Season of Truth, Part XIV

Editorial note and disclaimer: Previous statements, both flippant and serious, apply. Comments and critiques are much appreciated – really.

Season of Truth, Part XIV

“Look at the faces
Listen to the bells
It’s hard to believe
We need a place called hell.”
-from INXS’ “Devil Inside”

From the kitchen, Lorenzo directed orders through a headset. He smiled to Jameson but kept talking to the person on the other end: all guests would clear through security stationed inside the front door foyer then pass through glass doors into the backyard courtyard. No invitation, no admittance. Jameson gave him a thumbs up on the way out, but he wondered where he’d put the invitation.

Upstairs, the den was empty and both Lydia and Al’s doors were closed. He put his new clothes away and found the invitation on a corner of his desk. He thought a shower would be a good idea before the party. Al was coming out of the bathroom in a towel as he was coming in and they smiled at each other. Jameson showered, dried off, and was back in his room when there were two taps on the door.

He heard Al call out, “Can you help me out?”

Jameson opened the door and forced himself to focus on Al’s face and not his muscular arms or the fact that both of them were wearing towels. “Sure, what do you need?”

Al grinned at him. “Can we break out that henna kit? You can do some great designs for me.”

Jameson blinked. “Oh. Sure! You mean designs on your back or something?”

“Or something,” Al drawled. “Arm bands. Maybe my chest and navel. Kenji symbols. I can make quick templates and show you. If I tried to do them myself I know they would be messed up.”

“Sure, I can help.” Jameson took a deep breath. He could smell Al’s clean scent and breathed in again. “What are you going as, anyway?”

“A spiritual warrior.” Al smiled softly and Jameson realized that his smile rivaled Taylor’s. The smile turned into an impudent grin. “If you need any, I can do designs on you, too.”

Jameson blushed and stuttered, “Me? Designs? I. No. That’s okay. I don’t know if that would work with my costume.” He frowned. “I’ll be right back. It’s in Taylor’s workroom.” Al’s eyes clouded for a moment, but he nodded at Jameson as he passed down the hall and up the stairs.

The crates and materials were all gone. The only thing Jameson recognized from before was the fireplace and his costume hanging from a coat rack in a corner. He grabbed the costume, mask and black boots and went back downstairs.

Al was waiting in the hallway with a bag and some pen and paper. Al followed him into his room. He hung up his costume and opened the henna tattoo kit and read the instructions while Al drew a series of dragon and Kenji symbols on paper using the desk. Al cut around the edges: instant templates. Al looked over Jameson’s shoulder as he prepared the henna applicator.

Al asked, “What do you want to do first?”

“Arms,” Jameson said. Al secured his towel and sat on the edge of the bed. Jameson placed the paper template against Al’s arm.

The first attempt was a glob of henna paint, but he smeared it across the open space of the template, which got soggy quickly. “I’m going to try freehand.” Al nodded. Jameson held Al’s arm with his left hand and quickly painted what he hoped were acceptable semblances of Al’s drawings with his right. “The longer this stuff stays on the darker the designs will be. Stay still. When it dries, I’ll peel and wipe it off you.”

“We can do my front first,” Al said.

Jameson looked at some of the Kenji symbols he’d placed near him on the bed and copied their shapes onto Al’s right pectoral, using his off hand on Al’s shoulder to steady himself. He noticed goose bumps rise and fade on Al’s shoulders. “Are you cold?”

“No,” Al murmured. “You’ve got a nice touch.” Jameson blushed and finished the designs on Al’s chest.

He stepped back to view his work. “What do the symbols mean?”

Al met his gaze. “The one on the right means ‘peace.’ The one on the left is ‘harmony.’” He gestured at the farthest Kenji symbol on the bed. “Can you do that one next?”

Jameson looked at the symbol’s shape. “Where do you want it?”

“Navel. It means ‘power,’” Al said.

Jameson kept his expression composed but he could feel his heart beat wildly. “You’d better stand up.” Al stood and adjusted his towel lower then turned to face him as Jameson sat on the edge of the bed. He looked at the shape of the Kenji symbol to be sure. When he held Al’s smooth side above his hip for balance as he painted the symbol, he had the urge to lean closer and kiss the skin showing above his towel. He painted.

Al breathed out and laughed. “It’s cold and it tickles.”

Goosebumps covered Al’s chest and arms. He could hear Al’s heartbeat. Jameson grinned. “Serves you right. Henna can take weeks to fade. You’ll get lots of looks at the gym.”

Al grinned. “I already do.”

The symbol finished, he surveyed his work and whistled softly at Al. “You look great. I can’t wait to see what it looks like with the paint gone.” Jameson gestured at Al’s midsection. “Sit down if you can and relax. It will take a little while to dry.”

He turned on his portable stereo and rummaged through his underwear drawer for a pair of black briefs. Finding a pair he thought would work, he dangled them between finger and thumb for Al’s approval.

Al had managed to lean against the bed without bending his torso. “Nice.” He pointed at Jameson’s costume. “But with that costume, you’re going commando like me.”

“It’s almost sheer!”

Al’s eyes gleamed. “Exactly. Taylor used the same material, different cut, for my outfit, which are basically loose pants with a sash.” He paused, and Jameson knew what Al was about to say because he flashed back to Taylor and the night he stood naked in front of him for his costume fitting. “Truth or dare, Jameson?”

“Are you trying to embarrass me?”

Al, his smile softened, shook his head. “No.” His eyes gleamed. “Would you rather I go first?”

Jameson arched an eyebrow. “You don’t have to do that.”

Al shrugged. “Same time then.”

Jameson set his jaw as took down the costume and set it across the bed. He turned to face Al, one eyebrow raised, as he dropped his towel. Al looked him up and down and grinned, but Jameson ignored him as he pulled the costume up his legs, over his hips, and across his shoulders. He looked down at the ribbons and open eyelets that laced up from crotch to below his neck and tied the first few. Placing the mask on his face, he combed it back as instructed, leaving no distinction between raven hair and black feathers.

He turned towards the mirror on the back of his door. His reflection showed a black devil, a denizen of the deepest hell, his body wrapped neatly with layers of black silk that accentuated the muscles of his body. Eyes blazed from the slits of the mask that extended only as far as his nose. He looked at Al, whose expression was curious.

“What?” Jameson asked.

Al shook his head. “Nothing. You.” He paused. “You think the henna is dry?”

Jameson brushed the paint on Al’s right arm and the paint flaked away like dry skin. He used his damp towel to brush the rest of the dried paint away carefully on both arms and chest. He ran his finger lightly over the symbol below Al’s navel, making sure it was dry, then flaked the paint away with his fingers. He heard Al swallow and then he grabbed Jameson’s hand.

“Thanks, that’s great,” he said gruffly, and he let go of Jameson’s hand and picked up his bag on the floor. With his back to Jameson, he dropped the towel and stepped into the silk pants and cinched them with a long piece of black silk. Al wrapped a piece of ribbon with two holes across his eyes, tying the long strands behind his head. He stepped into straw sandals, took a deep breath and turned to face Jameson.

The henna designs were in stark contrast to Al’s lighter skin. Jameson looked him up and down, face composed, but noted Al’s partial arousal tenting the sash of his pants. Even with the wide ribbon across his face he could tell Al was blushing.

“Ready?” Jameson asked. “For the party, I mean!” he stammered. Al scowled at him, but then they both burst out laughing.

***

Season of Truth, Part XIII

Editorial note and disclaimer: It’s been so long, I don’t remember the previous disclaimers. I wasn’t going to post/blog until I got this installment done. Thanks to those who’ve expressed interest and wanted to hear more – even more thanks for your supreme patience. Part XIV is already done – but I will tweak it over the weekend and post next week. Comments always appreciated.

Season of Truth, Part XIII

“God will provide the way
You read about it every day
I’m telling ya
All you gotta do is pray
And furnish his house with silver”
-from Danielle Dax’ “Big Hollow Man”

His mother placed cash and a generous tip on their check. “Thank your father for breakfast. Too bad he couldn’t make it.” Her expression was impish. “Are you two ready?”

