Note: The names of family and friends have been changed to protect their privacy.

Descending deep into the bowels of Paris decadence, I'm openmouthed by the sight of my first lover, Troy Andrew Myers, performing in a porno.  Several grey men, leaned back on tattered cinema seats, are stroking their forsaken meat over him.  I feel like yelling, “Put your peckers in your pants and get the fuck out!”  Instead, I lean my shoulder against black-painted concrete and block out my fear of ending up like them by watching Troy perform on that ripped silver screen.  He's naked in a men's room, balanced on two urinals, his bare feet apart, on each porcelain lip.  Hanging onto the chrome flush-handles, he's squatting down as a huge black stud fucks his brains out.  Seeing this not only arouses me, it transports me back to the fall of 1978.

The big thing that got me off in those days was peeking through a little hole in a toilet-stall's partition at guys' cocks as they pissed into the urinals.  Seated on the toilet, during lonely lapses of my own solitary breathing, I'd often play with the idea of a Tinker Bell-like drill-hole fairy who flew around to toilet stalls everywhere and made these little peep holes for peter pans.  They had to use a narrow drill; hand-cranked, most likely.  All pondering, of course, would spring out of mind the second I'd hear the echo of a man's shoes against the outside corridor's cement, followed by the squeak of the men's room door opening.  Now I'm obsessively focused.  I lean my eye to the hole.  There's the appearance of the crotch of his pants.  My heart is beating faster than my hand.  The unzipping.  Yet another unique way of pulling out the cock—this time with a sudden flip, then a flop.  Aiming it.  The stream of piss.  Then the most exciting moment.  The stroking and shaking of the cock till not a drop is left on its meaty head. I was such a voyeur.  

          
Unfortunately, for some mysterious reason, the drill-hole fairy had yet to discover the men's rooms at South Coast Plaza, the big shopping mall of Costa Mesa, California.  Surprising, since those men's rooms were, back in 1978, a major lure.  I'd be embarrassed, though, whenever I visited them.  People working in the shops near their entrances must've noticed a certain number of males, me among them, repeatedly returning.  I doubt these sales people were naive enough to think we just had weak bladders.  Or maybe they paid no attention at all to the comings and goings of us horny adventurers.  

          
I think there were four public men's rooms at South Coast Plaza—two of them pretty popular.  Of course, things have probably changed a lot in that mall since then.  The more accepting people become of homosexuality, the less shame there is to drive men (don't know how it works for lesbians—do they also drill peep holes?) into keeping up a straight image, and living a lie, all the while secretly making the rounds of public restrooms.  But I hated myself for doing it.  Every time was going to be the last.

          
I even tried jerking off to pictures of naked women.  Thought I could sort of brainwash myself into being a heterosexual.  I'd borrow my stepfather's PENTHOUSE.  Would've been easier to get hard if I'd borrowed my stepfather himself.  Determination kept me at it, though.  After nearly an hour, locked in the bathroom at home, glaze-eyed over some close-up beaver shot, I'd finally shoot my load.  The problem was that it wasn't until I thought of all the cocks that had fucked that pussy that I was able to get into it.  And that's how I'd been able to enjoy Chimes, my high school sweetheart.  After high school, we even got an apartment together and planned on marriage.  But, while with Chimes, truth be told, I'd still slip off to whatever men's rooms I'd discovered offered a friendly hand or mouth and, of course, another cock I could see and squeeze.

          
Anyhow, on that 11th day of October, 1978, my main aim of going to the mall's middle, second-floor men's room was solely to empty my balls.  I'd gotten a great blowjob from this weird guy a couple of weeks before, and it felt so good that I hoped he'd be there again.  He was an older guy, like in his late thirties.  After trying to gargle my cum, he swallowed it, then grinned and said, “You look about seventeen.”  I could tell he'd get off on this, so I lied and said I was.  The truth, however, is that I was three years older than that.  But it really got him off, as he repeated: “Jailbait, jailbait, jailbait. . . .”  Splat, splat, splat went his jism, roping out, hitting the floor.  I was disgusted and, determined to train myself to get off on pictures of naked women and, with the knowledge that that was the last time I'd ever do something with a guy again, started doing up my jeans to get out of there.  I couldn't wait to get home and wash the smell of his mouth off of my now shriveled-with-shame cock.  The dampness of his saliva in my underwear made me cringe.  But then he told me that when I turned eighteen, I could get into this Gay bar that might be a better place for meeting guys.  He gave me the card to the bar, which was called Rumour Has It (after the Donna Summer's hit from the year before).  So now I was returning to the very men's room I'd sworn never to even piss in again.  I wanted to tell him about this guy I met at Rumour Has It.  More than that, I wanted his eager mouth to service my cock . . . but this would be the very, very last time: "Cross my crotch and—"  Adrenaline gave me the shakes as I entered, secretly hoping he'd either be there or soon show up.

