shrugged apologetically before putting the picture away.
"Do I get a chance to say no?", I inquired, backing down into my office area. I felt I didn't want them anywhere else in my place, if I had to tolerate them at all.
"Don't play games with me", the woman snapped. My, but she was an unpleasant piece of work. She sat down in my office chair, at my computer, crossing one business-suited leg over the other. "Come on, spill. I bet you love to dish. You've just been dying to tell someone - and look, here we are!"
I sat down on the edge of my desk, disdaining my rickety visitor's chair, while the older man leaned against my filing cabinet. Giving the woman a good hard stare, I tried to infuriate her even further, although I doubted that would drive her away. "You look as if you could do with a good long session with a hair stylist. And a facial treatment. Definitely there is something you could do for your eye zone. You should relax. And you definitely shouldn't smoke" - that to the fact that she'd just compulsively pulled a packet of menthols from her handbag and lit the first one -"or you'll soon look double your age."
The older guy suppressed a grin, while she stared at me with those reptilian eyes, eyes that were uncaring enough to deserve the cliché.
"Unfortunately, I am not in the beautification business, so I can't help you with any of these. You seem to have come to the wrong place after all. I am a freelance philosopher, and I don't think I have anything to offer to the likes of you."
"Perhaps this will help", she said, pulled out a dainty pistol from where the cigarettes had been, and began toying with it in a studiedly casual manner.
I saw no reason not to tell them, really. As I knew Jarod, that resourceful weirdo was two steps ahead of his pursuers no matter what I said; and to be completely honest, I felt that what I had to tell would gall the disgusting woman no end. I held my hand out to the guy still leaning against my filing cabinet. "Give me that picture again."
He handed it over to me, and I studied it. Not that I needed any visual aid to speed my recollection of him. He was completely serious in the picture, in some kind of suit before a dark background. No trace of that small smile I'd so come to love in him, or the big, infectious grin he had when he was up to something. No trace of my Jarod, relaxed on my sofa, head cushioned on my thigh while seriously and intently watching almost every single Star Trek episode I had in the house with me, or laughing helplessly and uproariously in my arms when he finally got what was so funny about the quadrotriticale.
I got up, crossed over to my pinboard, and hung up the picture beside the notes for my forthcoming article in Wired. "Thank you for giving me something to remember him by."
The woman dropped her ash on my desk, and eyed me with cold fury. I wished she'd stop that, or I'd sooner or later run out of descriptives for her nasty stare.
"You are welcome, if you would kindly share your remembrance with us", the man said calmly. I wondered whether this was the first time they encountered persons who wanted to keep the photos of Jarod they were shown. I bet it wasn't. I bet they carried a rather large supply.
"How long have you known him, what did he call himself in this little episode, and what exactly was your relationship with him?", the woman hissed with an expression I am loath to describe again; let it suffice to say it was her usual one.
I sat down on the edge of my desk again. "I guess you are the people who have done all this to him. I guess I shouldn't tell you anything at all, only I have a feeling that even your visit to me is part of whatever larger game he is playing with you, and he wants me to tell you. A bit unhealthy, that obsession he has with his former tormentors. He should just be glad to be clear of you, but then, this is really common behavior among victims of abduction and abuse, and even Jarod isn't above that. Or perhaps he still wants something from you, and that's why he's leading you on such an extended paper trail. Anyway, whatever you were doing to him, I think it was atrocious of you never to let the kid watch any television at all." I grinned at the guy, and he opened his mouth for a justification, but then thought the better of it.
"He said his name was Jarod. I never knew his last name, and I was under the distinct impression he didn't, either. He first turned up for one of the self-defense classes for gay men I teach here on Tuesday nights, and he stayed on after the others had gone. He was desperate for any kind of attention or affection. I can't tell whether he was really gay, or just pretending to be for the sake of that elaborate game he plays with you, but I think he didn't perceive himself as anything at all in that way, neither gay nor straight. I really don't want to imagine what you must have done to him to damage him so fundamentally, to stop him from thinking of himself as a sexual creature. I realized there was something deeply wrong with him when I found out he'd never ever even heard of Star Trek."
"You said you were a philosopher, but now you mention teaching self-defense classes", the guy pointed out.
"I know it sounds inconsistent, but martial arts have always been my hobby, even when I was a kid. I kept it up when I found out I was gay, and even later when I found out I was a philosopher. I hold black belts in several of them, and I thought I'd share the basics of my knowledge with my gay brethren, as my contribution to solidarity and all that. Those classes aren't anything much, they're mostly about them overcoming the inhibition to hit back, to let out their anger."
That had been odd about Jarod, too. My strange avenging angel had never hesitated to inflict bodily damage, and he instinctively took up the right positions for the fight, so I'd called on him often to demonstrate to the others what I meant, and he took to it like a fish to water, or a bird to the air. He certainly seemed to know what he was on about, and I wondered what he was doing here at all. Perhaps he wanted a friendly place to practice. I didn't mind. Any gay was welcome, and from the very fact he was here, I of course assumed he was gay. I'd noticed him the moment he joined our circle before practice the first Tuesday he came, about three weeks back.
