Page 31 of Notorious

Igaze out at the muted earth tones of the western Nevada desert as Johnny and I drive toward the state line. He’s changed the radio station to some kind of twangy vintage country music, which normally I wouldn’t listen to, but I’m finding myself lulled by it. It suits him. It also gives me space to think.

“I should’ve expected all the commotion,” I mutter. “I’ve been to plenty of press events. I’ve smiled for the cameras hundreds of times. So why did this get to me?”

“Maybe because it felt more personal?”

He’s put his hat in the back seat, and his hair is mussed. I want to reach out and touch it. It’s distracting me from the encounter with the paparazzi.

Flashbulbs. Questions. Intrusive questions. “Yeah. It triggered me. But I don’t know why.”

“Because you didn’t have a ready answer?”

“That’s probably it.” Although it could be because it felt like I’ve been found out.

Now the whole world has had a glimpse into my sexual preferences, even if Johnny and I haven’t done anything, because people will draw conclusions from my marrying a porn star. While, as a gay man, I’ve somewhat defined my identity based on sexuality—and that’s not a thing that American society tends to view with a high degree of positivity—it’s another thing to announce that I adore gay porn. Which is what it felt like to pop up out of nowhere married to a major star.

We pass a billboard for an adult store.

Maybe that panicky feeling was shame.

Shame is the opposite of pride.

Given all the therapy I’ve been through, I’ve had plenty of practice at reducing my thoughts and feelings down to the lowest denominator. And that is always some common theme—usually shame. Enoughness is a big one, too: that I’m not enough or haven’t done enough. Like with Andrei.

I chew on my lip as I watch the barren landscape, dotted only with the occasional over-the-top casino in the middle of nowhere and a ton of billboard advertising.

I’d thought I’d gotten over any feelings of shame about my sexuality. When I came out, my momther sent me to a therapist not—she said—because there was anything wrong with me, but because she thought I might want to talk with someone.

But maybe I thought there was something wrong with me. Maybe I still do. And maybe I should be a little more patient with Johnny and how he doesn’t want to see a therapist. Although I think I’ve talked him into it.

Still—there’s shame around mental health, too. I imagine he’s got a lot going on inside his head, if it’s anything like what’s going on inside my head: a jumble of too much to handle. I realized a long time ago that I need professional help to keep that jumble from getting too overwhelming.

My phone pings, and I see it’s an email from the wedding chapel. They’ve attached our wedding photos. More evidence that Johnny and I are really married. The certificate is one thing, and the rings another. But photos?

I click through them, and boy, I look overserved. I’m also gazing adoringly at Johnny.

My heart beats rapidly as I view the images, but I also feel a sense of weightlessness and lightness I haven’t felt in a while. Am I actually happy about this, despite all the reasons it’s a mistake?

“What’s your email?” I ask.

Johnny cocks his head. “Why? Y’all have somethin’ you can’t tell me right now?”

“Ha ha. I wanted to send you our wedding photos.”

“Oh, that’s … hmm. Okay.” He gives me his email address, and I forward them, then make my favorite one my phone wallpaper. We’re standing at the altar in the cheesy chapel holding hands and staring into each other’s eyes. I don’t remember the moment at all, but we look like we’re completely …

Completely in love.

We weren’t. Aren’t. I know that. But the picture makes me happy anyway.

After that, I put my phone down. I need to search for therapists for Johnny, but this is a long drive, so I have plenty of time.

I go back to staring out the window at the monotonous desert and yawn. Last night’s the first time I’ve slept well in a while, and that was only because I was too drunk and tired to do anything but pass out. Now, though, my brain’s starting to get overloaded again.

My phone buzzes, and of course, it’s my momther. I decline the call, but a text comes through immediately.

Momther

Do you have something to tell us?

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