          
Somebody was on the toilet.  There were two urinals and two toilets, the toilets in stalls.  When a stall's occupied, you first sniff the air.  Unless you're the scatological type, if it smells like shit, you get the hell out of there.  Thanks to an automatic air-freshener, however, a slight scent of cherry blossoms greeted my nose.  Watching myself in the large mirror as I approached one of the two sinks, I listened very closely for any plop or splash.  But all I heard were my footsteps up to the sink, then the water when I turned it on.  My vibes were telling me something was up in that stall right behind me.  By leaning over to pump some soap into my palm, I could see through the gap between the stall door and the post it locks into.  I glimpse a young guy ducking away from where he'd been peeking out.  The soap in my palm's suddenly a nuisance.  My heart's pumping hard, my hands working fast to rinse off.

          
His naked knee drifts into view.  The pressure builds in my pants.  On my way over to the hand dryer, I lean toward the gap and sneak a peek inside.  Startled, the boy closes his legs, hunches over, and curls into himself like a potato bug.  I've done the same.  If it were an undercover cop or a sick-in-the-head Gay basher, you could really regret being on that toilet.  The hand dryer's loud and hot, drying my hands faster than I'd like . . . as I continue studying that stall's gap via the mirror.  What if he's some straight kid in there just jerking off by himself?  The thought of this gets me as hard as that stall door, blocking 96% of the visuals, is hard.  But to boldly go up and stare in, ogling him like certain guys have ogled me when I was on that toilet, feels too risky.  If he got pissed and cursed me for being a fucking faggot, I'd want to kill myself.  Back then I believed that being a faggot was worse than being a murderer or the shit on someone's shoe.  Especially since, over one of the urinals in that restroom, someone had written in black magic marker: KILL FAGS!

          
On the other hand, my other hand, that is, the one squeezing the pressure throbbing, straining to break through the twilled cotton fibers of my jeans, I can't resist.  Hands dry, yet trembling, I step back over and, filled with shame, again peek in directly at him.  He's still hunched over, as if squeezing out the biggest turd of his existence.  If he so much as grunts, as one would in the middle of such a strenuous effort, I'm out of here.  Suddenly he looks up.  Definitely a teenager.  And I see my fear reflected in his eyes.  But he quickly looks back down at his bare knees.

          
The distant echo of shoes on cement.  I turn toward the men's room door.  It's a man's footfall, growing louder, getting closer.  I've done this enough to know the differences in sound—aside from the obvious click-clack of high heels—between a male's walk and a female's.  A certain rhythm that goes with each sex.  I look back in at the young guy on the toilet.  He's still hunched over, staring at his knees.  The footsteps do the familiar double-stop before opening the door.  I quickly slip into the other stall, closing and locking its visual blockage.  The man steps up to one of the urinals.  Through the gap between my door and the dividing post, via the mirror, I see the back of his bald head, his dark business suit.  His piss is loud and urgent against the urinal's inner porcelain.  He farts.  

          
Turning toward the toilet in my stall, I tear off some toilet paper and wipe the apparently clean toilet seat psychologically clean.  I undo my belt, drop my jeans (no underwear—this is the seventies) and lower my smooth young cheeks to the solid cool oval.  The urinal flushes and the man's heavy footsteps travel over to one of the sinks.  Avoiding any visuals through the gap, I'm now staring at my own naked knees.  Seems to take this intruder forever to wash and blow-dry his hands.  At long last, he returns to being nothing more than a series of echoing shoes on cement . . . swallowed by distance.

