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FALLINGHARDStoriesofMeninLove

DaleCameronLowry

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MiAlma

WANTED,THEADsaid.Bartenderforofficeholidayparty.Shouldbeeasy-going,LGBT-friendly,andhaveserver’slicenseandgreatreferences.Competitiveremuneration.

DamianclickedontheshowcontactinfolinkattheendoftheCraigslistad.Upcameaphonenumber,emailaddressandthenameAlma.

“Alma,”Damiansaidoutloud,enjoyinghowtheSpanishconsonantsmovedinhismouth.Ithadbeentoolongsincehe’dspokenthelanguageatlength,butitstillfeltrightonhistongue.Hecouldalmosthearhismother’svoiceasherepeatedtheword:“Alma.”

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“Hijodemialma,”shewouldcallhimwhenhehadneededitmost—childofmysoul.Whenhewassmall,he’dbeenplaguedbynightterrorsandnightmares,oftenwakingupinpitchblacknesstothesoundofhisownblood-curdlingscreams.Hismotherwouldpullhimtoherlap,whisperingintohisfeverishscalp,“Hijodemialma,notepreocupes.Mamiestáaquí.”

Childofmysoul,don’tworry.Mommyishere.

Heneverdoubtedherlove,notforoneminute—notuntilhewastwelveanditsuddenlydawnedonhimwhathisfascinationwithFranciscoPimenteldownthestreetactuallymeant.Heletthisknowledgeabouthimselfsimmer,hisfeargrowing

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everySundaywhenshedraggedhimtomassforthesacrament.Butitwastoomuchforaboytohold,andhislidblewoffoneSaturdayafternoonwhensheteasedhimfortheumpteenthtimeaboutthecutegorditawholivednextdoorandmadeswoonyeyesathimwheneverhewalkedby.

“WhyyoualwayssomeantoElena?She’ssuchasweetgirl,andsmart.Nicecurves,too.You’dthinkaboywouldnoticethat.”Shelookeddownatthecuttingboardofplantainsshe’djustfinishedslicing.“Handmeaspoon,wouldyou?”

EverythinginsideDamianwasroiling.Ithadroiledbefore,sethislidtoshaking.Buthe’dheldon,managedtokeepittightandlocked

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inplace.Hetriedsohardtoholdonagainthistime.Hepulledthewoodenspoonfromthedrawer.

Somethinginsidehimburst.“ShutupaboutElenaalready!”

Heslammedthespoonagainstthecounter.“Don’tyougetit?Idon’tcareabouthercurves!Idon’tcareaboutanygirl’scurves.I’ma—”Hechokedontheword,startedtocrylikealittleboy.“I’mafag,Mami.Soycundango.”

Hecouldn’tevenlookather,butitdidn’tmatter.Intwosecondsflatshehadherarmsaroundhim,pullinghimclose,herhandsmessyfromtheplantainsbutherbodywarmandcomforting.“Tuereselhijodemialma.Tequieroporsiempre.”Youarethechildofmysoul.Iwillalways

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loveyou.NoneofthismeanttheAlmalady

who’dplacedtheadwasLatina.He’dreadabookonceaboutpioneersin1800sMontanawithanAngloheroinewhoinexplicablyhadAlmaashername.MaybethisAlmawaswhite,too,namedforsomesuchancestor.Hepicturedasturdyolddykewithstrongarmsandknobbyhands,arthriticfromyearsofmanuallabor.

Intheend,itdidn’tmatterwhoshewasorwhatshelookedlike,aslongasshepaidwhatshepromised.Damianhadjuststartedworkatanewplace—aswankyjointthatwasamoveupfromhispreviousjob.Butwiththelowestseniority,hehadn’tmanagedtosnaganyofthemost

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lucrativeshiftsyet.Mostlyhe’dbeworkingdays,acrappytimefortipsevenatChristmas.Hecouldusethemoney.

Hepickeduphisphoneanddialedthenumber.

“Hello,thisisAlmaLarsen,”avoicesaidontheotherendoftheline.Damianstartled.Thevoicewasdeep,andnotawomanlydeep.NotNinaSimoneoragrandmawho’dsmokedthreepacksadayherentirelife.ItwasBarryWhitedeep,thekindofvoicethatmadeaman’sballsstirandhisbigtoeshootupinhisboot.