"Hi, I'm Jarod", he said, artlessly, with that sweet, shy smile of his, glancing around at all of us.
"Welcome, Jarod", I said, grinning inanely. His body was a perfect example of manhood, his demeanor simple and extremely matter-of-fact, but there was some expression, perhaps in his eyes, of an utterly lost and disoriented little boy that made me instantly fall in love with him.
I threw him a few times during that lesson, and he me, to the good-natured cheering of my other pupils, who were greatly encouraged by his proficiency. He exuded a sense of taking no nonsense from any putative queer-bashers that might happen upon him.
After the others had drifted off, he lingered, and I felt compelled to comment on his style of fighting, just to have something to say. "You're brilliant. If there is anything you could work on, it would be economy of motion, though. You do a little bit to much of everything. I have always preferred the Mr. Spock approach to a fight to the Captain Kirk one, if you catch my meaning."
He clearly did not.
"You know, from the original Star Trek series. You don't look too young to remember it, no offense meant."
"Star Trek", he stated, neither a question nor a dawning recognition of what I meant. Just a term to be filed away for future research.
"You're not telling me you never even heard of Star Trek! Where have you been, with the Amish people or something?"
"Amish people?" That was clearly a question.
"Never mind. I have some on tape, in fact, I think I have almost all of them. You best go and take a shower" - I gestured towards the bathroom - "and I'll find a nice and typical episode for us to watch so you can see what I am on about."
There was such gratitude in his eyes for my offer, almost tears at being made welcome in this way, that I had to take him in my arms and stroke his close-cropped head, which he let drop against my shoulder, instinctively seeking intimacy as if it had been denied to him for an unbearably long time. I just held him and let him relax against me, let him discover the feeling of being embraced, caressed, not alone.
After a while, he pulled away and said "I better take that shower before the sweat dries on me", and turned to go as if to the gas chamber, anticipating the inevitable rejection. I kissed him lightly on the lips to reassure him.
"I'll be right here. And don't use up all the hot water, I need a shower, too. While you're in there, I'll find us the right episode. Towels are in the cupboard by the radiator."
He slouched towards the bathroom, obviously much reassured, and after he'd closed the door I heard something resembling a triumphal whoop. Smiling to myself, I searched my video shelf for the perfect episode to introduce my guest to the wonders of Star Trek. I shortly considered the Tribbles episode, the Pon Farr episode, even the last one where Kirk exchanges bodies with a woman, or the wonderful "This Side of Paradise", but then decided to begin with "The Enemy Within", in which Kirk is split in two halves, a "good" and a "bad" one, as result of a transporter accident. That might ring a bell in Jarod all right.
Having found the tape, put it in the VCR and wound it to the beginning of the episode, I began to ruminate whether I should offer my strange guest something to eat when he himself emerged from the shower, dressed in one of my old track pants, and a t-shirt depicting that funny outtake of Spock with a lollipop in his mouth. "Sorry", he said sheepishly, "but I really didn't feel like putting on my street clothes."
I laughed. "You're welcome. That is Mr. Spock, by the way."
He peered down on himself and said "Nice ears."
"It's not only the ears", I grinned, "but yes, they're very much part of it. Just wait and give me a few minutes to take a shower, too."
When I emerged again, I found him in the kitchen area, assembling some rather fascinating sandwiches involving ingredients I didn't even know I had, including insta-cheese. "I hope you don't mind, but I felt hungry."
Something in the way he just went straight ahead to satisfy his needs moved me. There was a curious lack of limits in him. He'd freely give all of himself, and take from others what he needed, but he felt vulnerable at having been caught at it. I don't know how much of this is mere hindsight, though.-
I went to him and took him in my arms, burying my face in his strong neck and the little hairs there. I kissed him behind the ear, then let go of him and invited him and his sandwiches to my sofa. "You are allowed. In fact, you feel as if you'd belong here already." I meant it as an expression of my emerging love for him, and to reassure him, but in hindsight I feel that this exactly was his great talent in life.
"There was something absolutely fascinating and disconcerting in the way he watched Star Trek", I told the woman. "He took it all in, extremely intent and alert till the last closing credits finished. He'd cuddle up to me on the sofa, putting his head on my thigh, or my chest, or my belly (his favorite place), relaxing totally against me, and then he couldn't be stirred up again. He was so incredible methodical about it; from the very beginning it was clear he'd have to watch the whole series, and would come back again and again until he'd seen all of them. And in the commercial breaks, he'd ask endless questions. He wanted every gap filled in. There was something compulsive or obsessive about it that would have scared me if it hadn't touched me so much. He'd let me kiss him, but his eyes couldn't be swayed from the screen. He was catching up on something he'd missed out on all his life. In the end, he almost admitted as much to me. He was on a binge; and it seemed to me that he normally didn't share these things with anyone, and I felt very privileged that he let me come so close."
I could almost see the green fume coming from the woman's ears, so I kept right at it.