          
I look under the partition and notice a jockstrap pulled down into the kid's white jeans, around his white-socked ankles and blue sneakers.  His shins have light blond hairs on them.  Boyish, sunned skin, the kind of creamy beige tan blonds get.  His feet move back, toward the toilet.  His up-side-down face suddenly appears.  We're both leaning over from our toilet seats, gazing at each other: upside-down face to upside-down face, our hair hanging straight from our scalps as if standing on end.  His is stringy, dark blond hair; the sort of dark blond many mistake for light brown.

          
His face disappears.  I sit up, not knowing what to do.  I look under the partition again.  He lifts and lowers the toe of his sneaker several times.  That's the signal some guy told me about.  Means sex.  Without flushing the toilet, I get up, pull my pants back on, and return to his stall's door.  He's gazing up at me.  I squeeze my bulge before the gap.  He unhunches, leaning back, exposing a huge erection.  The big, thick head of it is shaped exactly like a mushroom.  Kind of strange, yet exciting.

          
My ears prick up, zooming beyond the men's room door, for even the slightest skip of a shoe.  Silence.  I nod to the little slid-locked bolt, my eyes darting to it, then back to his widening pupils.  He gets up from the toilet seat and, with his jeans bunched round his sneakers, shuffles his big, bouncing hard-on over to let me in.  I pull out my thick throbber to greet him.  His is bigger, but I don't care.  In fact, that's what turns me on even more.  We reach out our hands, as if to shake, but clasp each other's hard cock instead.  A manly grasp, a firm squeeze, we stroke each other, rapidly, up and down.  So nice to meat you.

          
Formalities over with, he drops to his knees.  His mouth engulfs me like an aroused vagina, heated and moist.  It's as if there's a "Do Not Disturb" sign posted down the hall.  No one's coming, though I'm close.  He pulls his mouth away and stands, erect.  Wants me to wrap my lips around that big mushroom head.  The temptation's frightening.  I'm not that queer.  I shrug my shoulders, like I'm hopelessly straight.  He gives the cutest smirk, shuffles past me, out of the stall, to face the mirror.  Soon we're both watching each other, jerking each other off.  The force of his young balls splatters his hot load runny white against the glassy reflection of his smooth, slender stomach.  This excellent visual triggers off my tightened balls.  More sperm hits the mirror.

Quickly shuffling back into the stall, he tears off a bunch of toilet paper, shuffles over to me, and politely offers some.  I thank him and, wiping off my own cock, watch him dry the softening head of his.  He pulls up his jockstrap, which looks sexy on him.  Reminds me of when I was in high school.  I used to fantasize about the guys in the locker room of my gym class.  Something about that bulge in their jockstraps, their exposed tight buns.  The young guy and I, facing each other, become each other's mirror, pulling our jeans on and doing them up at the same time.

          
I'd already met a guy I was feeling really ashamed about, named Garrett.  We met a couple of weeks before at the Gay bar the older guy had mentioned: Rumour Has It.  It was my first time there.  Garrett and I began with obsessive eye-contact.  That led to him sneaking me into his bedroom later that night.  I sodomized him (first time I ever fucked a guy) while his parents snored in some other room of that big house of theirs.  I even gave Garrett this gold pinkie ring I'd recently bought for myself.  It had the word LOVE spelled out in capitals and a small diamond in the O.  But now my ring was in Europe for a few weeks, on Garrett's pinkie, while he vacationed with his parents.  And I just wanted to get the ring back and pretend our fuck never happened.

          
The shame I felt was worse when it came to public restroom sex.  As soon as I got off, I got out.  Had to escape the scene of sin.  Something about “thou shalt not shoot thy load in an unfruitful manner.”  Must've been the brainwashing in Bible School when I was a kid.  All it ever did was torture my conscience.  So my ears are on radar for an instant exit the second a skip of a shoe echoes out in the corridor.  Yet this guy's smiling at me, like he doesn't feel the slightest twinge of having committed a crime against nature.

          
“Now that we've had sex,” I say, smiling back, “what's your name?”

          
“Troy,” he says, hurriedly erasing the gooey clues of our crime with more toilet paper.  My nerves are trying to yank me out of there, away from this obvious, though young and cute, homosexual; trying to save me from turning queer myself.  Why am I just standing here?

          
He flushes the wad of our jism, then turns, giving a playful pout.  “Aren't you going to tell me yours?”

