63. Graham
63
GRAHAM
M y week is long, and I don’t entirely hate it. The meetings with the Democrats are going well. Miles Mayer, one the California senators on the committee is my age and was only elected last year. He’s easy to talk with and has some good ideas about expanding the human trafficking legislation to help address the housing issues plaguing his state and the nation. Over lunch—just the two of us on Wednesday in my office—he gives me a lot to think about, specifically in terms of pornography of all things.
“Here’s where I’m concerned,” he says. “I’m from LA and porn is a pretty big deal there. I mean, you’re a New Yorker, you get it. This sex work language we’re using—that could have some far reaching implications across a lot of industries. Porn. Social media. And honestly, because the language is so broad, I’m concerned about the trans community.”
“What?” I’m genuinely confused. Last night’s “issue” from Silas was affirmative action, and it sent me into a spiral. I had to pick up the phone and call him after our angry text argument got out of control, and I was on the verge of walking into traffic. He said one thing and then hung up on me :
Do some fucking research, Graham. Jesus.
I was up very late last night researching the history of affirmative action and the legal cases that landed it where it is today—in the dumpster. Did I sleep through law school? I’d asked myself.
But some of the best writing about the importance of affirmative action has come out since the Supreme Court overturned it, so I can’t blame my professors entirely. I ended up texting Silas again at four in the morning. Did my research. The court got that one very wrong. In my opinion.
He responded immediately to tell me it was okay to disagree with him as long as I had a good reason or actual facts to back myself up. That irritated me all over again.
Me
I’ve been reading for six hours. It wasn’t you. It was an article about systemic racism that helped me understand. Then I read the case law. It was a bad decision and blatantly political. It was gross. Good night. I’m going to bed.
Silas
I’ll look forward to your thoughts on gun control tomorrow. Good night.
I’m exhausted. My brain is exhausted. But the thrill of Silas’s continued interest in me is giving me life. I feel like I’m falling for him all over again, which is a problem, but I’m not prepared to solve it. I’m more interested in trying to figure out how I’ve managed to go my whole life without bothering to examine the positions I speak so strongly on. I do what I’m told. No one can argue that, but blindly assuming my family’s position was the only way and falling into line without examining any of it through the lens of my own life experience? I’m intensely frustrated with myself.
I think these eleventh hour realizations have to do with being gay and how much that preoccupied me growing up. It’s like I used all my energy trying to square that with myself and God that I didn’t have the energy to examine the other things I’ve always been taught were unfair to “people like us”—affirmative action for example.
Point being, the idea of having to put my deep thinking brain on for porn is not appealing, but I’ve resigned myself to not getting a decent night’s sleep until this legislation is signed and sent to the House. As it stands, I’m no longer comfortable with some of the language in it either. This last week with Silas has been like waking up from a thirty-six year nap.
Miles addresses my confusion. “Since you’re not defining sex work, what’s to stop someone from arresting a stripper or a drag queen?”
“I’m not following.”
“Stripper is obvious, so I’ll explain about the drag queen. A lot of people see the words sex and gender as interchangeable. Since a drag queen is working dressed as the opposite sex—or gender or whatever, it could be interpreted by some backwoods yokel judge as sex work.”
“That sounds like a stretch,” I say, but force my mind to remain open.
“That’s my point,” he says. “With legislation like this and the courts we have right now, I think there’s too much room in the bill as it’s written to overreach and include people who are just—queer.”
I gulp. He’s giving me a knowing look, which leads me to believe the AI smokescreen didn’t convince him . “Then we should fix that,” I say evenly.
“I have thoughts. Can I send them to you this afternoon?”
“That’d be great.”
He leans back in his chair and smooths his tie down his chest. I notice he’s not wearing a wedding ring, which is unusual in the senate. “Enough business,” he says. “Tell me about you. How the hell did you win in New York? ”
I laugh. “Charm offensive,” I say. “And it’s no secret who my father is. Plus, the other guy was what? Seventy?”
“Are you as moderate as you sounded, or was that just to win? I only ask because I had to moderate a lot. And I’m not as good looking as you.”
Oh, shit. He just said that? I take a moment to notice him. Miles is Black and very good looking. He’s tall, fit, and has a definite sun-kissed LA vibe with golden brown skin and light brown eyes. “Seriously?” I ask. “I mean—what did you have to moderate in California?”
“Running for an open seat against a pro-choice Republican white dude with a Mexican wife and three half-Mexican kids? What didn’t I have to back off on? Being bi helped, though.”
I remember now. I was going through a lot last year during the midterms, but I vaguely recall learning that an openly queer person was elected to congress. I hadn’t realized it was a man, or a senator, but here he is, and if I’m not mistaken, he’s reading me like a damn book.
“I had to say—no, no, I don’t want to take your guns, but between me and you—I want all the guns. I want cops to carry billy clubs like they do in the UK.”
“Do they still do that?” I ask.
He shrugs carelessly. “I don’t know. Maybe. I also had to walk back a lot of old social media posts calling for reparations. I went on kind of a tear about that while I was in college.”
After all the reading I did last night, this piques my interest. “I have so many questions about that,” I say.
“Let me take you to dinner tonight. I’ll answer all of them.”
Whoa. I scratch at my neck. “I um…can’t. But I…” Words form and melt in my head. “Are you asking me out?”
He tilts his head, neither confirming nor denying, but his interested gaze says plenty.
“I have someone. At home,” I say, nerves jumping in my stomach. “He, um…wouldn’t like that. ”
Senator Mayer’s eyebrows nearly hit his hairline. “Did you just come out to me, Senator?”
I stare at him, not knowing what to say. Because yes, I think I did.
“I won’t tell,” he says. “I get it.” He gestures between us with one, long finger. “In this family, we keep each other’s secrets. Sometimes more than our jobs depend on it.”