Jameson folded the envelope of money carefully and put it inside his jacket pocket. He resisted the urge to give the money back to his mother. His mind swirled with the events of the last several months and his predictably unpredictable family: being outed by his family finding gay porn in his desk, getting beat up by his father, and finding refuge with his deceased uncle’s partner’s brother. He felt Al’s hand at his waist, guiding him through the restaurant to the curb outside where his mother had hailed a cab. The three of them got into the back seat, Jameson in the middle, his mother squeezing his hand and Al’s arm across his shoulder.

He was still trying to reconcile the meek mother of his childhood with this whirlwind of vitality and decision. She directed a series of instructions to the cab driver. The cab lurched into traffic.

“I thought Mormons were frugal and here you’re going shopping?” Al asked, squeezing Jameson’s shoulder as he teased her.

She exhaled through her nose and mocked a scowl at Al. “I’m surprised models can think. Must be the tight clothes.” She squeezed Jameson’s hand as she teased him back. Jameson could see himself in the driver’s rearview mirror and he was grinning like a fool.

The cab stopped in the street front of the brownstone’s courtyard. They got out and his mother thanked the driver with a fifty and asked him to wait, please, and he enthusiastically agreed. She clapped at the red dragon claws around the arbor and the dragon spine along the walkway, but cried out in delight at the dragon mouth surrounding the front doorway.

Lorenzo, the property manager, and Taylor were in the kitchen going through checklists and paperwork. Taylor, balancing a cup of tea on a saucer, looked up in surprise at the hurricane of Jameson’s mother as she crossed the room and gave him an enthusiastic embrace. Over her shoulder, Jameson knew Taylor’s white smile was for him.

Jameson wasn’t sure how long they talked. He was peripherally aware of rapid-fire comments between them that sparked the room with understanding. She thanked Taylor and then he and Al were giving her a tour of the house, the den, their rooms, and they were back in the courtyard. Al hugged her goodbye and squeezed Jameson’s shoulder. She and Jameson got back into the waiting cab and asked him to take them to Union Square.

She bought him shoes, casual clothes, dress clothes, and two suits. When she suggested a white dress shirt, he protested, but then noticed it was textured silk. They shopped similarly: they knew what they wanted before they went into each store. Too quickly, they were done. While they waited for the cab to pull up to the corner, he watched her in the window’s reflection in front of Saks Fifth Avenue. He knew that there was much of this woman that he hadn’t known before. She caught his eyes and the feeling of a lightning strike was in the air.

“I’ll thank your father for you, since I know you won’t.”

Jameson looked at the shopping bags. “I don’t want any of this if I’m going to be in the middle of you two.”

Her smile was terrible. “He has specific choices, Jameson. He can be a gracious, loving and supportive father like he’s never been, or he can be my ex-husband. You’re not in the middle of us. You belong to us both.”

She raised her chin deliberately and the iron was in her eyes. “You are my son and I love you.” She lowered her chin. “I never said it enough before, Jameson. I always have and I always will.”

He nodded at her but couldn’t talk. The cab took them back to the brownstone. She helped him take the shopping bags to his room. They hugged and he escorted her, arm in arm, through the house.

“You look wonderful, mom.”

She beamed at him. “I clean up pretty good for an old woman.” She paused, a curious expression on her face. “I’ll call you when I get home. Tell your men ‘goodbye’ for me, again.” She hugged him before he could say anything and passed through the front door.

He watched from the courtyard as she waved at him from the roar of the racing cab. He wiped his eyes with the back of his hand.

“My men?” he murmured to himself.

***

Season of Truth, Part XII

Editorial note and disclaimer: Same disclaimer, different chapter. Read on. Hopefully, you’ll enjoy. Comments always appreciated.

Season of Truth, Part XII

“Pray God you can cope.
I stand outside this woman’s work,
This woman’s world.
OOh, it’s hard on the man,
Now his part is over.”
-from Kate Bush’s “This Woman’s Work”

Jameson sipped at his coffee, listening to his mother and Al chatting brightly about the City and growing up in the Bay area. He looked at her and knew that her world had changed, and in that changing, someone as rock steady and close as his mother was suddenly unfamiliar and unpredictable.

He leaned over the table and caught their eyes, interrupting, “I’m sorry. Mom.” He gathered his thoughts. “I’m trying to understand. What… happened?”

She closed her eyes and bent her head. He realized she was praying. She opened her eyes, and her expression was again unknown to him, but softened with a small smile. “I was living two lives, happy on the outside and miserable on the inside. Don’t look so surprised, son. You went through the same kind of thing, didn’t you, trying to live a righteous life knowing you were something else?” He was silent but had the grace to nod.

She clasped his hands. “I always knew you were different.” She squeezed his hands firmly at his expression. “Jameson, please! Of course I knew, even though I didn’t want to admit it. What I regret is how you came to know yourself. Your father had no right to do what he did.” She paused to let him absorb her words. Al squeezed his knee from under the table. Their server came to the table and took their breakfast orders.

She took a sip of water and continued. “You ask ‘what happened?’ I hated myself for not standing up to your father. I hated thinking I had lost my son. I guess the epiphany came to me when I asked our bishop for counsel and guidance and he said to pray and to support your father. Support your father! Sweep it under the rug, ignore the elephant in the middle of the room, ignore the feeling of my heart ripped from my body.” The new iron expression was on her face. “Then. When I tried to talk with you, You hung up on me.” Jameson blinked and wanted to look away. He felt like he was watching a storm gather with lightning about to strike.

“Everyone always assumed I was ‘Mom.’ Good ole Mom. Stable, responsible, meek and mild. Fix the dinners, clean the clothes, be the family chauffeur, be the help mate. Jameson, I’m not angry at you.” She held his eyes and he couldn’t look away. “I’m grateful. I thank God for you, because when you hung up on me, I had had enough. I was done living half a life. I’m not a ‘new’ person. I’m whole, and your father can take it or leave it.” He felt a lump of pride in his throat.

She exhaled through her nose, and they both giggled because they knew she almost snorted. When their laughter subsided, Al grinned shyly and said to her, “No offense to you, but your husband is a fool.”

She nodded at him. “None taken, because oh yes, I know. God must have his reasons.” She stirred her coffee and held the cup in front of her nose, inhaling slowly. Through the rising steam, she said, “God must have his reasons, but I’m tired of waiting for them to make sense.” She caught Jameson’s glance. “I’m sorry. I’m here to see you, not to drag you through my own crisis.” She set the cup in front of her. “Tell me about your job. Tell me how Taylor is doing and what you think of his house.” She looked at Al, “And tell me about your friends.”

“Ask him yourself, Mom.” Glancing at the clock on the wall, Jameson started a silent count and grinned at her. As he sipped his coffee, he watched in amusement at their question and answer volleys.

What he did for a living: modeling and part-time security. “Oh, a model, how exciting! You’re certainly handsome!” Where he lived: he rented a room from Taylor down the hall from Jameson. “Roommates? How wonderful!” What was his religion: his family background was Buddhist, but he didn’t claim any specific path. Was he familiar with Mormonism? Not until he met Jameson and read up about it on the internet. “We are a good people.” Was he seeing anyone: Al looked at Jameson for a reaction when he mentioned a waitress who would be ‘just a friend.’

She patted Al’s hand and said “Maybe you haven’t met the right girl yet.”

Al shrugged and grinned wickedly. “Or man.” He ignored her nervous giggle and Jameson’s laugh and drank his coffee.

Jameson noted the time with a smile: seventy nine seconds to run Al through her litany of questions.

The server brought their meals. In between bites, Jameson told her about the day he left Utah and about Aunt Emmalynn, how she had given him money and directed him to Taylor, who “was doing fine.” Al nudged his leg and winked suggestively, but Jameson ignored him and continued talking about his marketing job and making friends with Richard.