          
“Russ,” I lie.

          
A decision has to be made.  Either invite him to go for coffee, or do a “Catch ya' later, dude,” (as in straight) and never ever for as long as I live step foot in a men's room for anything but pissing and shitting.

          
Troy's looking into my eyes like lost love found or something.  Maybe I'm doing the same.  I don't know.  Something feels good.  It's like the loneliness has ended.  I'm almost hoping.  But being true to such feelings would take a lot of guts—especially with all these hateful voices in my head screaming “Faggot!”  I glance over at the KILL FAGS! above the urinal.  

          
“That was fun,” he says.

          
Fuck it.  “Wanna go for coffee?”

*          *          *

We didn't utter a syllable on our way to the little cafeteria on the ground floor, near one of the big department stores.  Walking out of the men's room with him made me tense.  Every muscle felt strained, under robotic control.  I heard people laughing in a shop as we passed.  They knew.  Everybody knew.  People were making fun of us.  In all my paranoia, I was sure of it.  I couldn't wait to get away from the vicinity of that men's room.  With enough distance between us and the scene of our unfruitfulness, we could get away with acting like we were regular young dudes, just hanging out.

          
Once the waitress served our coffee, my insecurity tried to impress Troy with my smarts.  Yeah, man, I was on this James Dean kick.  Had read a biography on Dean that made me want to become famous, die young, and be a legend, too.  “Most people,” I told Troy, “are forgotten after they die. It's like they never existed at all.  It's not just James Dean that makes me want to be famous, though.  It's because this black guy out of his mind on drugs held a gun to my head, his finger on the trigger, and all he had to do was squeeze. . . .”  Our coffees just sat there, steam rising less and less, slowly giving up on luring us with its scent.  Troy's eyes were into mine.  Finally, my mouthing the fear of forgotten led up to: “What about you?  Don't you want to be remembered?  Or do you just want to go through life working your ass off, only to be sunk in oblivion?”

          
His eyebrows gripped the bony ridge of his skull.  He reminded me of murder victims in movies: when the knife first goes in, or the bullet hits, that moment of realization, that moment of “Oh, shit!  Death is real.”  Maybe the fact that he will indeed one day die—(“You never know when you're time is up,” I'd told him, playing the Grim Reaper personified)—or the idea of being forgotten, as if he'd never even existed at all, or the ambition of making a name for himself, or all of this combined, was sinking in.

          
The coffee's last flickerings of steam caught my attention.  Breaking our visual beam, I reach over to the sugar packets, rip one open and pour sparkling white into the round of blackness reflecting my face.  I look up at Troy and stir.  His eyes swirl with the black liquid in my cup.  I gulp some coffee, then change the subject: “So how old are you?”  Two packets of sugar are torn, poured into his cup, followed by cream.  “You look like your still in high school.”

          
The spoon in his hand becomes a knife he's threatening me with.  I don't get it.  He then grins, stirs his coffee, says, “Graduated last June.”

          
So I launch into the whole story of my dropping out of high school to run a whorehouse in Florida for my mom; and how, at age twenty, I got my adult school diploma around the same time he got his high school one.  After a pause I add, “I've always looked young for my age, too.”

          
“I'm seventeen,” he says.

*          *          *

My mom's downstairs putting the dirty clothes into the washing machine.  I tell myself she won't notice how crusty some of my socks are.  That's what makes them perfect to jerk off into.  She'll just drop them in with the rest of the dirty clothes.  My sister's gone to her morning dance class.  I grab the phone in her room.  About to dial the scribbled number on a coffee-stained napkin, I ask myself: What am I doing?  I hang up.  Throwing his number out and forgetting about him is the smart thing to do.  In fact, when Garrett gets back, I should get my ring and forget about him, too.  But Troy's jism splattering the mirror comes to mind.  My cock hardens, and I dial.

          
A woman answers.  I go limp.  Almost hang up, but “Is Troy there?” pops out.  She tells me to hold on.  This is funny because I'd immediately let go of what I was holding on to when she answered.  She calls his name, which reminds me of my mom calling my name.  There's that certain something in a mother's voice when she calls her child's name.  It's exactly that certain something that makes me feel so ashamed of myself for calling her son for what I'm calling him for.  I'm thinking he'll be feeling the same.  He's not going to want to see me.  I should've thrown the number—

“Russ?” he says, instead of hello.

