Commitment Issues Read online

  "Can I go swimming at your place?” he asked.

  "Sure, tomorrow?"

  "I was thinking tonight, if you don't mind."

  "I don't know how you'll get through the gate, but I don't mind. If you get caught, I'll disavow knowing you, of course."

  "Of course,” Wyatt said. “I'd complain if you tried anything less. Thanks, and I may see you when you get home. Come check the pool, and I'll either be there or under arrest somewhere."

  "I won't bail you out, you know."

  "I love this ‘tough love', old man."

  "Old?” I protested. “I'm twenty-five."

  "Well, I'm twenty, so twenty-five is positively ancient. Bye."

  It made me smile. I was actually going to have an adorable man waiting for me to get home. That hadn't happened to me in years. Maybe I ought to get him a key to the gate and the apartment.

  No, wait. Earth-to-stupid: Wyatt is a fragile newcomer who is trying to get sober. He is looking for unconditional love from me. He's a bottom like me, so even if he weren't a newcomer, there would still be nothing for me.

  But still. I could dream. Maybe I should go back to that Chinese restaurant. The fortune cookies always knew what to do.

  * * * *

  I thought about Wyatt all the way home. They got me a car to take me to the airport in Newark. When I fly out of New Jersey, I usually just take the PATH train there. The boss rented a car and driver for this trip, but then he got me the cheapest ticket he could. I was back in the second cabin, and I knew enough about the arrangement of the seating to know that I was in the middle of three seats. I'm not stuck up or anything, but I have long legs.

  When I checked in, the ticket agent got me a better seat. She moved me to an exit row, which had extra space for my legs. You couldn't reserve an exit row in advance, so I was happy that there was still a seat available, even though I'd have to wait to deplane back home. Exit rows are further back than I usually like, so I have to wait for all the mommies and little kiddies sitting closer to the front of the airplane to pack up and leave.

  I had a book about some gay vampires, but I could barely read it. The last time I read any of that book, the whole Vatican was attacking the vampire heroes. The vamps were in a pickle, and I looked forward to seeing how they slashed and bit their way out of this one. It was my kind of book, with just the right balance of sex and blood. Any story where vampires are eating pedophile priests is festive. (Not fun for the doomed priest, of course.)

  I tried to read, but I sat there and thought about Wyatt. He had engraved his smile into my imagination: stark white teeth, ivory skin without a blemish, those haunting green eyes coming at me with the slightest whiff of an Asian influence in his distant gene pool. I felt myself almost melt in the seat when I thought of his smile.

  If I had had a pencil, I probably would have given Emily Dickinson some competition. Why am I channeling Rod McKuen all of a sudden? I hate poetry. It was creepy. Maybe the counselor who was going to teach me how to be a top could also extract whatever seeds of poetry were stuffed inside my personality. Maybe I had mommy issues.

  That smile of Wyatt's made me want to be home. He was beautiful, but I had to remember to keep him at arm's length. He was a newcomer, and even if he had been in AA for a long time, he was still a bottom. Even if he were a top, Wyatt was on the rebound. Relationships with guys on the rebound never work out.

  I couldn't have Wyatt, and it hurt. On the other hand, if I couldn't have him, then I could relax around him. It would be enough just to look at Wyatt and get lost in the rapids of his aura.

  Ding. Ding. Poetry alarm. The “rapids of his aura"? Where the Sam Hill do I get stuff like that? Wyatt was making me nuts.

  After we all got our soda, the flight attendants turned the cabin lights off. Late-night flights can be relaxing. I sat holding my book about the gay vampires, and I didn't even turn on the reading light. The flight had taken off half an hour late. Delays during the day had rippled down to the red-eye flights. We sat on the plane for a half-hour, and once we were aloft, it was bumpy. The delay at the airport was probably due to the weather. We had plenty of weather, but the pilots must have wanted to go home, because they pushed the plane through the storm. If they had just wanted to get more hours on their timecards, they might have taken a long detour around the storm, but instead they insisted on the direct route. It probably cost the airline some extra fuel, but we got home only a few minutes late. The pilots made up almost half an hour, and they did it with a storm in the way.