He described the house and she nodded, saying “I have been there before. For Gerald’s funeral. I met Taylor there. I would like to see him again and thank him for all he’s done for you.” Al’s eyes glowed and he nudged Jameson under the table, but he nodded in agreement.

Jameson started to tell her about tonight’s masquerade party and she exclaimed, “Oh,” and handed him a small shopping bag from a side pouch in her purse. He opened the sack: a henna tattoo kit. She gestured vaguely. “Temporary. The designs will last up to three weeks.”

Jameson teased, “What if I already have a tattoo, mom?”

She narrowed her eyes at him, then shrugged. “You and Jesus can work that out.” She took a sip of water, but couldn’t resist. “What kind of tattoo?”

Al chimed in, “It’s a huge ‘Mom’ tat on his left…”

“Al!” Jameson laughed.

She looked at her watch and thought for a moment. “Okay. Lots to do. We go to the house, see Taylor, go shopping, and then I’ll have you back in time to get ready for your party. I need to catch a flight home tonight and get ready for a lesson at church tomorrow. I think your father might be flying home tonight, too.” She pulled an envelope from her purse and handed it to Jameson. He leafed through the stack of fifties and twenties. “We had saved this for you for BYU. It’s rightfully yours.”

He stared at her, stunned. “You have money for a deposit for your own place, you can start school.” She paused. “And you can come see me once in a while and I can come out here and see you.” She picked up her coffee cup and held his eyes and took one slow, deliberate sip. The iron expression was on her face, tempered by a kind smile. “And Jameson, if you hang up on me ever again, you’ll have hell to pay.”

***

Season of Truth, Part XI

Editorial note and disclaimer: Same disclaimer, different chapter. I appreciate the comments (“love it!” “hate it” “my retinas!”), questions (“when the hell are you gonna finish this?”), and urgings to get writing again (“Don, I’m gonna come out there and beat your ass!”). Thanks to all you lovely folks for helping me focus and refocus.

Season of Truth, Part XI

“In another life I see you
as an angel flying high,
and the hands of time will free you -
you will cast your chains aside -
and the dawn will come and kiss away
every tear that’s ever fallen
from your eyes…”
-from Concrete Blonde’s “Caroline”

The chime of his cell phone woke him. Jameson lay there and let it ring until it would go to voicemail and he opened his eyes after a few minutes to see the red light of a message. The clock read just after ten. He stretched and yawned, relishing the mixed sensations of the warm sheets against the light, cool breeze touching everywhere uncovered. He remembered the night with Taylor and he smiled. He wondered if he looked different and he laughed to himself at the thought of a tell-tell “no longer a virgin” glow.

The cell phone rang again.

“Hi, Jaymo!” Richard said.

Jameson smiled into the phone. “Good morning.” His voice felt deep from sleep.

“Oh, did I catch you at a bad time?”

In his mind he could see Richard’s eyebrows raised and he laughed. “No, just waking up.”

“If that stud Al’s with you, I’ll be right over!”

Jameson started laughing. “I’ll leave the door open.”

“I’m picking up Greg at 7:30. See you around 8, maybe 9?”

“Sounds great, Richard. See you then.”

He set the phone down and leaned back into his pillow until the rumbling in his stomach prompted him out of bed. He grabbed a pair of clean briefs and t-shirt, wrapped a towel around his waist and left his room to shower. Al’s door was open, but he continued down the hall and entered the bathroom. Al, in briefs with a towel over his shoulders, was at the double sink brushing his teeth. He caught Jameson’s eyes in the mirror.

“I can come back,” Jameson said.

Al shook his head and bent over the sink to rinse. “Go ahead.” He nodded at the clawfoot shower tub. His eyes were smiling. “I was going to come ask if you wanted to go to breakfast.”

Jameson smiled. “Good. I’m starving.”

“You want to go first?” Al asked.

Jameson shook his head, trying not to notice Al’s firm butt and smooth, broad shoulders. “No, you go first.” Al shrugged and placed the towel on a wall peg and turned on the shower faucet. Jameson was turning into the hall as Al lowered his briefs.

He reclined on the bed in his room for a while, listening for the sounds of the shower to quiet. He placed a hand over the pronounced bulge of his towel, fighting the urge to go back and watch Al from the doorway. Words came to him from his father and a priesthood lesson from the past, that “boys are to become men, masculine, manly men, ultimately to become husbands and fathers.” He closed his eyes, remembering his father’s shining zeal when he quoted Boyd Packer: “Physical mischief with another man is forbidden. It is forbidden by the Lord.” He sighed in momentary anger.

He squeezed himself through the towel. Images flowed through his mind: Taylor in the tub and their lovemaking, and the way Al’s briefs slid over his buttocks and down his thighs. “Hey, Packer,” he thought to himself. “Forbid this, you crock.” He squeezed again, harder. He smiled at the absurdity of his former beliefs. The righteousness of his own body was his new testament.

“Uhm, shower’s free.”

Jameson snapped his eyes open in shock at an almost-naked Al in the doorway, fighting to keep a wicked grin from splitting his face.

“Oh Jesus,” Jameson said, hoping he would self-combust and disappear into a red mushroom cloud.

Al chuckled at him, his warm eyes holding his. “No sweat, dude. We all do it.” Jameson smiled weakly at him.

Al turned into the hall and called over his shoulder, “Let me know if you need a hand with that,” and chuckled again.

Despite his embarrassment, Jameson laughed. He gathered his clean clothes and went down the hall, passing Al’s open door without pausing or turning. The shower was a torrent of warmth, soap and old shames that swirled around his feet and drained away.

After he was dressed, they walked in an easy silence to a small cafe near Haight and Ashbury. Al put their names on the waiting list. They sat outside on the patio, sipping coffee. Jameson looked at their reflection in the cafe window. Al’s eyes met his and they both smiled.

“I took the night off for the party. Is it okay if I hang out with you tonight?” Al asked.

Jameson nodded. “I’d like that. Richard and his friend will be coming, too, but knowing him, they’ll end up doing their own thing anyway.” Al smiled.

Jameson let his eyes focus through the reflection and into the cafe; every table was full. He caught the uncomfortably familiar sight of identical suits sitting with their backs to the window and a woman seated facing them. The woman looked very much like his mother, except his mother always wore dresses and this woman wore slacks, blouse and a casual jacket. The way she twirled the ice in her glass before she took a sip of water confirmed it; his mother was having a late breakfast with Elder Peters and Nichols.

He handed the cup of coffee to Al and stood up before he knew what he was doing. “I’ll be back,” he said, ignoring Al’s eyebrows. He went to the doorway, then turned back to Al; it was too crowded and he didn’t know what to say. He remembered hanging up the phone on her.

He sat by Al and took his coffee. “My mother is in there,” he murmured. He gazed through the window, wryly noting theirs was the only table without coffee cups. He felt Al squeeze his shoulder. The missionaries were nodding at whatever his mother was saying. They stood, shook hands with her, and the two missionaries left the table and the cafe, not seeing Jameson as they passed by him. He looked inside at his mother, who had sat back down and was watching the missionaries leave.

She met his eyes and in that moment he saw recognition, pain, and immense joy. There was a slow explosion of movement as she left the table to come outside and hug him, crying into his shoulder. His own eyes were wet and he caught the sounds of traffic, the clink of spoons against cups, her sobs of “Jameson, I’m sorry. I’m so very sorry.” Jameson closed his eyes and held her until she quieted and pulled away to stare into his face. Time slowly fractured again as Al guided them inside to a table, his mother sitting next to him as Al ordered a round of coffee.

Al stood and extended his hand to his mother. “I’m Al. I’ll leave to give you two your time alone, but I really need more coffee.”

“Please stay,” Jameson said.

His mother looked at Al, nodding, and said, “Yes, please. You’re his… friend.” Jameson and Al exchanged glances and they both grinned.