“Was that your mom?”

“Yup.”

“Can you talk?”

“Nope.”

          
I don't know what to say.  I look at myself in the sliding-door mirror of my sister's closet.  This is my future, I'm thinking.  Pink phone to my ear, sitting on a frilly flower bedspread.  If I don't change now, I'll end up a real faggot.  But the sound of an impatient breath from him entices me to make it the last time I ever do anything queer again for as long as I live.  “Can I see you?”

          
“Not over the phone.”     

          
“I know, but, like at the mall or—You're kidding right?”  I force a laugh.  “Not over the phone?”

*          *          *

Strange seeing the first love of my life on this ripped screen.  I can tell he's not enjoying the sex.  There's this uncertainty in his eyes.  It's like he's trying too hard—trying to get into it, trying to give a hot performance.  And it is a hot performance.  I mean, anyone could take one look at the laps of this audience and see he's got a standing ovation.  But something's not quite right.  Like deep down he knows he's better than this.  And I know he is.  Not that there's anything wrong with it.  It's great if it's your thing.  But I don't think it ever really was Troy's.  He just wanted to be a star.  To matter.  To be remembered.  And through porno he did sort of accomplish that.  But I think he wanted respect, too.  Something very hard to get in the porno scene.

          
There's this one guy at the end of the front row who's jerking off with a handkerchief.  Sitting down in the lopsided theater seat at the other end from him, I can't help but smile.  Not at him—though I may have to change rows, because he's now eyeballing me—but at the memory of that first date with Troy.  It was in the huge parking lot of South Coast Plaza.

          
I drove up to where Troy awaited me at the entrance near Nordstrom's department store, facing the freeway overpass, which overlooked that part of the parking lot.  In the burnt orange sky of sunset I noticed a man standing on the overpass.  If I hadn't been so focused on Troy, I might've felt that man's eyes on our faraway actions.  

          
Troy climbed into my new (though used) purple Volkswagen.  “You've got a Bug,” he said.  I couldn't help but laugh because my mom always called my penis a "doyngle" and my sister's vagina a "bug".  When I explained this to Troy, he raised his eyebrows like I was screwy, then looked out at the parking lot.  “How about there?”  He pointed to the far end of the parking lot, near the freeway overpass, where no other cars were parked.  On the way to a good spot for whatever might come up, I told Troy how I'd been afraid to tell him my real name because of how we met.  He said nothing as I pulled in between the painted white lines of a parking space. 

“My real name's Brian,” I said. 

He stared at me.  I felt guilty.  If we were going to have a relationship, I'd began it with a lie.

          
“Okay,” he finally said.  “Brian.”

          
I turned off the motor.  Funny how, after all we did in that public men's room, we sat there like two virgins in nervous silence.  At least we knew each other's name.  Knowing names meant things were getting serious.  “Troy,” I said.  We looked into each other's eyes.  He said, “What?”  It felt as if we were in a major motion picture and what I'd say next would dissolve audiences everywhere into deep spasms of emotion.  I popped the big question: “You ever jerk off into your socks?”

          
The change of expression on Troy's face cracked me up.  Not only were his eyebrows creasing his forehead again, but his mouth looked ready for a doctor to stick in a tongue depressor and tell him to say, "Ahh."  What Troy said instead was, “I don't think so.”

          
“It feels really good,” I went on, feeling like a pervert.  “You know, the soft friction of the cotton.  And then you don't have to worry about cleaning up the mess.”

          
He gave that cute smirk of his.  “I like the mess.”

          
“Wanna try it?”

          
“Sure,” he shrugged.  "I'm always up for new ways to get off."

          
I leaned down and started untying my sneakers.  “White socks feel the best,” I said.  “Plus they hide the sperm more.”

          
When I handed him my sock, I kissed him.  He kissed me.  We kissed each other . . . one long, passionate, tongue-filled kiss.  Then I remembered the guy standing on the freeway overpass.  Could he see us?  I looked up and it certainly seemed like he could.  But then he turned away and walked down the opposite slope of the bridge.  Troy started to undo his pants to get the sock on.  When he looked up to where I was looking, he saw only the distant back of the guy slipping from view.

