Page 24 of Jealous of the Clouds
Was their drug use?
Brent was puzzled by the reaction. He tried to reassure him that the bowling league was about as above board of an eveningdozens of gay men could have together. And, even though he wasn’t sure he wanted Kade along with him, he invited him anyway, just to prove to him that all he was interested in was seeing old friends and engaging in a bit of friendly sport. He’d been part of the league for more than five years.
When Josh came to the first league night, though, he’d already had his mind made up. He was sullen and unfriendly toward Brent’s teammates. If he saw anyone hug or kiss Brent, even on the cheek, he’d glower at the person, even though physical affection and even a little flirting were commonplace at the bowling alley. It was all harmless, or so Brent thought.
Kade’s reaction was so bad that Brent quit the team after only two nights. “It just wasn’t worth the questions and the suspicions.”
But quitting wasn’t enough.
Suddenly, a different side of Josh came out—a deeply suspicious one who followed every move Brent made. Kade needed to know where Brent was every hour or every day. If Brent tarried too long at, say, the supermarket, Josh would bombard him with questions, requiring Brent to account for every minute Josh determined was “too long.”
Kade demanded access to all of Brent’s passwords and, even though Brent grudgingly gave them, he grew further apart from Josh with each query about a suspect email or an interaction on social media. Brent felt he couldn’t do or say anything without being eyed and judged.
Brent realized as quickly as he’d fallen in love that he’d made a mistake and that just as much as this was a relationship, it was also a prison.
He tried to leave. And Josh let him.
But things weren’t over.
Far from it.
Once Brent settled in a new apartment in the Ravenswood neighborhood, he noticed Josh’s car parked outside at all hours. There was never a figure inside the car, but Brent figured Josh could have just been keeping his head down. Why was he in this neighborhood, anyway? Josh had found his own new place several miles to the east, near Loyola University.
And then Brent began to notice subtle things when he came home from work—a book he’d read before falling asleep the previous night and that he was certain he’d left on the nightstand was now on his coffee table. There were dishes in the sink he couldn’t remember using. A turd in the toilet. Strange mail began coming—pornographic magazines and sex toys.
And then, one night, after meeting up with an old friend from college who was in town on business, Brent walked up Lincoln Avenue to his new apartment. When he turned on Wilson Avenue, he stopped. So did the footfalls behind. He peered over his shoulder and thought he saw a hooded figure duck into the shrubbery in front of a courtyard apartment building.
Incidents like this continued to occur on a regular basis. There was always just enough to let Brent know someone—guess who—was messing with him, but too little to do anything proactive about it like call the police or pursue getting a restraining order.
Brent began going out less and less. He convinced his boss to let him work from home the majority of the time.
Today, Brent lives in fear in a prison of his own making. His therapist diagnosed him with PTSD and mild agoraphobia.
*
I was getting too cold to continue to sit here and listen. Besides, I needed to get home, shower, and get ready for work. I ran back the way I’d come, despite my stomach churning.
I don’t know if it was just me or the actual weather, but the clouds seemed darker, the wind unmercifully cruel, and the temperature at least ten degrees lower than when I had started off.
I resumed the podcast once I’d settled into a seat on the L downtown. I had to know who the other person was, praying it wasn’t me.
*
Bailey Anderson: And then there was Richard Blake. Richard was an older guy, a veteran of at least three broken relationships, and that was only when you didn’t count the dating and the hookups.
Richard is an attorney in downtown Chicago, a successful, self-made man who graduated from DePaul’s law school. He had his own home in the Andersonville neighborhood and drove a Jeep and a Mazda two-seater.
I’m telling you all this because I realized, and Richard confirmed it, that he was not your run-of-the-mill wide-eyed naïf, ever hopeful for a fairy tale romance—white picket fences and all that.
“I admit it. I was jaded.” Richard Blake’s raspy voice says. “I’d been through the wringer with a lot of different guys. Kissed a lot of frogs and never found Prince Charming. But I was always hopeful, even if I had grown cynical and pessimistic over the years.
“Then I met Josh. And the scales fell from my pessimistic eyes. He was what I’d dreamed of, but had grudgingly concluded wasn’t in the cards—at least not for me. Josh was articulate, charming, sweet, generous, and kind. Handsome. Sexy. He supported himself well. We had common interests—hiking,travel, photography, and old screwball comedies from back in the day. We were quite compatible in the bedroom.
“We went out for three months and, for most of that time, he was a real sweetheart. I started to think maybe, just maybe, I’d been wrong about never finding my forever man. Perhaps what I’d heard, that love comes along when you least expect it, was true.
“I was singing that tune fromCabaret, ‘Maybe This Time.’
“We moved in together, sharing his apartment near Loyola University. We had a view of the lake. The express bus downtown was just a block away, over on Sheridan Road. Or I could hop on the L at Granville, just around the corner. It seemed like everything would be perfect.