  I thanked them as I walked past the cockpit. The co-pilot grinned as I gave him thumbs up.

  "Goodnight, sir,” a flight attendant said.

  My motorcycle looked really nice in the parking garage. It felt like home when I saw it. There had been rumblings of rain when I left, and I had almost opted for an airport shuttle. I hate riding in the rain.

  I strapped my carry-on bag to the sissy bar at the back of the bike. I keep several bungee cords in a saddlebag just for that. My helmet was at home because I didn't want to leave it unattended. I know that I ought to wear one, but it's legal for me not to. Sometimes I go without the helmet for a good reason. I didn't want to leave it in the parking lot, and I sure didn't want to take it to New York.

  The storms had moved through during the day, and all the freeways were freshly washed. There was less oil and grease than usual, so I had a nice ride back home. The air was crisp because the storm had moved all the smog away, and I enjoyed the wind in my hair without the helmet. There wasn't much traffic because it was so late. I knew that any cars that were out at night were potentially dangerous. If I had thought through my schedule, I probably would have figured out some way to store the helmet. There are more drunk drivers out in the middle of the night than during the day, and being out late at night makes me nervous, especially since Carlos was killed. Motorcyclists watch nighttime drivers like they're metal pit bulls coated in nitroglycerine.

  It was a great ride home, and part of that was because I knew Wyatt was waiting at the pool. I may have pushed the speed limit a little more than usual. If there were drunk drivers, they all paid attention to their driving while I was nearby.

  * * * *

  Where Wyatt was alone and afraid in a big group of people, he was just the opposite with me. He was really relaxed and funny. He could make me laugh even if I was tired or had had a hard day.

  "Hi, stud,” Wyatt said from the fence around the swimming pool.

  "You're not swimming."

  "I was, but I heard your bike. We had storms earlier that made the water a little cool."

  "It's hard to sneak up when you ride a Harley. Been here long?"

  "Hour, maybe."

  "Want to come in?"

  "I sure would,” he said as he ran back to get his clothes.

  "I'll wait. You don't have to hurry."

  "I want to see you, and I'll always hurry for that."

  "Awww,” I said. “You are so sweet."

  Wyatt walked up to my side, and he put his arm around me. He leaned into my chest.

  "Let me look at you,” I said.

  "What's the matter?"

  "Absolutely nothing,” I said. “I've never seen you in swimming trunks."

  Wyatt stepped away for me to inspect. He raised his arms and did a kind of pirouette wearing nothing but the skimpiest swimsuit you can imagine. He certainly didn't spend much money on extra material. That wasn't a complaint, of course. I think it was Spandex from the way it fit. I could feel my heart start to pound as he turned around.

  "Very flattering,” I said.

  When he heard that, he squeezed my waist

  "I don't think you're Jewish,” I said as I fanned myself.

  "Uncut? Correct."

  He followed me into the living room of my apartment. It was the same place where I had lived for a couple of years. Yeah, my income had gone up, but the apartment was just fine. It was fairly secure even though it was in a high-crime area. The main apartment b
uilding was a two-story U with the opening at the back. The apartment's machinery and laundry room were at the back, along with a tall wooden fence that separated the living area from the parking area. The swimming pool was in the middle of the big U, along with my apartment. There was a two-story stand-alone building in the middle of the property. My place was on the bottom floor of that building. Even when some of the other renters had trouble with break-ins, I was shielded.

  As soon as the apartment door was closed, Wyatt moved in front of me. He wrapped his arms around me and pulled me tight.

  "I really missed you,” he said softly as he hugged me.

  "Okay, but I was just gone for a few hours."

  "I missed you,” he repeated, and I felt his hands slowly moving down past the small of my back. Both of his palms ended up on my ass cheeks, and without any pausing, he moved one hand inside my pants. I tried to pull away, but he held me tight with his other arm. Wyatt ran his finger inside the crack of my ass.

  Holy fucking shit. I was about to explode inside.

  "Wyatt,” I said.

  "I know,” he said. “I'm a newcomer."