I nod, feeling lighter, insecure, and oddly reassured. “Thank you.”
He gives me the kind of smile that wins statewide elections. “I won’t take up any more of your time, but I’m proud to be working with you, Senator. Thanks for the seat at the table.”
“My pleasure,” I say.
He stands to leave, and I sit in shock with myself.
“Think about dinner, though,” he says. “I’m stuck here all weekend, and it’d be nice to hang out.”
I nod again instead of saying I won’t be in town for the weekend. He gives me another grin and shows himself out.
I immediately text Silas on my burner phone.
Me
The new Senator from California just hit on me.
Silas
Are you trying to get me locked up for murder?
Me
I’m just shocked.
A picture of Miles appears on my screen.
Silas
This guy?
Me
Yeah. He’s on the committee now.
Silas
Hit on you how?
I grin. I like jealous Silas.
Me
He asked me to dinner.
Silas
Was there touching?
I laugh out loud.
Me
Define touching
Silas
If you show your face in New York this weekend, you’re gonna go back to Washington with more hickeys than you can count. I hope you’re prepared for that.
Me
Looking forward to it.
Silas
Bold words.
Maybe, but I can’t help myself. Love and lust swirl through me like a potent drug as I try to get back to work.
Since Silas is working, my first stop in Manhattan on Saturday morning is my apartment where my sister is making pancakes for the kids. They greet me like I’ve been off fighting a war for two years—with excitement, long hugs, and cheers. Probably because I always bring home gifts.
I have a charm bracelet for Rowan and a Lego set for Carter. They’re thrilled. Theresa gets a UVA hoodie with a front pocket which is her preferred way to dress whenever she’s not working.
“Chocolate chip pancakes?” she asks.
“Is there whipped cream?”
“Obviously.”
“Yes, please.”
The kids are back in school, and I spend breakfast catching up with them, learning about their teachers and classmates. As I’m about to suggest a trip to the museum, my phone rings.
Dad.
“I’ll take this in my office. Hey, Dad,” I say as I leave the table and head down the hall.
“We need to talk about these Democrats.”
Jesus .
I shut my office door and take my seat at the desk, debating whether to fire up my computer and fully engage or try and postpone this.
“I’m hearing from friends that they’re trying to take the sex work law out of the bill.”
“That’s not exactly what’s happening.”
“Then explain it to me.”
“I can’t. You’ll just have to trust me.”
“Damnit, Graham. We’re past that, aren’t we? Just tell me what’s going on with the bill.”
My good mood sours instantly, and with Theresa still banging around in the kitchen, her suggestion to talk to Dad about the way I’ve been feeling lately resurfaces. I doubt he’ll take the news about my seeing Silas again well, but maybe it won’t be the catastrophe I used to think it would be.
However, the suggestion that I share inside information about the committee’s work with him is mildly insulting. I don’t mind listening to him drone on about how he’d like to see things unfold, but telling him details about the work I’m doing isn’t going to happen.
“Don’t go soft on me, Graham. There are a lot of important people who will be very unhappy if that law doesn’t pass the way you and I talked about.”
“And how many will be unhappy if it does?”
He seems to take a moment, and when he responds, his voice is kinder. “What are you saying, son? You don’t sound like yourself.”
His genuine concern is the crack of light in the closet I live in. His love. It’s sincere, even if it may end up being conditional.
“It’s been a long week,” I tell him.
“Come for dinner. I’ll see how much information I can pump out of you.”
“I can’t tonight, but I’ll stop by before I head back to DC.”
“Why?” he asks. “What are you doing tonight?”
“Why do you want to know?”
“No need to get defensive. It was a friendly question.”
I wasn’t prepared to lie this morning, but it’s usually not this hard to come up with one. “I’m seeing a friend.”
“Oh?”
“That’s all you need to know.”
He lets out the deep chuckle I’ve somehow grown to love. I used to think it was a sound of condescension, but I hear the affection in it now. “You’re icing me out, I see. I can take a hint.”
“Good.”
He huffs. “All right, son. I’ll see you tomorrow. I’ll be home all day. I love you.”
“I love you, too. Bye, Dad.”
I hang up and note the steadiness of my hand as it rests my phone face down on the desk. It felt good not to lie. It was empowering to stand my ground and maintain my privacy, and gratifying to hear him respecting my boundaries. I don’t know how far that generosity extends, but it’s worth thinking about.
It’s worth doing something. If you don’t do something, you’re going to lose him.
That voice inside me has been noisy lately, and increasingly panicked. It’s hard to balance my excitement about spending time with Silas tonight with the knowledge of him moving away. Over the last week we’ve amassed more things we have in common than we did during our entire two year relationship.
Not just ideologies or political stances, but even the way we approach complicated subjects, arming ourselves with research and checking our own biases. He uses think pieces in The Atlantic and YouTube historians. I use law textbooks, podcast transcripts, and the Federalist papers, but we both know how to cover our bases and examine alternate points of view objectively.
Whether this side of him is new the way it is for me, it’s added another dimension to us that only makes me want him in my life more. The way I’m practically salivating to see him, it’s no wonder he still calls me puppy.
While I wait for three o’clock when he’ll get off work, I take the kids to the park. They want to be outside even though it’s still hot as hell. We throw a frisbee, eat soft pretzels, and feed some ducks.
After a shower, I slip out the back entrance and take a Lyft to the East Village.
Silas lets me into his apartment dressed in a pair of gym shorts and nothing else.
I note his erection before I’ve even made it across the threshold. “I hope I’m not interrupting something,” I say with a pointed glance.
“You’re late.”
“I wanted to give you time to shower.”
“What if I wanted company?”
“Then you should have texted me.”
He pulls me inside. “Get in here. I’ve got marks to put on you.”