“Friend,” Jameson emphasized. His mother reddened and smiled shyly at Al who was wiggling his eyebrows at Jameson who got flustered and said, “What are you doing here?”

The server returned then with three cups of coffee. Jameson blinked as his mother asked for cream and sugar. Her eyes were red from crying. She used a napkin to blot her eyes. She stirred her coffee and brought the cup to her nose and inhaled deeply and set the cup in front of her.

She sighed and smiled and she looked at Jameson with an iron expression he had never seen. “I’m sorry that I didn’t stand up for you before. You must think I’m the world’s biggest doormat, and maye I was. The final straw was when your father came out here for your cousin’s wedding and didn’t even ask me to come with him. You’re my son, and your father won’t dictate when or how I see you, not ever again.” She stirred the coffee and took a sip of water. “I met with the missionaries to get your address to come see you, but you found me here and I thank the Lord for his many blessing.”

“Mom,” Jameson said. “Where’s dad?”

She looked at the coffee and took another sip of water, then looked at her watch. “He’s probably at the Oakland Temple.” She stared at Jameson. “I don’t know. We separated yesterday on the phone and I flew here this morning and went shopping with his credit card.”

Jameson stared. “Separated?”

She inclined her head slightly. “I told him there would be big changes or I wanted a divorce.”

***

Season of Truth, Part X

Editorial note and disclaimer: The editorial commentaries of the prior sections apply. This is shorter than I intended, but as readers will note, my writing intentions rarely translate into reality. I’d love your feedback – good, bad, or even ugly or indifferent.

Season of Truth, Part X

“Will we burn in heaven
like we do down here?”
- from Sarah McLachlan’s “Witness”

They made love in Taylor’s bedroom. A single candle on the dresser cast their merged shadow on the wall and the headboard. When he closed his eyes, Jameson couldn’t tell where the sensations of touch or being touched began. His senses burned. The image of heaven that he’d held in his mind paled to the truth of here, the truth of now, and the truth that was always there.

He explored, losing all concept of time between kissing, tasting and touching. Taylor mirrored his movements and actions. He felt his breath stop and every muscle tighten. They climaxed together. Jameson cried out and slammed his head back into the pillow, his hands pulling Taylor against him.

When their breathing had slowed to normal, Taylor pulled him from the bed and into the bathroom shower where they rinsed. They brushed their teeth in the near darkness, legs touching, both content with the silence. In the bedroom, Taylor pulled the sheets and down comforter up to Jameson’s chest. Before Taylor blew out the candle, Jameson could see his brilliant smile was tinged with exhaustion, and the flames of his eyes had settled to green embers.

Taylor slipped into bed and lay on his back, pulling Jameson into the crook of his neck and arm. He murmured into his ear, “Thank you.” His voice vibrated through their chests. Jameson pressed his face against Taylor’s neck, and Taylor held him tighter. “The party is tomorrow. Today, I mean. I’ll be up early, so I won’t see you until later.” Jameson breathed in the smell of shower gel and Taylor’s scent, filled with wonder at the warm, naked man against his skin. The sound of Taylor’s heartbeat and slowing breath lulled him into sleep.

He awoke in the same position. The windows glowed with sunrise. The covers were around their knees. Jameson stared down the length of Taylor’s uncovered body. He closed his eyes and opened them, willing himself to wake from the incredible dream. He felt his penis lengthen, pressing against Taylor’s side at the thoughts of their evening. Taylor exhaled deeply and turned on his side, still asleep.

As quietly as possible, he left the bed. He bunched his clothes from the bathroom under one arm and navigated through the hall and down the stairs to his floor. Dim lights were on in the den. He peered through the entrance at Al, reclining on the sofa and watching the fire. Jameson pressed the bundle of clothes against his crotch, willing his erection to subside as Al looked up and noticed him.

They stared at each other until Al’s lips curled into a smile. “Up late or early?”

Jameson knew he was blushing. “Both, I guess.” He saw the smile didn’t make it to Al’s eyes. “Are you okay?”

Al nodded. “I’m fine.” He took a swig of beer. “When I got home, you weren’t in your room.”

“I’m sorry for making you worry,” Jameson stammered.

Al gestured with the beer. “No problem. It’s cool. I was paranoid your dad had kidnapped you or something.” The smile made it to his eyes. “Looks like you had fun, though.” Jameson could feel the heat on his face.

Al laughed and gestured to his beer. “Want one?”

Jameson rubbed his eyes. “Uh,” he stammered. “No.” He was thirsty and wanted water. He wondered if this feeling was why people got married: to release the flood of hormones that seemed to increase, not decrease, with having sex.

Al yawned and stood up. He turned the lamp off and pulled the fire screen tight on the fireplace. Before Jameson could go down the hall, Al was standing in front him. He was smiling gently, but his eyes were serious. “I’m glad you’re okay, Jameson. I was worried.”

Jameson nodded. “Thank you, Al. I was totally safe.”

Al beamed. “Good boy.” His smile was devilish. “We’ve slept in the same bed. In this town, we’re technically dating.”

Jameson smiled back. “I’d hug you, but I can’t right now.”

Al arched an eyebrow. “Can’t? Or won’t?”

Jameson blushed again. Al laughed and pulled him into a hug, Jameson’s hand that held his clothes was pressed into Al’s thigh. Al stepped back and walked to his door. Jameson could feel Al’s eyes on him as passed by and he stepped to his own door.

Al called out, “Hey.”

Jameson looked over his shoulder, expecting ’sleep well’ or ’see you later.’

“Nice butt,” Al said, and closed his door.

Jameson had an urge to drop the clothes and knock on Al’s door, but he entered his room and sat naked on his bed and watched the sun wash the morning with breaking fog and swaths of blue sky.

***

Season of Truth, Part IX

Editorial note and disclaimer: The editorial commentaries of the prior sections apply. Comment away. *update: extraneous ‘the’ removed, per Julz’ great eye for detail*

Season of Truth, Part IX

“I’ve fallen through the arms of love, the arms of love
and I am folded in these angel wings, these angel wings,
you are what I’m dreaming”
-from Icehouse’s “Lay Your Hands on Me”

Taylor looked at the floor and then at Jameson, his eyes inscrutable, but his smile was warm and brilliantly white. He squeezed Jameson’s hand and led him from the room and up two flights of dark stairs, navigating by touch. Jameson could feel they’d come to an open area.

“Stay here,” Taylor said, letting go of Jameson’s hand.

Jameson couldn’t see anything, and his other senses stretched to define his surroundings. He could hear Taylor moving and a drawer opening and closing. There was a scratch and a searing flare, and there was Taylor cupping the whiteness of a candle. He beckoned at Jameson to follow him into a spacious bathroom. He set the candle at one edge of the large tub and turned on the faucets. The flame reflected off brushed nickel, white marble and mirrored walls, filling the room with a soft glow.

“Bubbles, or no bubbles?” Taylor asked.

Jameson shrugged. “Whatever you want.”

Taylor’s smile flashed white, and he poured shower gel into the running water. He set two large towels on the vanity next to the tub and looked at Jameson, who was suddenly not sure of where to put his hands or how to stand or where to look or what to do. Was he supposed to be painfully aroused already? Did Taylor suggest a bath because he reeked from a full day’s work? All his thoughts stopped as he looked at Taylor, who was looking at and through him, seeming to see the possibilities of who he was in each flicker of the candle. Taylor’s inscrutable expression softened as he approached Jameson.

“The rest of the night is what you want,” he said gently.

Jameson spoke the truth before he could think. “I don’t know what to do.”

Taylor cocked his head slightly. “You don’t?” He paused, but not long enough for a response from Jameson. “Would you rather we take a shower?” Jameson shook his head. “Would you like to get in first?” Jameson shook his head. “Terrified?” Jameson remained still then slowly nodded. Taylor’s eyes were smiling. He adjusted the temperature, tested the water, turned off the faucets and then stood in front of him, waiting.

“We’re just bathing?” Jameson asked, slowly.

