Chapter nineteen
Our week together was awesome. We had some amazing sex, and bonded really well, and just enjoyed the hell out of it. It was such a relief, such a joy. And not having to worry about what other people thought about us was a weight off my mind.
At the same time, I was having to face the feelings that were coming up about the fact that I was bi—and maybe a little more on the side of attraction to men than I'd have guessed.
I clearly wasn't just gay. You don't have sex with women for most of your life by accident.
But I'd also never had such a deeply satisfying connection, or as good of a sex life, as I did with Arlie.
That wasn't an accident, either. It wasn't just physical; it was everything.
We really matched, in surprising ways. Sex with him was amazing—but the warmth and connection we shared sealed the deal.
I was never going to be able to tell myself I was straight again.
It was just never, ever going to be true—and it hadn't been, even before I knew that.
It was an adjustment realizing that, coming to terms with it.
There was grief about the time I'd lost—and grief about the loss of the identity I'd held onto so fiercely.
I didn't get to be the "default" anymore—the straight guy.
I hadn't realized how important that was to my sense of feeling okay about myself, and like I fit in the world.
Now I had to find new ways to fit, and learn to accept myself for who I actually was.
I still struggled some days with immense shame. And other days, all I felt was joy.
I didn't want to make Arlie leave the pack, but I also didn't know if living there was going to work with us in a relationship.
How accepting would they be? How much privacy would we have?
The truth was, I needed some privacy to have sex.
If I knew everyone was aware of what we were doing—maybe could hear us if they tried—it would feel awkward, whether anyone acknowledged that or not.
"Sure, we can get our own place," said Arlie, after hearing out my concerns. He didn't seem bothered at all.
"Really? You won't miss the pack?" I studied his face, hoping he wouldn't lie to me about something so big.
I knew he liked to make me comfortable, but I could read him pretty well by now, and we really did have a lot of trust in each other.
He wouldn't try to fake being okay with something big, would he?
He shrugged. "We don't have to leave the pack, just not live quite so close. It would be good to have our own place—settled, you know? Comfy."
"Yeah, exactly. You sure? You're not just saying that?" I studied him closely. "You love being near the pack."
"And I'll still love it, even if I don't sleep in the next room. It's fine. What's the other choice, get a queen sized bed and squeeze it into one of our rooms?"
"I figured that's what you'd want to do." We could get our own condo nearby if there had been anything available, but there hadn't been any units for sale here for a long time.
"Nah. I'm good with moving, as long as it's together. I want my name on the deed, like a proper partner."
"Or boyfriend," I suggested.
"Or boyfriend." He gave a small, decisive nod. "I like this. You're actually telling me what you want instead of making me guess. You're getting better at that. Is it the therapy, or the sex?"
He was teasing now, but it made me feel good. I hadn't realized I was actually getting better at expressing myself. But it was true, he'd often had to drag out of me whatever was bothering me. Now I was bringing up concerns on my own. He didn't have to beg.
I cleared my throat self-consciously. I knew it was stupid—that it wasn't going to be an issue—but some scared, superstitious part of me needed to say it out loud, and be clear. "I need a say in any decorating we do. I don't mean—total control or anything. Just. I need a say."
He looked at me, and his mouth opened, and then closed again, and his gaze grew soft. "Yeah. You do." He took my hand and held it.
He always saw me more clearly than I meant for him to. But maybe I was starting to appreciate that. I moved into his arms and leaned against him, letting myself start to feel safe.
It was going to take a hell of a lot of therapy—or something—before I felt safe coming out to everyone, or maybe anyone.
We'd have to tell the pack, of course. I was dreading their reaction—or lack of reaction.
I didn't know why it was worse, somehow, to have everyone know before I did that maybe, possibly, I could be into my partner.
It was humiliating to feel so stupid and clueless.
But if they cared about us, they wouldn't be awful about it, no matter how they felt—surprised, thrilled, annoyed, whatever. If they cared about Arlie, they'd accept his choice.
His choice—me. What a lovely thought! He'd chosen me as his partner, his friend, and now, as his boyfriend.
It was such a safe feeling to be held in his big strong arms. It always had been, but in new ways now, too. Wonderful ways.
#
When we told the pack, we did it together. Well, he did most of the talking, but I stood by his side and held his hand, and met their gazes, silently daring them to make a mockery of Arlie. They didn't.
Some were surprised. Some weren't. They dealt with it.
They shook our hands and congratulated us, and offered to make a special meal to celebrate our bond.
I felt a little weird about that, but Arlie accepted quickly, with a big smile.
He told me later that was the usual thing, if someone found a partner.
Partner. He didn't say mate, but I knew that's what he meant. And really, that was a good sign. If they took our dating as seriously as choosing a mate, that had to be good. I was taking it seriously, too.
