Page 8 of Torn
Anyway, at least I hoped I was interpreting his agenda—and his mindset—correctly. One never knew with him. I also hoped that our bed and breakfast would be one of the charming cream-colored Victorian homes I’d seen lining the streets of Brighton. They were so common that I thought it was almost a sure thing we’d wind up in one.
So I found myself wandering alone, filled with the expectancy that anything could happen. I was in a foreign country where hardly a soul knew me, the sun was bright, the temperatures were unseasonably hot, and there was the salt smell in the air, unique to seaside towns.
I meandered for a while, confident, because Boutros had written out directions for me from the shoreline, so that if I got lost, all I had to do was go to the beach and use his directions to get to the B&B. Neither of us wanted a repeat of my first night in London.
As I walked along the busiest street in the center of Brighton, aptly named Queen’s Road, I sensed someone looking at me—intently. I searched the gazes of the crowd around me but saw no one. Traffic was busy, both of the foot and motorized type.
It wasn’t until I peered more closely into the backup of traffic that I sawhim. I don’t know if I’m taking literary license or if I truly did experience a unique sensation. My heart gave a little lurch. The hustle and bustle all around me dimmed for a moment. The world became silent.
He was stopped at a light, driving a little economy car of some sort unique to England, or at least Europe, and had lowered his sunglasses down his nose a bit to: one, let me know he was checking me out and two, reveal a pair of amazing pale brown irises. He grinned and raised his eyebrows, flirting from fifty feet away, even in traffic. One corner of his mouth rose in a disarming and mischievous grin.
I smiled shyly and coquettishly ran a suggestive hand over my crotch. Me, I was all about the subtlety. (“All class, you are,” I heard Boutros proclaiming.)
He laughed. The light changed. Someone behind him honked, and he moved on.
What a friendly town, I thought.That little thirty-second love affair bodes well for me. I walked on, picturing him. Even though I’d only seen him for seconds, his long reddish-brown hair, a little beyond shoulder length, and matching mustache, combined with those penetrating eyes, made a lasting impression. Even if I never saw him again—and I doubted I would—something had passed between us in those moments, something that held a kind of promise.
Ah, you’re making too much of a quick cruise!
I’d seen very little of his body, so my imagination filled it in—beefy, with long legs, broad shoulders, and hell, while I was at it, a big, uncut dick lying along one bare thigh. Hey, a girl can dream.
I moved on and soon found myself wandering down to the seaside. The Brighton Pier stretched out before me, rising up from the shimmering blue waters of the Atlantic. It looked both dreamlike and touristy, with its big domed arcade, Ferris wheel, and other rides standing in the forefront of the electric blue of the sky. Endless rows of concessions promised teeth-rotting and waist-expanding delights—candy apples and cotton candy, or what Boutros referred to as candy floss. Distant music reached my ears. It would be fitting if the music was from a calliope or something befitting the historic look of the old pier, but reality stepped in, as it had a nasty habit of doing. The music was, in actuality, the Outhere Brothers with their dance club hit “Don’t Stop (Wiggle Wiggle).” It seemed wrong but oddly fitting. Time and musical tastes march on, despite charming Victorian facades.
And the music did make me want to wiggle… a little bit.
I kept walking, imagining coming back here at night. I figured the pier must be even more magical then. I could visualize getting lost in the play of light and shadow, the music, the rush of the sea toward the shore.
I moved on toward the beachfront and found a bench. I plopped down. My feet were beginning to ache. Boutros had told me that there were days one could see all the way across the English Channel to France. I peered over the shimmering blue expanse, trying to see land, but either my eyes weren’t strong enough or France was lost in shimmering heat waves and the slight haze hanging in the air.
Still, it was a lovely view, and it calmed me. The sun’s reflection on the water sparkled like diamonds. The heat was intense and surprising, almost tropical. This was not what I expected from England.
I was glad for this moment alone. It felt a bit like the quiet before the storm. I came to the sudden realization that my life had been a whole lot of storm lately. I felt both younger than my thirty-some years and older too. I was a little jaded, and if I were being completely honest with myself, a bit immature.
I’d been married to a woman (a college sweetheart), and although I could honestly admit our three years together had been happy, they were still a lie because I had yet to accept myself for who I was—a gay man. Neither bisexual, as I first claimed when I came out of the closet, nor “confused,” as one of a pair of therapists I went to had told me. The years I wore a mask were marred by discontent and wondering if anyone really loved me. How could they when no one knew the real me? The people in my life—family, friends—only saw an image of myself I cast upon the world. They never saw the man hiding in the shadows, yearning to be freed from the chains of his hidden life.
The funny thing, I now thought, was who I’d hidden from the most. And that would be me. I laughed a little when I remembered that first shrink telling me that I only longed for good friendships with men since I’d had such a contentious relationship with my father when I was growing up. “Find a good male friend,” he’d urged me. Once I did that, his line of thinking went, my desire to get down and dirty with any number of blonds, brunets, and redheads would beat a hasty retreat.
The truth was, the more I resisted my urges and yearnings, the stronger they became. The old saw “what you resist, persists” was very true.
And here I was still growing up (I wondered ifthatprocess ever truly came to a close). The friendships with men that worked best for me these days were those where we enjoyed hobbies together, like fellatio and anal sex. Those are wholesome guy pastimes, right? Like watching football—and a hell of a lot more fun. Hey, I like adeepfriendship with a man.
That therapist was deluding not only me, but himself. After lots of reflection, I knew I was born gay—and it wasn’t the result of being damaged or maladjusted. My family may have been dysfunctional, like everyone else’s I knew, but they’d never be able to make the grand and magical claim that they made me gay.
No one had the power to do that.
Boutros had said there was a nude beach around here somewhere, but I’d yet to stumble across it. He’d also promised that across the road from the nude beach was a desolate area of bushes and natural nooks and crannies that were a hotbed of gay sexual activity.
Perhaps a morning stroll would be in order? A blow job in the bushes as the sun rose? How romantic!
As I gazed out at the sea, I realized I was right where I needed to be and at the right time. My journey to self-acceptance had been marred by shame, guilt, self-loathing, and denial. Heartache. But I’d needed to pass through those stages to find the young man I sat with here today, along this beautiful seashore where the sun dazzled and shimmered on the water.
I realized this young man was simply what he was—a good person. I had healthy appetites, sure, but they were, in my opinion, God-given. If handled right (and maybe, if I could find it, with a bit of dignity), they could be a source of lifelong joy. And there was absolutely nothing wrong with that.
Being surrounded by others of my kind calmed me, validated my existence, made me sure I had nothing to be ashamed of. Nothing to celebrate, either. I was one variation on the human theme, here to complete my journey of love and discovery. Unique—just like everyone else.
Here I was in this town Boutros had called the British San Francisco because of its large gay population and its tourists—who were also of the same-sex persuasion. I was surrounded by men like me, who loved other men like me. And it felt as warm and comforting as the sun shining down upon my head.
Being here was a real vacation, a departure, in more ways than one, from what I’d always known. Boutros had told me, in one of his more serious moments, that this trip across the sea could be broadening in ways that I couldn’t imagine.