Taylor said, “If that’s what you want.”

He grasped at something he’d heard, several years ago. “Is it true that every gay man loves candles?”

Taylor laughed and said, “Did you ever see a gay priest without a candle?”

“You’re not a priest,” Jameson said.

Taylor, still grinning, said, “And you’re not in any church.”

Jameson noted the flames in Taylor’s eyes. He took a deep breath and reached out to Taylor’s waist and pulled the t-shirt up his torso and over his head. He unbuttoned his own shirt and let it fall behind him. Taylor’s face was inscrutable, but his eyes were glowing. Jameson reached for the button fly of Taylor’s jeans and pulled them apart. He started to pull the jeans over Taylor’s hips and he gasped, because Taylor wasn’t wearing underwear. He knew he was blushing, but he kept going until he was kneeling by Taylor’s feet and pulling the jeans from each leg. Jameson stared, letting his eyes follow Taylor’s body, soaking in the reverence of calves, strong thighs, semi-erect penis, the trail of hair to his navel and abdomen and up his chest. He smiled into Taylor’s eyes.

He stood, and Taylor reached for Jameson’s waist, unbuckling his belt and pushing the slacks down, hands gently brushing down his thighs. Jameson looked down and blushed at his tented briefs, but kept himself still as Taylor reached for the waistband and pulled them out and over his erection. Jameson stepped out of the briefs and Taylor took his hand and pulled him to the tub. He entered the hot water, sinking up to his chin into the bubbles. He watched as Taylor stepped in and slowly lowered himself into the hot water, sliding his calves and feet against Jameson’s thighs as he reclined against the opposite end.

Jameson stretched one leg and pulled away when his foot grazed Taylor’s penis, but then gently rested his foot against Taylor’s penis and testicles at Taylor’s gently encouraging expression. They grasped each other’s foot, rubbing each other’s toes, the balls of their feet, their heels, and gently upwards beyond their ankles. Jameson lay his head back against the edge of the tub, closing his eyes, exploring this new world with his fingertips. He tried not to gasp each time he felt Taylor’s other foot brush against his erection.

They switched feet. Jameson opened his eyes; Taylor had his head back, eyes closed, smiling, and on the other wall the image of the room reflected into eternity. He reached for a wash cloth and the shower gel with one hand, while lightly pressing and rubbing Taylor’s ankle that brushed his testicles. He let go of Taylor’s foot, happy with the weight of his leg on his thigh. He poured a generous amount of gel into the wet wash cloth and rubbed it into a foaming lather. Taylor was watching him, mirrored flames dancing in his eyes.

Jameson gestured at Taylor, “Would you stand for me?” He forgot to breathe when Taylor rose from the water.

He began at Taylor’s thighs, inches above the water. Taylor’s erection brushed against his shoulder, but he focused on the tight muscles under his fingers. He poured more gel into his palm, rubbing it directly onto Taylor’s skin from his knees upwards to his hip, around to his muscled glutes and then down the backs of his legs. The motions caused Taylor to thrust forward against Jameson’s shoulder and neck. Jameson savored the sensations against his fingers, his hands moving upwards to Taylor’s abdomen, letting one and then the other forearm brush against Taylor’s erection. He smiled in delight at hearing Taylor’s sighs and exhalations.

Taylor, smiling, grabbed Jameson’s hands and pulled him upright. “Your turn,” he said, and crouched in front of Jameson, then whistled softly in appreciation. Jameson felt warmer than the bath water.

Taylor followed Jameson’s lead with the gel, washing his legs, hips, glutes and abdomen. Jameson gasped each time his throbbing penis was pushed against Taylor’s neck or shoulder. Taylor went further, rubbing soap over his torso, neck, and arms. He lathered himself, then pulled Jameson into the water with him, his hands rubbing the soap from their bodies. Their faces were close.

Jameson murmured, “may I,” and stopped, then said clearly, “may I kiss you?” He forgot to breathe again, watching Taylor’s brilliant smile and hearing his soft “oh yes.” He pressed against Taylor and kissed him.

Part of him had expected to be struck dead on the spot. His fears of sin and damnation faded against the truth of his lips against another man’s lips. He felt Taylor’s arms around him, felt, rather than heard, his soft moans as Jameson cupped Taylor’s butt, grinding their erections against each other. Jameson stopped moving, feeling the familiar sensations throughout his groin and willing them to stop. Taylor thrust against him. Between gritted teeth, Jameson said, “stop, or I’m gonna…”

He felt Taylor chuckle. “Me too. We’ll take our time with round two.” He thrust against Jameson, who met each thrust with his own. They breathed and moaned between kisses and thrusts. Taylor kissed Jameson hard as the surge overcame them. Jameson was pure lightning, each nerve of his body blasting a supernova through each ejaculation. For that moment, there was everything, and then it was fading, and he was in the tub with Taylor who was also trying to catch his breath. He knew he was crying by the taste of salt in his mouth. Taylor, his eyes creased with concern, held his face and kissed him softly.

“I’m fine,” Jameson said. “More than fine. I’m upset that it took me this long to get here.”

Taylor bit Jameson’s lower lip softly. “This tub, San Francisco, or a different ‘here’?”

The sound that came out of him was part laughter, part cry, because his throat was tight with emotion. He kissed Taylor back, letting his tongue slide against Taylor’s bottom lip. They kissed and held each other until the water started to cool.

Jameson remembered their electricity and felt his penis start to fill at the thought. “Did you say something about round two?”

***

Season of Truth, Part VIII

Editorial note and disclaimer: The editorial commentaries of the prior sections apply. As I mentioned to Cele, I have no idea where this is going. I’m letting the story write itself. No, I’ve never done a story like this before. I do apologize for the agonizing pace of writing. Many many thanks to SML for her sharp eye. Comments and feedback are muchly appreciated.
Update: Thank you, Chanson. Name typo duly noted and corrected!

Season of Truth, Part VIII

“Am I in heaven here or am I in hell?
At the crossroads I am standing.”
-from Sarah McLachlan’s “Hold On”

Jameson stayed through the afternoon to help meet a project deadline. He didn’t have Friday night plans since Al and Lydia were working and Richard was out on a date, and he looked forward to the extra money. It was the second time his manager had asked him to work with this team, but he pushed the notion of permanent employment from his mind. He’d stay as a temporary worker until he felt more comfortable given all the changes the last several months. So far, he was happy with the diverse marketing assignments and his interesting co-workers.

At six thirty, his manager brought in Chinese food for everyone. At eight thirty, when they were wrapping up for the night, she brought around gift cards from the project’s vendor and thanked them individually. Jameson thought he might reconsider his employment notions.

The bus home had sparse riders, unlike rush hour. He got off one stop earlier, deciding that the walk would do him good. Once he left the main street for the side streets, the traffic sounds quieted.

The mist and fog around the street lights reminded him of Temple Square at Christmas. He grimmaced, remembering a time he’d gone with his family and Judy, a woman from his single’s ward. A fog had covered downtown Salt Lake, and he remembered how the lighted trees around the Square seemed to light the darkness, to light his heart. He and Judy had gone off by themselves, and he noted two handsome men who followed their same path. Judy hadn’t noticed his lack of attention, but he had felt guilty nonetheless. He could still see the one man’s face in his mind’s eye, and how he had wanted so badly to be holding his hand instead of Judy’s with every fiber of his being.

He breathed in deeply, filling his lungs with cool air. The fog seemed to thicken as he walked. He could hear other pedestrians on the other side of the street, and he could hear low voices coming from ahead of him. Two people were coming closer, and when they were within a dozen steps he saw they were two women walking closely together. They all stopped as they recognized each other; they were the lesbian couple that shared the table during Lydia’s show.

“Isn’t this fog beautiful?” the taller woman exclaimed, the shorter woman leaning close with her head on her shoulder.

“I love it,” said Jameson. He swallowed his shyness and said, “I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your names at the bar last night.”