We started looking for a place together right away.
The market was tough right now, and we had to keep lowering our standards until we could find somewhere we could afford that wasn't too long of a drive to work or the pack.
It was a shitty little rental, not quite big enough for two grown men.
But we'd be sharing the bedroom, and really, we weren't home that much anyway.
My stuff could stay in storage if it didn't fit.
Or maybe I could pare down and go minimal.
Whatever—we had a place, and we moved into it.
I felt so self-conscious as we moved in, like everyone could guess we were queer, everyone could judge and laugh at the two guys moving in together.
I dreaded the scrutiny, the laughter, the mockery.
I felt like a coward, and I hated it, but I wasn't very brave and confident in my newfound identity.
Even though I loved dating Arlie, the whole "being out" thing felt like a mountain I'd never be strong enough to climb.
Being with Arlie was wonderful. We were figuring out the relationship, even the sexual aspects—and it turns out we were pretty compatible and it wasn't hard to figure out what we both liked.
Our communication was good, and we always had fun, and we felt the other things, the warm and loving things, too.
We even got brave enough to say it. Maybe it was rushing to say "love" so soon—but we'd both been feeling it.
Keeping to some artificial timeline wasn't going to work for us.
Maybe because we'd been so close for so long already.
The rest of it—facing the truth about myself, releasing the shame—that was harder.
Arlie didn't take it personally, that I could spend the night in bed with him, and enjoy the hell out of it, but feel so much internalized shame the next day, like I either shouldn't have enjoyed that, or should have known sooner that I did.
And then the shame of being closeted, when I should be brave. People half my age were braver than me, maybe braver than I could ever be. It wasn't that I thought being out was the most important thing in the world.
I just didn't want to feel ashamed, to feel like I had to hide. But I sort of did, unless we were ready to be open with the precinct.
I wasn't. Arlie said he'd rather wait for that, and the way he said it told me a lot.
Like maybe he'd be fine with waiting forever.
I wasn't sure he really would—or how I'd feel in the future about it—but right now, we didn't need any snide remarks from coworkers.
It would be nice to think they would all be open and accepting, but I knew very well it wasn't true.
Maybe we'd be ready to fight that battle someday.
Right now, just surviving, getting settled, and figuring out our new relationship felt like enough to tackle.
How did regular queer folks deal with this?
I mean "regular" as in people who didn't take until their freaking thirties to figure it out.
I was a grown man, mature and capable and reasonably well-rounded.
And I was a wreck about this—about as mature and emotionally capable as a teenager.
It was like going through puberty a second time, trying to figure out everything all over again.
Where I fit in the world. How to hold my head up.
How open to be, who to trust, and who to stay hidden from.
Arlie found a discreet support group for LGBT people we could attend—virtually or in person. We started going, and I kept going to therapy, too.
Dr. Cavan proved to be a good resource, accepting and calm, listening as I talked things through.
I was glad I'd picked him; for whatever reason, he was a good fit for me.
Easy to talk to. For a long time, I'd felt like my problems were stupid and not worth talking about.
But he took me seriously, and that made it easier to take myself seriously, too.
Figuring out my shit was important, even if it might look like it should be easy from the outside.
From the inside, it was taking a lot of work.
Some days, it was almost easy to hold my head up.
Some days, it was really hard.
The support group was excruciating at first, and then just awkward, and then a little more comfortable. In time, I started to look forward to it, to feel comfortable there, accepted and more like myself. Because I was finally starting to figure out who that was.
Through it all, by my side—Arlie.
I was so glad we were together. I could just look at him and feel grateful.
Hard to believe my luck, honestly. I knew there was a world where it had gone differently—he'd ended up with Mason, or someone else who was a good match for him, I'd ended up alone, or with someone else, man or woman.
We'd still have supported each other. We'd still have been partners, friends.
But we wouldn't have had this. We still almost hadn't, even when we were both single, both interested—if we hadn't gotten brave enough to actually have that conversation, and that first kiss.
It was scary to think about missing out on him, on us.
We still ate with the pack sometimes. It was nice to still be part of the family. Sometimes work had us too busy to stop by as often—work and life. It wasn't the same as living there had been, but it wasn't bad.
When I saw Ellie, she didn't avoid me anymore. I was glad she'd been able to move on. Maybe it helped to know that I apparently wasn't much interested in girls lately—just Arlie.
I got my stuff out of storage. We didn't decorate the apartment much, but when we did, we both had a say. I had my gaming setup. We shared a big comfy (and sturdy) bed that had room for both of us. The neighbors weren't too loud.
All in all, it was good. Really good. Even without being the brave, confident guy I wanted to be someday, I had a good life with Arlie by my side. Living with him, loving him, was better than I could've dreamed.