Chapter 44 Happy Ending #2
Will you show a fearless man how to face fear?
Matt is the bravest person I know. He’s the kind of guy who’d run into a burning building to save someone. The kind of guy who’d storm Normandy Beach and stare death in the face.
And yet, I’ve always sensed that he’s hiding something.
Not a serial killer kind of secret.
More the wounded soul variety. The kind of wound you bury deep inside and hide from the world because, surely, who would love you if they knew about it?
Here’s the thing about Love, Adam, the thing you’ve got to help Matt understand. It isn’t the words we say or the sex we have or the emotions we feel that make it real. Love is trusting each other with your scariest secrets.
You, Adam, are uniquely positioned to help Matt on this journey. He needs to treat that wound before it festers into something truly ugly.
Love him through this!
Matt laid the letter on the table facedown. Forked a bite of lasagna.
“Shouldn’t we talk about the letter?” Adam asked.
Matt bolted the bite, chased it down with wine. “There’s nothing to talk about. Bradley’s just a drama queen. Nicholas will tell you that.”
“Is that really how you want to play this?” Adam said softly. “Blame Bradley? The guy you called a sweetheart earlier? The guy who cares about you so much that he’s letting you live in his house for the weekend? The guy—”
“I get the point,” Matt interrupted. “I’m not playing anything. I just want to have a romantic dinner with you, carry you upstairs, make love to you, and spoon naked until we drift off to sleep. Bonus points for waking up next to you and fucking like rabbits.”
Adam’s cheeks turned red. “If you’re serious about carrying me upstairs, I’d better lay off the dessert.”
Matt chuckled.
Adam ate a small bite of lasagna, wiped his lips with the cloth napkin. “I want to say one thing. All you have to do is listen. Then, we’ll get on with eating, carrying, forking, and spooning. Okay?”
Matt stared down at his plate. Nodded grimly.
“It took me a minute to realize why Bradley thinks I’m the one who can help you,” Adam said. “Which doesn’t mean I think you need help. But if you are hiding a wound, then, yeah, I’m the guy to talk to about that. Try hiding a jagged suicide scar.”
Matt’s eyes darted to Adam’s left wrist. The scar—a 2” barbed, off-white lightning bolt—was a badge of shame in their fundamentalist world, akin to the prophesied mark of the beast that would denote one’s allegiance to the antichrist.
Merely attempting self-murder involved arrogant contempt for God. Failing to finish the job carried the added stigma of cowardice. You were literally damned if you did, damned if you didn’t.
You were Hester Prynne, a walking, breathing cautionary tale—for the rest of your life, with no hope of redeeming yourself.
No happy ending for you. Hell, until just 13 years earlier, the Catholic Church had forbidden suicides to be buried in sanctified soil.
Were rumored to have buried them upside down, facing west, just to ensure that they got confused and missed the big show at the Second Coming.
“I remember the first time I met you,” Adam said. “You and Josh came to visit me. I still had a bandage on my wrist. Sutures. The whole bit. I was so ashamed and embarrassed. I tried to hide it from you.”
Matt remembered that day for other reasons, all of them tied to the freckled boy with the hazel eyes. The boy who now sat across from him in assless underwear, expecting a serious conversation about secrets, when the only secret that mattered to Matt was the hole concealed by that briar patch.
“People still ask me about the scar,” Adam said.
“Complete strangers. A few weeks ago, I was in line at Wal-Mart. A little boy and his mother were behind me. The boy pointed to my wrist, and asked his mom what had happened, you know, how did I get this big boo-boo? His mom shushed him, which only made him ask again, only louder this time…”
“…I caught the cashier staring at my wrist…”
“…It’s been 8 months and still they stare.”
Adam sighed. “I kept waiting for the day when people wouldn’t notice the scar, but my counselor helped me get past that. He says a scar is just a wound that’s healed, which is a good thing, right?”
Matt nodded noncommittally. It was not lost on him that Adam had circled back to the topic of wounds, as in his own hidden one.
“I mean,” Adam said, “it’s better than one that hasn’t—healed, that is...”
His accusation hung in the air like sewer gas. That was the point, wasn’t it? That Matt’s wound was a seeping, open sore, whereas Adam bore only a healthy scar, the whole follow-me-to-the-light bit that was the premise of every altar call Matt had ever heard.
The grandfather clock chimed eight times. The sound echoed through the house, followed by a heavy silence, as if presaging a Ghost of Christmas Past moment.
Or were they in Poe’s poem, with a “Ghastly grim and ancient raven wandering from the nightly shore,” screeching, ‘nevermore.’”
Matt looked up, met Adam’s gaze. He knew that Adam wanted—expected—him to open up. But he wasn’t ready to do that. Not yet.