The shorter woman giggled. “No hostess points for Lydia!” She reached out her hand and shook Jameson’s. “I’m Jezebel.” She gestured at her partner. “This is Cynthia.”

Cynthia reached out a hand and shook his hand energetically. She grinned widely and said, “you can call me Cyn, for short,” and exaggerated a wink.

He chuckled and said, “I’m Jameson. A pleasure meeting you both.” They hooted in response, and he felt some of his nervousness go away.

Cynthia said, “Hey, where’s your boyfriend?”

Jameson frowned. “Boyfriend?” Then it struck him. “Oh, Al! No, he’s not a boyfriend. Just a good friend. And he’s straight.” He stopped, remembering where he woke up this morning. “At least I think he is.”

They both grinned. Jezebel put her head on Cynthia’s shoulder. “You’ll have to sit with us next week when we see Lydia.” Jameson nodded enthusiastically. “We think she’s gorgeous. Too bad she likes guys, but hey, whatever floats your boat.” Cynthia covered a small yawn with the end of her scarf. Jezebel laughed softly and said, “We better get going and get this one to bed.”

Jameson smiled and waved at them. “I’ll see you next week.” He watched as they passed him, blending into the rolling wisps of fog and darkness.

He could see first floor lights at the house when he turned onto his street. He wondered if missionaries or his father had decided to visit, up until he got to the courtyard which was clear. He wiped dew from one of the dragon claws on the arbor as he passed by and entered the house.
Lights were on in the kitchen, and he stuck his head in the doorway. Taylor was sitting at the table with a teapot and cup of tea. Taylor flashed a smile and waved at him.

Jameson smiled back. “How are you doing?”

“Fine, fine, thanks. Relaxing.” Taylor gestured at the teapot. “Would you like some?”

“Sure,” said Jameson and sat across from Taylor and watched him pour. He held the cup in his hands, warming them, and blew softly on the surface of the tea. He could see Taylor looking at him through the wisps of steam above his cup. Jameson gingerly took a sip and stared back at Taylor, noting the t-shirt and jeans and bare feet sticking out from under the table. They sat, sipping, letting the night’s stillness sit around and between them.

Taylor yawned, stretching his arms over his head. Jameson watched the muscles of his arms and chest, and he felt a hunger that he didn’t know how to name.

He stared down at the cup of tea and grasped at something to talk about. “Do you need any help for the party tomorrow, Taylor?” he asked.

Taylor smiled softly and shook his head. “No, it’s all set. All I need now is some rest.” He stretched one leg, parallel to the floor, and then the other. “I hear you had the Mormon Mafia at you again. Everything okay?”

“Yes, fine. My father came by yesterday.”

Taylor froze and then his eyes narrowed. “Your father was here?”

“Yes, we had a little talk. Convenient trip for him. He warned about Sodom and Gomorrah. Same ole same ole. He and I are mutually disappointing.” He paused. “Yeah, I’m fine.” Taylor nodded, slowly, then offered more tea to Jameson. “No thanks, I’m good.”

Taylor chuckled, but his expression was still tight. “You don’t have to drink it if you don’t like it.”

Jameson noticed Taylor’s expression. “I don’t mind it, the taste isn’t bad at all.” He had an inkling. “What do you know about my father? Do you know my father?”

Taylor looked down at his cup of tea, then back up at him. “Maybe it would be easier to show you.” He stood up and extended a hand and pulled Jameson up from his chair. Jameson followed him up the stairs to the second floor and into the den.

In a space between the floor-to-ceiling bookcases, Taylor pointed at two of the many framed pictures on the wall. Jameson came closer. He felt Taylor stand near his side and slightly behind him, and then felt an arm around his shoulder. He could smell Taylor’s faint cologne and breathed in softly.

Taylor murmured into his ear, “The man on the right is my brother, Tanner. The man on the left is your uncle Gerald. This one is from the year before Gerald died.” He pointed at a picture of the two men holding hands on a beach. “I met your father only once, after Tanner died.”

Jameson stared at the pictures, barely recognizing this smiling man from the serious uncle that he had known as a child. “Gerald knew your father would come after the money when he died, so they made financial arrangements. We believed your father had backing from the Mormon church, but he lost all the completely frivolous lawsuits. My brother retained ownership. Your father came here twice and demanded some kind of ‘tithing settlement’ in Gerald’s name. Tanner called the police the first time, and I had him escorted off the property the second time.”
Jameson leaned into Taylor. He sighed, now realizing what he’d said to his father had been devastatingly accurate. Jameson stared at the pictures of the two handsome men. He asked quietly, “How? When did Tanner die?”

He felt Taylor sigh and pull him closer. “He died in a car accident several years ago.” He was quiet a long time. “I miss him.” Jameson felt him breathe deeply and sigh again. Taylor’s warm breath near his ear made his skin tingle.

“Tanner. Gay. Gerald. You. Me. Is this some kind of gay genealogy?” He felt Taylor chuckle, felt his arm around him pull tighter into an exquisite hug.

“Young buck, we’re a small community, but a big tribe of brothers,” Taylor nuzzled his ear and let him go, stepping into the room. Jameson followed him with his eyes, staring into Taylor’s green depths.

“I was thinking about a long, hot soak in the double tub. Upstairs. There’s room for two.” Taylor held out a hand towards Jameson. “It’s up to you.” Jameson stared at his hand, wondering how much time he had thought about going to church, college, the temple, and on a mission. This one moment was something more tangible, something more truthful than anything he’d experienced before.

This time, he had no doubts. He crossed the room and took Taylor’s hand.

***

Season of Truth, Part VII

Editorial note and disclaimer: The editorial commentaries of the prior sections apply. I’m going now at 9K out of my goal of 25K (before March 31). I’ll be posting more than once a week – I have to, dammit! Comments and feedback are much appreciated.

Season of Truth, Part VII

“And your prayers they break the sky in two”
-from David Bowie’s “Loving the Alien”

Jameson was on a train, waving good-bye through the window to someone on the platform. Before he could make out their features, they faded into the gray sounds of an insistent beep of an alarm. Through sleepy eyes, he noted the ceiling was different; he wasn’t in his room. A blanket covered him to his waist. His mouth felt as dry as the Sahara. There was a soft groan next to him and he felt the bed move, then the alarm sounds stopped. A hand ruffled his hair. “Morning, Jameson,” Al said.

Jameson turned his head on the pillow. Al was laying on his side next to him, his head on his own pillow. He was halfway grinning and studying Jameson, who couldn’t understand if he was awake or not. Al’s grin grew bigger, watching Jameson’s puzzled face. His eyes gleamed with mischief, but his words were soothing and measured, “I didn’t think it was right that you be alone last night. Sometimes people need to be held, and you were a prime candidate.”

Jameson rubbed at his eyes, trying to remember going to bed. “How…? What…?”

“You fell asleep next to me on the couch. I woke you up and walked you here,” Al said, and rolled out of bed. Jameson noted Al’s tight muscles and his form-fitting grey briefs and became fully awake.

Al grabbed a towel, threw it over his shoulder and looked back at Jameson staring at him in bed. “Dude, no big deal. You needed a friend and I was there.”

Jameson nodded, suddenly terrified of getting out of bed in front of Al because he could feel he was fully aroused. He found his voice. “We… slept together?”

“Yep. All night.” He grinned. “You steal covers and you snore, but not loud.” Al’s eyes gleamed and he smiled. “I was too tired to convert you last night, so you get to keep your gay card.” Jameson blushed furiously and smiled back at him.

Al entered the hallway and then popped his head back through the doorway with a wicked smile. He said, “You and me, cuddling,” and then left.

“Al!” Jameson exclaimed, listening to Al’s deep chuckle fade down the hall.

When he heard the click of the bathroom door closing, he threw off the covers. He gathered his clothes on the floor, covering his erection, and he bolted for his room.