  "You know how much I want this?"

  "So relax,” he whispered. “I want it too. I want to be inside you, and I need it tonight."

  Ding. Ding. Incoming! Ding. Ding. Alarm. Ding. Ding. Newcomer alert. Ding. Ding.

  I did not see that coming. “You want to be inside of me?"

  "I would love to, unless you can't take me. I guess I can learn to take you, but...."

  Heart attack. I thought that I was having a heart attack. Maybe it was a panic attack. All I know is that I could barely breathe.

  The most effeminate man in the entire world wanted to top me? That couldn't be right. He was too effeminate to be a top. Nobody who is that... you know.... He was about to make my head explode as it tried to wrap itself around the idea. Wyatt was a top? That shouldn't even be possible. If he was a top, then we were compatible in bed.

  Oh God. All my plans and assumptions were being thrown out of the window.

  I had a couple of years of sobriety, and he had almost none. Even if he wanted to top me (and I really wanted that), we couldn't do anything. Wyatt needed time to grow in Alcoholics Anonymous. The rules were there for a reason, and I was the “hand of AA."

  "Wyatt,” I said just as my pants hit the floor. He worked really fast.

  Alarm. Ding. Ding. Man overboard! Buzz. Ding. Ding. Battle stations! Ding. Ding. Women and children first. Ding. Ding. Pull the tube to start the oxygen flowing into your mask. Ding. Ding.

  "Wyatt, stop,” I said as I picked up a robe that was draped over a chair. He stopped.

  "You don't like me."

  "You know that isn't true,” I continued softly. “What you are doing is what I want more than anything in the world. If you really want me, I am completely yours, but...."

  "There's always a ‘but'."

  "Just wait,” I said. “Just wait until you have a little more sobriety. Coming off booze is hard. Even if you think you want this, you're going to keep going through major changes. I want to be there with you, and know that when you have more sobriety, I really want to rip off all your clothes and spend as much time in bed with you as—"

  "There's always a fucking ‘but', but the only butt that I want is yours,” he said with a smile, but I saw a tear in one eye.

  "You'll thank me later,” I said. What a package. He was thin and trim. The flawless skin of his face and arms carried through to his chest and legs. His nipples were framed by two half-moon shapes. He was muscular but not ripped. The nipples were darker and larger than I would have expected with such pale skin. It all worked beautifully. He had a well-built chest and faint ripples on his stomach. Blond pubes started just below his navel and disappeared into his trunks.

  I should say something about his swimming trunks. I knew that I wasn't supposed to concentrate on his trunks, but I couldn't help it. He obviously had a raging hard-on. Wyatt was built—not too long, but so thick that it looked he had three dicks tied together.

  "You're staring,” he said.

  "Sorry."

  "Don't stop,” he laughed. “It makes me feel wonderful. Want me to strip and give you a show?"

  "If you do, we'll end up in bed, and I'll hate myself for that."

  "Maybe I'll hate you if you don't."

  "Sorry,” I said, and I really meant it.

  "Do you have commitment issues going on?"

  "No,” I said. “Maybe. I don't know."

  "Okay,” Wyatt laughed. “Let the record show that Sean has trouble committing to whether he even has commitment issues."

  "Don't pick on me,” I complained. “You just turned my world upside down."

  "Cool."

  "I want you so much, Wyatt, but I can't. We can't. Get some time in AA first."

  "Maybe I have physical needs,” he said.

  "Oh, man, I hope so. I'm not a good person for advice on that."

  "My sponsor's a lesbian,” Wyatt said.

  "Mine too."

  "I don't think she's going to have lots of advice if I tell her that I'm horny."

  "You could jack off,” I said.

  "I could, or I could get a watermelon and cut a hole in one end."

  "We could get you one of those inflatable dolls."

  "Or maybe you could get over yourself and let me inside you, Sean."

  He waited for me to say something, but my head was racing too fast to have any words. I wanted Wyatt so much, and now I knew that he and I were compatible in bed. Wyatt was still a newcomer and still on the rebound, so we needed to wait. I didn't know how long we had to wait, but I was fairly sure that five minutes wasn't going to be long enough. Why is this happening to me?