We were like two pubescent boys playing “cock in the sock” or “choke the puppet”.  He jerked me off while I jerked him off.  Soft friction of cotton.  “Feels good, doesn't it?”

“Yeah,” he said.  “Go faster.”

*          *          *

Creamed socks tossed onto the back floorboard, my bare feet sweating inside my sneakers, I drove him home.  He directed me down the opposite slope of the overpass from the mall and a left, into the residential neighborhood where he soon said, “Better stop here.”  He pointed to the right curb in front of someone's house.

          
“This where you live?”

          
“Uh-uh.”  He shook his head and pointed further down, on the other side of the small, turning street, to some large, ground-level apartments.

“What about tomorrow?” I asked.

“I don't know, I—”

“And the day after that?”

He stopped nervously looking over at the apartments, and his sky blue eyes blew my mind.  “Like lovers?”

“You ever have one?”

He shook his head, “Just Emma.  Sort of.”

“I almost married a girl,” I told him, “but we broke up in Florida.  Wasn't really love.”  Then I told him about Garrett and how it was just starting and all.  Troy suddenly lit up when I mentioned the love ring with the little diamond in the O.  That's when he confessed to “love-at-first-sight”, leaned toward me, and we started kissing.  Nothing else existed.  It was just Troy and me.  We were in love.

When we pulled away from each other's eager mouth, we saw this angry man rushing from the apartments toward us.  “My dad!” cried Troy, jumping out of the car.  He looked scared.  I got out of the car to—to—I don't know what.  Troy's dad told him to get inside.  I knew he'd seen us kiss.  He'd been the one on the overpass.  I was sure of it.  And he stomped up to me with his fists doubled.  Was I ready to die for love?  The bulk of him made it clear he could tear off my limbs as easily as a moth's wings.  He came right up to my face, which I'm sure was bloodless with terror.  I could feel the heat of his breath as he threatened, “I could have you arrested for this.  You know he's under age?  One of these days, you're going to end up in jail for messing with a minor.”  He turned and went back to the apartment Troy had hurried into.  I stood trembling in the middle of that narrow street.

*          *          *

Early the next morning, I'm awakened by my mom saying some guy's on the phone for me.  It's Troy and he's all upset, telling me how his dad attacked him early this morning.  Troy had been sound asleep and his dad jumped on him and started punching him in the face.  “Could you come over?”

I felt courageous driving over there.  Courageous because I was scared.  His dad wasn't that tall, but big in muscle.  He could've torn me a new asshole in no time.  But Troy was my lover.  He was my lover because I was in love with him.  He was my lover because I'd never really had any love in my life.  This made his love very precious to me.  I arrived ready to stand for love.

Fortunately his dad was slumped in a chair looking kind of ashamed.  Troy's face wasn't as beat up as I'd expected.  He had a bruise on his cheek bone and a cut lip.  Most of the punches had hit his chest and head.  Because of this trauma, not only Troy, but Troy's mom and Troy's adopted brother and adopted sister were angry at the father for being so cruel.  Therefore, all of them, except Troy's father, welcomed me instantly as a part of their family.  I was suddenly the big brother that Troy never had.  That's the thing about family's where there are adopted kids.  They're capable of adopting anyone.  The legalities of the matter as meaningless as paper to them.  Real adoptions take place in the heart.  And so I was immediately adopted by Troy's mom, brother, and sister.

Now this is where a misunderstanding began.  You see, I'd automatically assumed that Sean, Troy's father, had told Julia, Troy's mother, about having seen us kissing in the car.  (Perhaps more than that, if it was him on the overpass, which I've always felt it was.)  So I thought that, though Bailey, his eleven-or-so-year-old, adopted brother, and Courtney, his even younger, adopted sister, may not know, at least Julia did, which explained in my mind why Julia seemed so motherly toward me when we met.  I figured she especially made a point to make me feel welcome because of Sean's awful attack on his son.  It seemed as if Julia had understood the reasons and had accepted Troy's sexuality better than Sean did.  I was later to discover, however, that this was not necessarily the case.  Julia, apparently, had never known why Sean attacked Troy that early morning hour.