***

He ran into Richard at work and they made plans to meet up for lunch. They sat at a table outside with their lunches, playing the “who’s hot” ritual with the passersby. Jameson enjoyed the game, as long as Richard could give their conversations the same focus and attention. Richard told him he’d met another guy last night at a bar when Greg had gone to get drinks.

Jameson shook his head and asked, “Who asked for whose number?”

“I did,” Richard said.

“You can’t keep it in your pants, can you?” said Jameson, and he laughed.

Richard leered, “Well, I keep trying to get into yours! Hey, what did you do last night?”

Jameson told him about going with Al to see Lydia at the piano bar. Richard chortled at the account of Jameson’s first “straight” shot of alcohol, but listened admirably when he described running into his father. Jameson continued, “We took turns with the verbal potshots, Lydia came home, and I left him standing at the door.” Richard nodded. “Al and I had a beer and I had a good cry on his shoulder, then we went to bed.” Jameson started putting garbage into a paper sack, clearing the space in front of him.

Richard looked at Jameson. “Together?” His eyes were almost black.

Jameson felt the heat on his face. He muttered, “Well, I guess so. I was really out of it.”

Richard leaned towards Jameson, not smiling, his lips tight. “What the hell? You’ve got to be kidding? You sleep with your straight roommate and you won’t sleep with me?”

“We didn’t do anything! We slept together, not slept together!” he exclaimed.

“I don’t fucking believe this. Do I look stupid? I’ve seen Al. The guy is gorgeous. You were in the same bed and you didn’t do anything?” Richard smashed his sandwich bag into a ball and stood up.

Jameson stared at Richard. “Help me understand. You’re seeing Greg. You met a guy last night. How can you be pissed that I slept in Al’s bed?”

Richard scowled and dropped his garbage into a nearby trash bin. “What, all you did was cuddle? Give me a fucking break.”

Jameson smashed the sack into a ball and made the three-pointer shot into the trash bin. Richard blinked in surprise. “I’m from Utah and I’m well-versed in ‘unreasonable,’ Richard. If you’re judging me by your standards, then I’m sorry to disappoint you.” He watched Richard’s eyes contract and dialate and the expressions of his face swell and crest.

Richard sighed and stared at the ground, “Why won’t you sleep with me?”

Jameson waited until Richard would look at him and said gently, “All I want is your friendship.”

Richard nodded slowly and sat next to Jameson. He sighed again and said, “I’ve never had friends without the fringe benefits before.” Jameson clapped him softly on the shoulder. Richard looked reflexive and contemplative. “Can we kiss and make up now?”

Jameson laughed and ruffled his hair, at the same time remembering how Al had ruffled his hair that morning. “You’re non-stop drama, aren’t you?” he asked.

Richard exaggerated a sniffle. “Darling, when I die they’ll award me a backlog of posthumous Academy Awards.”

Jameson laughed again, then said, “Lay off the jealousy thing, Richard. I’m serious. You can’t be a slut and be jealous. It’s not reasonable. It doesn’t make sense.”

Richard leaned into Jameson and gave him a hug. “Jaymo, it’s called ‘hypocrisy.’” He paused and whispered into his ear. “So did you two sleep naked? I want the goods about Al! Is he hung?” Jameson held Richard, blushing and howling with laughter.

***

Season of Truth, Part VI

Editorial note and disclaimer: The “Season of Truth” story is in parts (I), (II), (III), (IV), and (V). The editorial commentaries of the prior sections still apply. Huge thanks to SML for calling in the grammar police (boy, was I busted) and for her shoulder. Comments and feedback are much appreciated. The end is nigh.

Season of Truth, Part VI

“Look me in the eye.
Speak it to my face.
My hate is cold
As I fall from grace.”
-from Siouxsie and the Banshees’ “Fall From Grace”

Jameson breathed in slowly. He turned to Al and said, “See you inside in a minute.” Al looked from Jameson to his father and then back. “I’ll be fine. Really.” Al held his eyes a moment and nodded, then stepped into the foyer and slowly shut the front door.

Jameson resisted the urge to fold his arms and he breathed in again. He turned to face his father and asked, “No baseball bat this time?” He was satisfied that his father’s face tightened.

“Son, I’d like to talk to you.”

“That’s obvious. What do you want? Why are you in San Francisco?”

His father glanced around at the courtyard and back. “Your cousin is getting married in the Oakland temple this weekend. I thought I’d try to see you, since your mother and your aunt Emmalynn demanded that I make sure you were okay. “

Jameson nodded. “Oh, the ‘families are forever’ principle. You lucked out with the convenience factor. Let me guess, the old ward needed a ‘bring him back to the fold’ project? I should be grateful to you that I’m such a priority.”

His father’s clenched his jaw and slowly shook his head. “You disappointment me, son.”

Jameson snapped, “Believe me, it’s mutual. Gay son and monster father.”

His father took a step forward and Jameson gestured curtly for him to stop. They locked eyes and his father stopped and then took a step backwards. The faint sound of traffic filled the silence between them. He watched his father gather his thoughts.

“Emmalynn told me she’d given you some money. Some account she’d set aside for you. I had hoped you would be on your own and not living here. Jameson, I know the sin and abominations and debauchery that are in this house. Even before my brother died, this house lost the Spirit from all these ‘parties‘ that used to go on,” he sneered. “They still do! I want you to remember how you were raised, I want you to remember the values that we tried to teach you. Do you remember to ‘come unto Christ, and be perfected in him, and deny yourselves of all ungodliness’?” he intoned.

Jameson thought a moment and then asked, “What account?”

His father said quickly, “The money is gone. I had her give it to me to pay for your old room’s remodel.”

Jameson shrugged, not knowing about any funds and not surprised at his father’s actions. He asked, “And what about Uncle Gerald? What does he have to do with anything here?”

His father continued, “Gerald met a man then left Emmalynn and moved to California. They built a successful real-estate business.” He gestured at the brownstone. “This and his other properties should have come to me and his family, but he transferred everything to his companion before he died. He made sure Emmalynn was taken care of, but for me and his other siblings, he left nothing.”

“Uncle Gerald was gay?” Jameson’s mind was spinning. “Whenever you or Emmalynn talked about him, you said he died of cancer.”

His father nodded. “We never discussed his homosexuality. It was a distasteful subject and an embarrassment to our family name. The only reason we’re talking about it today is because you share the same affliction.” He paused. “Gerald died from cancer. His companion legally owned the assets because Gerald sold his portion of the estate before he died.” They stared at each across the space that was heavy with silence. Jameson could see his father’s face and he knew his own expression mirrored the dark rage.

He faced his father squarely. “What’s my favorite color?”

His father looked stunned and frustrated at the question. Jameson continued, before his father could speak, “Which is my favorite football team? What was the hardest subject for me in high school? What was my favorite scripture? How old was I when I received my Eagle Scout?” He waited for his father to give an answer, any answer, but his face remained impassive and cold.

Jameson snarled, “You don’t have a fucking clue, do you?”

His father flinched at the expletive. “You don’t have to use that kind of…” he began, but Jameson gestured curtly and he stopped mid-sentence.

Jameson breathed in deeply, then let it out slowly into the night air. There was a sadness in his heart that made his chest ache. “You were right. You were absolutely right. I’m not your son. I’m a service project. I’m a ‘distasteful subject‘ with the same ‘affliction‘ as your gay brother.” He noted his father’s hands, clenched into fists, and his face was tight with fury. Jameson was surprised at the calm that he felt. “What’s more, you’re not my father. You’re my sperm donor. You’re the man with kids who are props for a ‘perfect family‘ that doesn’t exist, that never existed. You’re evidently the family gold-digger. But me?” He paused, staring intently at his father. “You don’t know me, you never knew me, and by God I’m glad.”

His father started to move towards Jameson, but a cab stopped in front of the archway and a woman in a silver strapless gown got out and started down the walkway. It took Jameson a moment to register that it was Lydia. She waved at him and smiled, the staccato click of her heels punctuating each step. Jameson’s father watched in surprise as she greeted Jameson with a hug and a quick kiss on his cheek.