"He was extremely affectionate, almost as if he was bingeing on tenderness as much as he was on Star Trek. I began to suspect that he'd been deprived of all theses things, systematically deprived. Something in the way he held onto me told me that he had been indescribably lonely during much of his life, and I just gave him whatever he wanted."
Sex didn't really enter into it, but I wasn't going to give her the satisfaction of telling her. From the first, I felt that it would be some subtle kind of abuse to sleep with him. Oh, he was prepared for that all right, but that in itself made me wary. He ostentatiously carried some condoms in the back pocket of his jeans, brightly willing to do whatever was necessary to win my confidence, my affection, my love, whatever it was he wanted. Maybe all of these. But I wasn't going to make him pay. He was too innocent for that. I was sure I'd feel it when he arrived at the stage of really wanting it for its own sake.
We quickly developed some kind of pattern for our life together. After the last Star Trek episode of the night, when I'd be almost asleep, he'd sit up and hold me even closer for a while, kissing me and pressing his face against mine, then he quickly got up, went to the bathroom, changed into his jeans and leather jacket, while I sleepily ambled over towards the door, where he'd kiss me a last time before letting himself out. He would do whatever it was he did during the day, turning up at my door sometime during the evening, knowing full well that he was expected and welcome. A training session first, during which we would give each other real hell, and then, after an hour or, so we would shower, strictly separately. I always got to select the tapes for the night while he was in the shower, and he'd make us dinner of sorts. His taste was eccentric, to put it mildly. He sometimes brought bags of the weirdest groceries and would proudly show me what he'd bought for us, with that big grin of his, like a kid with a new toy. All the world seemed made up of new toys for him.
When Tuesday rolled around again, and it was time for another class, he made no pretense of being just another pupil. He let everyone see how proud he was to belong with me, and we teamed up to teach the others.
On that Tuesday, things really began to happen. Well, the guys from the class of course made some swish remarks about us, and he took them all in good nature, camping along with them in a way I'd never seen him when we were alone. He just fell right in the mood. I had been a bit defensive at first, thinking I'd need to protect him, but he handled them all right. He didn't do anything to discourage sexual allusions, either. He gave me a short glance, as if to make sure I was with him on that, and then went right ahead, laughingly implying we had about the greatest time in bed since the invention of sex. I didn't quite get yet why he needed to pretend, if he was masking some imagined or real inadequacy, but I let him feel that I was with him on this, that I was on the inside with him while all the world got to see only the outside. Again, I got the distinct impression that I was an absolute first in this, that this complicity was in way deeper than even sex for him. I got to pretend right along with him instead of being a mere recipient of his art.
There were more people at the class than usual. The need to defend themselves had grown among gays, it seemed, and after class I got to hear why, and that was pretty dramatic. I had been rather out of things for a while, first writing my contribution to a collection of essays on human-machine interaction, and then closeting myself away with Jarod, but it seemed there was a serial killer of gay couples loose in the city. Three pairs of them had already been found beside the river, in a favorite cruising area, bled to death, their genitals having been cut off. It was utterly gruesome, and I wondered how I could have lived in such ignorance. Apparently the killer struck once a month, the last attack having been three weeks ago. Police were trying to keep things quiet, but something had leaked, and the monthly gay newspaper had carried an article about the killer last Friday, hence the increased attendance. What really made me gasp was that Jarod, my innocent Jarod, seemed to know all about it, and was morbidly curious, pumping them for information in his campest manner, so they didn't even notice they were being systematically questioned. Again, he simply trusted me to back him up. When I suggested just avoiding the area until the killer was caught, I was hooted down. It seemed to be a matter of principle to them. Jarod became extremely and astonishingly angry, too. He said he wasn't going to tolerate anything of that kind, that we couldn't hide away further and further until there was no longer a place left to hide. That would mean going right back into the closet.
Someone from the class suggested the police would get the killer, but Jarod wouldn't have any of that, quoting a string of unsolved serial killings of gays all over the country. It seemed he didn't trust the police one bit. Everyone vaguely agreed that the community needed to take some action, although I shortly questioned the shape that action might take. "If you happened upon the killer, I'm sure you'd fight, too", Jarod said to me after the others had left. The question was serious, and I answered it seriously.
"Of course. I'd deliver him in shreds to the police."
Jarod gave me that sweet, small smile of his. "Good", he said, kissed me, and went to the shower.
While I showered, Jarod made a guacamole that made me finally lose my composure. Not because it was so good (although it was very good), but because of the way he explained it all to me, about how the woman in the shop had told him to do this and that, and told him her secret ingredient, but he wasn't telling me, because he'd promised. He was so clearly doing all this for the very first time. While he was still going on about it, I broke into tears. He turned to me, dropped the fork he'd been stirring the guacamole with, and took me in his arms, holding me against his shoulder, kissing my neck, letting me cry. "Whatever have they done to you?", I sobbed, and when I looked up, I saw he was silently crying along with me, although he hardly knew why. "What have they done to you so you missed out on so much in life. Star Trek, cooking, all this stuff."
He heaved a deep sigh. "You really don't want to know about them", he said, kissing me until we'd calmed down and he could return to his guacamole.