I can't help picturing Sean squirming, struggling all the night before.  I think he was torn up inside about Troy's sexuality because of something he repressed within himself.  Maybe not.  Maybe Sean just couldn't handle having a Gay son.  But when I learned he was a hairdresser who owned a beauty shop, I heard hangers rattling—or should I say curlers hit the floor?  Of course, many male hairdressers are heterosexual.  There is good money in that business.  But I did have the feeling that Sean might be a closet case.

Anyhow, Sean was slumped in a chair next to the front door, as Troy angrily, and rather triumphantly, led his Mom, brother, sister, and me out, leaving Sean in punished abandonment.  I felt sorry for Sean, for some reason, and, to be honest, also wanted to get on his good side while he was down because I feared a similar attack in the future; so, on the way out with the others, I stopped in front of Sean and, after a moment's hesitation, said, “I know you're a good person.”

He looked up at me as if he were torn between punching me out or shaking my hand.  Troy called from the sidewalk, “Come on, Brian!  Shut the door behind you!”  I gave an uncertain smile, then made my escape.

*          *          *

Troy invited me back over on the 17th of October, six days after we met, to celebrate his 18th birthday.  It was weird.  First his father catches us kissing, then beats Troy up, and now I'm the only friend of Troy's to attend his big 18.  It seemed like they were accepting me into the family as Troy's lover.  A sort of unspoken acknowledgment of our newfound love.  I wanted to make it easy for them to accept me, so I played it straight.  Figured it best not to throw our sexual intimacy into their faces.  Troy, too, was avoiding lovelorn gazes, caresses of any kind, or even a quick kiss.  We also avoided touching each other under the table, though we sat together.  I was sure, however, that the truth of our relationship was no secret.  We just didn't want to push our luck.

Troy's Mormon grandparents, which were Julia's parents, were there.  Very nice, very proper.  I didn't think they knew about us, but wondered if they might.  Troy and I were lovers and, so I thought, his family reluctantly accepted our love.  It was a different story with my family.  I was still keeping up a straight front.  I've always come off as straight, so that was easy.  Anyhow, the party consisted of Bailey and Courtney (both of who were totally adorable), Julia, Sean, Julia's parents, Troy, and yours truly.

They had a backyard to their large, ground-floor apartment, and so Julia set up the birthday under Southern California's beautiful sky.  She'd put a table cloth over what I think was a wooden park table and made everything festive.  Julia was great at making things festive.  She made a huge birthday cake for Troy that everyone more than enjoyed.  And Troy loved all the attention he was getting.  Even his father, Sean, was being nice to him.  What amazed me was how much more welcome I felt with Troy's family than I ever did with my own.

They all loved Troy very much.  After all, he was the only true-blood child of Julia and Sean.  It didn't occur to me at the time, but they were probably counting on him to continue the family line.  Lovable, boyishly sweet, having this cuddly quality that I found irresistible, Troy was obviously the star of his family.  Yes, they were more than proud of him.  They believed he'd be a big success.  They were especially impressed with his having graduated from high school a year ahead of his class.  I felt lucky to have found such a brilliant partner to share my life with.  There wasn't anywhere I'd rather be than at that picnic table in the backyard with Troy and his wonderful family.  I'd finally found where I belonged.  My life was going to be with Troy.  He was my soul mate.

And now I look up at him sucking cock on the screen and wonder what happened to the Troy I'd fallen in love with.  The pain I felt when everything between us fell apart has returned, and I must escape.  That's what I'm in this sex club to do: Escape.  I get up and join the many other guys in search of the right guy to get me off.  But I can't stop thinking of Troy.  I want someone who at least resembles him.  Instead, I see zombies.  Their eyes are glazed over and they keep going in this circle around the sex club, past the cabins that glow with porno screens of their own.  There's nothing cuddly or cute about even the best looking blond in the place.  Even he's gone into some sort of trance that's transformed his whole demeanor into that of the living dead.  Perhaps it's the glow of these TV screens from the cabins, or the red and black lighting of the place, but everyone's skin looks dead.  Not a spark of life anywhere, not a single lively soul.  And I know I'm looking desperate now—which is the kiss of death in a sex club.  You never smile.  It's best to seem indifferent.  Best to be just another zombie circling, circling like a vulture . . . until you find a carcass to feed your sexual appetite on.