“Thanks for coming tonight! Was I good, or was I good?” she gushed. She stepped towards the door and Jameson opened it for her. She looked back from the foyer at Jameson and then his father. “Oh, sorry! Did I interrupt something?”

Jameson stood inside the doorway. He held his father’s eyes and said over his shoulder to Lydia, “No, you didn’t interrupt. We didn’t have anything left to say.” He closed and locked the door. He resisted a strong urge to open the door. No, that wasn’t the Spirit. That would be Stupidity, he told himself.

He wiped the edges of his eyes until he could see Lydia looking at him, concerned, but he smiled reassuringly at her. He didn’t trust his voice enough to speak. She bent and took off her heels.

“If you need anything, I’ll be in my room. I need to get out of these clothes and get a shower,” she said, and Jameson nodded. Al was sitting on the bottom of the stairs holding two beer bottles. She kissed Al lightly on top of his head as she passed by him up the stairs. Al stood and gave a bottle to Jameson, who sniffed the opening before clinking his glass against Al’s. They both drank.

Al placed a hand on Jameson’s shoulder. “You’re okay?” Jameson nodded.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Al asked. Jameson shook his head.

Al wrapped an arm around Jameson’s shoulder and guided him up the stairs to the den. Al started a fire and sprawled next to Jameson, each sipping their beers and staring into the flames.

“Thank you, Al,” Jameson said softly. “I said what I said because I knew I was safe.” His voice broke and he felt the tears at the corners of his eyes run down his cheeks. Al set his right arm around Jameson, pulled him close to his side as Jameson cried for himself, his father, and for the kindness of strangers. Lydia’s song floated down the hall from the bathroom, echoing softly in the den.

***

Season of Truth, Part V

Editorial note and disclaimer: The “Season of Truth” story is in parts (I), (II), (III), and (IV). The editorial commentaries of the prior sections still apply. A big “Thank you” to those who’ve followed the series and encouraged me to continue. There will be at least two more chapters. Buckle up, it’s going to be a bumpy ride. Read on, and hopefully, enjoy.

Season of Truth, Part V

“And just when I think
That things are in their place
The heavens are secure
The whole thing explodes in my face”
-from Oingo Boingo’s “Just Another Day”

The week kicked into high gear, but Jameson felt like time was slowing down, each hour slower than the prior one. At the gym, he could have sworn the half-hour run was a mini-marathon. The pace at work was hectic, but instead of feeling energized, he came home feeling like he’d swam through molasses. The activities around the brownstone increased: supply trucks and moving vans parking in front, workers sealing off the garden area, and the framework of a circus-sized tent being assembled over most of the garden. He avoided the garden, preferring the anticipation and the unknown of the coming party.

He saw the missionaries, Nichols and Peters, tracting his neighborhood on Wednesday night and Thursday as he left for work. He stayed on the opposite side of the street, fighting the urge to run instead of staring ahead and walking deliberately forward, neither waving at or acknowledging their identical suits. Jameson was relieved that they didn’t call out or follow him.

Thursday night, he went with Al during happy hour to Lydia’s piano bar to see her perform. They took an empty table with high bar stools near the middle of the bar. Lydia stood on the stage near her piano accompanist, a woman with dark glasses and dreadlocks. Jameson thought Lydia looked beautiful: black hair slicked back, silver strapless and form-fitting dress, and dark silver lipstick. She greeted them with a smile and a sultry shimmy of her hips, but kept singing the smoky jazz song, her voice carrying through the bar.

A waitress leaned into Jameson, asking him quietly what he’d like to drink. He pointed at Al to order first, and he watched with amusement as she leaned into Al, her breast pressing into his shoulder, but didn’t hear Al’s reply.

She leaned back into Jameson and he said “something with vodka.” She breathed into his ear. “Anything?”

Jameson grinned wider. “Orange juice. Cranberry. Surprise me.” She giggled and moved away from their table. Jameson looked at Al, who was staring at him.

“You’re a little flirt,” he said.

Jameson starting laughing, shocked, and shook his head. “You’re the one that had her boob in your shoulder!”

Al’s grin almost reached his eyes. “Maybe. But she likes you.” The smile reached his eyes this time. “Why do you gay guys get all the girls hot and bothered?” Jameson leaned against the table and turned towards the stage, chuckling and shaking his head softly.

The waitress brought their drinks, leaning over Jameson’s shoulder to place his drink in front of him. He grinned as she did the same to Al. Jameson’s drink had a touch of cranberry and a cherry on top. Jameson could smell the alcohol as he stirred the drink with a straw. Al asked if she’d start a tab and left the table with his credit card. “You can get drinks another time,” he told Jameson, who was sipping his drink slowly.

During one of her breaks, Lydia came offstage and greeted them, hugging first the lesbian couple next to them and then Al and Jameson. Al ordered a round of drinks for everyone and they made room for Lydia and the two lesbians at the table. It was the first time Jameson had ever done a shot of straight alcohol, saying it out loud before he could stop himself. They shouted at him and clapped him on the back, cheering him with his first shot, which he thankfully didn’t choke on. Jameson felt warm everywhere. Lydia gave them each a kiss on their cheek and returned to the stage.

She was good. Lydia was very good. Jameson felt like he was burning with the searing notes. His throat and stomach were warm, and he absently stirred the ice in his drink. The bar was filling with more and more people standing around the tables, enjoying the music. Their waitress made it a point to lean and press herself between Al and Jameson when she checked on their drinks. Jameson realized Al was watching her and watching out for her. As Jameson let the piano and Lydia’s sweet notes sweep him up again, it struck him how small his life was in Utah and how large his life had grown. Goodness existed that wasn’t mandated by prayer, guilt, or repentance. People were inherently good and they could live their lives without once wearing sacred underwear, baptizing dead people, or performing secret rites in temples. He could feel the corners of his eyes were wet and he let it all in, let the notes settle over him like a shroud.

The waitress pressed between Al and Jameson, her right arm over Jameson’s shoulder. “Can I get you anything else?” she breathed into his ear.

“No thanks, I think I’m done,” Jameson said. She squeezed his shoulder and then she was gone.

Al was staring at him. “Dude,” he said. “What’d you do to her? She is all over you.”

“I didn’t do anything!” Jameson protested.

Al was scowling. “No offense, but what the hell?” He slammed back the rest of his drink. Jameson had counted five or six for Al, but he’d only had two. Al continued. “I’m good-looking, I have a nice body, I have a good job, I have a big…” Jameson held up a hand, laughing.

“Al. I might be new to everything, but I know you don’t tell a gay guy that you’re hung.” Al blushed and snickered and Jameson laughed with him then said, “Ask her for her number. She’ll say yes or no. Oh, and talk to her face, not her boobs.” Al pulled Jameson into a hug, clapping him on the back while he laughed, then he stood up and moved into the crowd. A few minutes later, he was back holding a piece of paper and looking satisfied. Jameson grinned.

After Lydia finished her last set, to roaring applause, she waved good-bye to them and they left the bar. They snagged a cab and rode home, Jameson pressing Al for more details about the waitress. When he hesitated, Jameson changed subjects to dinner options and then asked if Al was going to Taylor’s party and what he’d be wearing. Al grinned broadly and winked. “You’ll see. What are you wearing?” Jameson grinned back, saying “You’ll see.” The cab stopped in front of the arbor at their brownstone and they got out.

A light sheen of dew on the arbor’s dragon claws glistened in the pale light. They walked the pathway to the door. Al was on the forked-tongue doormat, putting his key into the lock, when Jameson noticed the sounds of footsteps on the street. A man had walked under the arbor, towards the brownstone. For the first time since he left the cab, Jameson noticed the cold. The man walked down the walkway slowly, then stopped a short distance from them.

Jameson could see him clearly as Al opened the door and light spilled into the courtyard. Jameson stared at his father.

“Hello, son.”

***