They blinked across the table at each other. Stalemate.
Eventually, Adam spoke. “I haven’t been paying attention,” he said. “Does that clock chime on the half hour?”
Matt frowned, puzzled. Thought about it, then nodded. Wasn’t sure how that connected with wounds and scars and buried secrets but braced himself all the same.
Adam grinned. “Then you’d better get busy eating.”
“Huh?”
“We’ve got 25 minutes to polish off this lasagna, eat that fancy dessert, and clean up the kitchen if you’re going to carry me up those stairs before the next chime.”
Matt’s mind heard only the bit about carrying Adam up the stairs. Looped on it.
Adam picked up his fork. “Ready? Set? Go!”
What followed was a frenzy of flashing utensils and wine goblets. Laughter.
They fed each other, aiming forkfuls at the other’s mouth while gabbling babytalk.
Ate the raspberry tarts with their hands. Ended with sticky, red goo smeared on their fingers.
Licked and suckled each other’s digits clean.
Played grab-ass while tidying the kitchen and loading the dishwasher. (Matt grabbed. Adam dodged.)
Then, just before the clock struck the half hour, Matt drank one last bit of wine, held it in his mouth, and pulled Adam into a kiss. Passed some wine to Adam, who accepted the gift.
He scooped Adam into his arms and carried him bridal-style up the stairs. Adam’s briar patch grazed his forearm. Adam’s downy legs swayed. His arms clung to Matt’s neck.
Matt laid Adam on the bed. Bent down and untied Adam’s shoes, eased them off his feet.
Ditto for the socks.
Massaged the balls of Adam’s feet, causing his monkey toes to spread and curl.
Grainy, silvered moonlight filled the upstairs room, illuminating the pale, freckled boy sprawled on his back, arms akimbo, legs slightly spread; eyes both aflutter and fearful of his pending deflowering; mouth half open, panting to be kissed, but also pleading for deliverance.
Deliverance from what?
The desire that caused the rapid rise and fall of his chest? The desire that drove him to writhe as if possessed? Same desire that could only be exorcised by pounding a penis inside him until it perforated his soul?
Matt, kneeling at the foot of the bed, assessed his boyfriend’s agony. Knew the cure was his own seeping cock but delayed its ministration. He, too, panted as if his life force were ebbing away, inexorably drawn to the shrouded, pagan grove that was the briar patch.
He gripped Adam’s hairy thighs, spread them further apart, ignoring the soggy pouch of the underwear constraining Adam’s cock, focused instead on the tangle near his taint.
Matt lowered his mouth to the grassy knoll. Buried his nose in the sweat-slickened lair. Licked it with his tongue, slurping thirstily. Worshipping.
His nostrils filled with heady musk. He tasted acrid, salty distillates of testosterone and piss. He dove deeper into the crevasse, prising Adam’s cheeks apart, a pig snorting for truffles.
Adam squirmed and squealed. Protested—too much and yet insincerely all at once, straining his hole towards Matt’s flicking tongue.
And then there was the hole in all its pinkish glory, a tiny, puckered thing quivering and shivering, winking almost, as Matt paused in wonderment, conqueror and supplicant simultaneously.
He teased its ridges, kissed them reverently. He rolled his tongue into a tube shape, breached the perimeter, and probed.
Adam gasped. Moaned.
Matt met his eyes, smiled. Stretched the hole with his hands and rimmed it with his tongue.
“Please,” Adam begged. “Take off your clothes. Fuck me already.”
Matt stood. Remembered William’s advice that sex is a performance art.
Slowly peeled off his shirt, flexed his pecs as he did so. Unzipped his jeans and slid them—methodically—down his muscular thighs.
He stood there in his boxer briefs, his cock tenting the fabric, fogging it with pre-cum.
He sank onto the mattress beside Adam. Leaned in for a kiss.
For the second time that night, Adam turned his head, offered his cheek instead. “Sorry. I know where your mouth has been.”
“Bradley’s right, you know,” Matt whispered. “I am hiding something.”
Adam rolled to face him, laid a hand on Matt’s shoulder. “You can tell me anything.”
“Do you promise that no matter how ugly it is you won’t run away in disgust?”
Adam nodded.
Matt gigglesnorted.
“That was attractive,” Adam said.
Matt shrugged. “Sorry. I couldn’t help it. You honestly believe you’re strong enough to face some dark secret when you can’t even handle the taste of your own ass on my breath.”
“But—”
“But nothing,” Matt said. “Look, I’m not denying that love involves telling each other your secrets. I just think that for every dark secret there are probably a hundred humdrum moments to be navigated. Bad breath. Inconvenient farts. Dingleberries. That sort of thing.”