  Chico was simple. He was a quick fuck and maybe a few minutes of talk. Wyatt consumed my life. The flame of his presence seared everything that came close to me.

  Wait, “flame of his presence"? Shit. I hate poetry. I hated being a goddamn poet, but that was what Wyatt did to me.

  * * * *

  "Should I tell my mother?” he asked.

  "Tell her that you're in AA?"

  "No, I think I should come out to her,” he said.

  Alarm. Ding. Ding. Question time. Ding. Ding.

  Was he serious? Wyatt was the most effeminate man that I had ever seen, and I've seen plenty. Guys would have to squelch their gaydar or turn it off just to keep it from exploding around Wyatt. What did you say to somebody who thought they were in the closet? There wasn't anything Wyatt could do to be secretive about being gay. He would tell everybody everything they needed to know just by being awake.

  "Mothers are fairly smart,” I said. “Why do you think it's a good idea to tell her?"

  "Rigorous honesty. Aren't we supposed to concentrate on rigorous honesty?"

  "We are. Is she in town?"

  "No, the whole family is up in Madison, Wisconsin. She was always hateful to gay people, me included. I mean, she knows that I'm gay, but I never told her. I think I should reach out to her now."

  "So why don't you revisit the question when you're going to be with her?"

  "I talk to Daddy by phone,” he said.

  "Good for you, but just hold off with your mother until you're face-to-face. What did your sponsor say?"

  "She already knows I'm gay. Why would I need to come out to her?"

  "No,” I said. “What advice did she give you about talking to your mother?"

  "I didn't ask her,” he said. “She's lesbian, so I wasn't sure she'd understand about gay guys."

  "Oh,” I said, even if I didn't really understand his logic. “I got a sister that's like your mother. She hates gay people, so she hates me. She's off the charts crazy and is married to some kind of hateful crackpot who says he can convert gay people into heterosexuals."

  "Human breeders?"

  "The worst kind. They believe in heterosexual apartheid. I got into a big fight with brother-in-law asshole who told me that marriage
had to be between one man and one woman. I asked him about Charlemagne, and he said that Charlemagne was one of the greatest Christian kings of all time. I asked him how he could say that when it's known that Charlemagne had at least five wives and five extra women on the side. He had twenty children with those women."

  "Ouch!” Wyatt said. “What'd he say to that?"

  "He called me a liar. He said that marriage was a sacrament of the church and what God hath joined... and so forth. When I told him that marriage wasn't even considered a sacrament until after the year 700 or so, he started hyperventilating. I told him the Christian marriage rules were a fairly recent invention, and he screamed that I was the devil. I told him that people with as much hate as he had were always afraid of something in their own personalities, and I warned him that I wasn't interested in having an affair with him. I told him to keep his hatred and his advances to himself."

  "Breathtaking,” Wyatt laughed.

  "Mother tries to keep the peace, but that means she tolerates my sister and her husband, but not me. I can't take it, so I almost never see any of them. If my sister wants to be around hate all the time, that's her deal. I don't want any part of it."

  "Can't blame you."

  "Someday I have to forgive my sister and brother-in-law. Someday you will have to forgive your mother."

  "Not today. I don't want to get all holy just yet,” he said. “Hey, I want to go to the Trinity Group,” Wyatt said. “Want to come with me?"

  "The Trinity Group?"

  "That's up on the north side of town."

  "I know where it is. Blue collar. Plumbers. Firemen. Cops. Construction guys. Very heterosexual. Why do you even want to go there?"

  "Sponsor says it is a good idea to visit other groups."

  "Okay, but I have to work, and they don't have a late meeting."

  "I know,” he said. “I was thinking about next Saturday."

  "Tomorrow?"

  "No, a week from now,” he said. “It's a closed discussion."

  A closed meeting means that only AA members are invited to attend, even though there aren't any ID cards or tests. Anybody can just appear at a closed meeting, and nobody would turn you away. But there aren't supposed to be family members or other non-members. A discussion meeting means that everybody has a chance to say whatever is on their mind.