Since the tall blond is the most desirable in the place, I duck into a cabin and nonchalantly lean against the wall—the door invitingly open—awaiting him to circle past.  Yet my thoughts keep returning to Troy.  I glance at the cabin's TV and there again is the same flick that's appearing on the big, torn screen in the main room.  There's Troy shooting his load.  This brings back loads of memories, which makes me forget to squeeze my cock when the blond passes by.  (You've got to focus on the prey or else the prey will get away.)  But suddenly I don't care so much about making that blond's jeans hit the floor.  No, I'm missing Troy.  Funny, after all these years with only slight wondering about how he's doing, I really want to get in touch with him: see him in person, speak with him, put my arms around him and tell him that I still love him.  I wonder how he's holding up.  I'm even hoping he'll pass this porno cabin.  Yeah, I'd grab him and pull him in and kiss him and kiss him and kiss him.

At length, I decide to forget about the entrance fee I paid in order to get off with some stranger who, no matter how hot, no matter how hung, no matter how perfectly he's made my greatest sex fantasy come and come again, would leave me feeling the same old emptiness inside . . . as I stepped over the splattered sperm, out of the cabin, out of the sex club, into the busy Paris street, where people at a bistro will stare, knowing.  But this time I don't care.  They may think I'd had a fist-fucking orgy in here, but that's tough shit.  I'm obsessed in somehow tracking down Troy.  Thank the "Energies" (my way of seeing any and every god that gets prayed to) for internet.  There's a big chance that I'll find Troy in cyberspace.  I'm determined.

*          *          *

The oddest thing happens on my way back home (which is actually a fifth floor apartment) to my computer.  I get an irresistible urge to stop off at Palais Royale's Virgin Mega music store—the underground one near the Louvre—and see what CD's they may have on sale.  They often have pretty good deals.  This time they don't, so I check out what new releases they have at the listening stations.  The double CD of hits by Paul McCartney's band WINGS is there.  To be honest, I'm not that crazy about WINGS . . . or I think I'm not . . . until, out of what I'm sure is a deep desire to escape so-called “Paris spleen” or inner pain or whatever, I put on the headphones and, as the CD starts spinning, let the sounds hit my mood.

First song that comes on is okay, vaguely brings back memories of listening to my Volkswagen radio while driving on the 405 in Southern California: “Won't you listen to what the man said . . . Love is fine for all we know.  For all we know our love will grow.  That's what the man said . . . The wonder of it all baby. . . .”  Don't think I'll buy their hits.  Kind of dated, you know.  So I skip to the next song and, as if my heart hits an oil slick, it slips out of control and slides to the pit of where all emotion seems to well up—that core within the depths of each of us we often confuse with the stomach.  “Stuck inside these four walls.  Sent inside forever.  Never seeing no one. . . .”  Yeah, it's: “Band on the Run”.  So my heart dissolves in its cage, evaporating, rising, becoming clouds of moisture in my eyes.  I'm there again.  I'm slow dancing with a retarded girl who has this crush on me.  I'm swaying back and forth with her in my arms while looking at Troy with another retarded girl in his arms.  I'm wanting it to be us in each other's arms.  Our eyes are connected, as if by beams of light, and the love feels so strong between us that I want to kiss him.  But we're sort of like orderlies or whatever, working at this home for the mentally retarded.  We could freak out a lot of retards and lose our pretty decent-paying jobs.  Troy's the one that got a job there, first.  Then he got me hired.  But this song takes me back to that dance where I knew for sure Troy was my soul mate.

I buy the CD just for that memory of Troy.  “Troy, where are you?”  I ask myself.  I'm even fantasizing on the Métro.  Fantasizing all the way to my stop, across from where I live.  Imagining what I'll say when I somehow get in touch with Troy.  Picturing us somehow getting back together, and this time making it work.  I mean, there's no way he could still be making pornos.  How old is he now?  Let's see . . . this being 2004 . . . he's going on forty-three years old.  Nope, don't think he's still starring in pornos.  There's definitely a chance it could work out.  What am I saying?  I've got a lover.  A lover I love very much.  Well, okay.  Then maybe Troy and me could become close friends.  Deep down, however, the hope of us getting back together has never died.  No use denying it.  I've never stopped loving him.  Maybe it's like that with everyone's first lover.  That love lives on and on.