“Y-yes,hello,”Damianstammered.Damianneverstammered.Hewassmoothandcollected.Nothingcouldblowhis

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Loggerhead

IMETJAKEwhenIwaswritingapieceaboutculinaryprofessionalswhohadenteredthetrademid-career.IswearIdidn’thaveakinkformeninchef’suniforms,butwhenhewalkedoutofthekitcheninhisblackpantsandwhitedouble-breastedshirt,withabigsmilethatwrinkledthecornersofhisbrowneyesintoaconglomerateofcrow’sfeet–well,Ialmostswooned.

IfollowedJakearoundthekitchenasheworked,inspectingthedeliveriesandshowingthelinecookstherightwaytocutceleryrootsothatitcurledintospiralsasfineasangelhair.Inbetweenhisothertasks,andsometimesduring,heansweredmy

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questions.Theotherchefswouldbecurtattimeslikethis,distractedbytheirdailychoresandthelatestemergencytoarisebeforetherestaurantopenedfortheday.They’dbesparingwiththeirwords–untiloneofthekitchenstaffmadeabeginner’smistakeandI’dlearnjusthowmuch,andhowloudly,achefcouldtalk.

Jakewasdifferent.Therewasnoyelling,andthehubbubofthekitchenneverboiledintochaos.Hewascharmingandexpansive.Evenashecarefullydissectedhalibutheadsfortheirprizedcheeks,Ifeltlikeallhisattentionwasonme.

Hewasabetterfirstdatethanmostofmyactualfirstdates.

Afterthearticlewentup,I

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grumbledtomyeditor,“Toobadit’sagainstjournalisticethicstosleepwithaninterviewee.”

Shelookedupfromhercomputer,hereyebrowscurvedlikethetopsoftwoquestionmarks.“JakePark?”

“AmIthatobvious?”Shesmirked.“Justahunch.”Then

sheadded,“Restaurantsaren’tyourusualbeat.Ithinkit’sokayforyoutofallinlovewithhimaslongasyoudon’twriteabouthimagain.”

“Whosaidanythingaboutfallinginlove?”

“Youdidn’thaveto,”shesaid.“Iknowhowtoreadbetweenthelines.”

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ThefirsttimeIsleptoverathisplacewasduringoneofthosefour-footsnowdumpstheEasternseaboardweatherpatternbestoweduponNewYorkeveryfewyears.Transithadtrickleddowntoabareminimum,andifIlefthisapartmenttherewasariskIwouldn’tseehimagainfordays.

Itwasn’tariskIwaswillingtotake.

IwokeupthatmorningwithJake’sheadagainstmychestandhistortoiseshellcatcurledaroundmyankles.IwatchedJake’sheadriseandfallwitheachbreathItook.Herehewas,trustingmenottoharmhimwhilehelayunconsciousanddefenselessinhisownbed.Sleepingbesidesomeonewas,insomeways,a

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moreintimateactthanhavingsexwiththem.

Thelightcomingthroughthewindowwasgray.Itwashardtotellifitwasstillnightorjustdarkbecauseoftheclouds.IgotupandpulledonthesweatsJakehadgottenoutformethenightbefore.Thesweatshirtwasduskyblue,fadedfromyearsofwashings.He’dtoldmeitwasfromhisdaysrunninghigh-schooltrackinFlorida.Onthefrontwasaline-drawingofamassiveturtleandthewords“LangfordLoggerheads”printedingreenbeneathit.

Jakestirred,grumblingsomethingunderhisbreathasheturnedontohisbackandopenedhiseyes.Whenhesawme,hesmiled.“You’rehere,”he

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saidwithadegreeofaweusuallyreservedforfireworksandtheGrandCanyon.

“OfcourseIam.”“Ilikeseeingyouinmyclothes,”

hesaid.“Ilikebeinginthem.”Icouldn’t

holdeyecontactwithhimanymore.Iwasn’tusedtobeinglookedatlikeoneoftheSevenNaturalWondersoftheWorld.

Ipointedtotheturtleonthefrontofhisshirt.“Everseenoneinthewild?”Isaid.

“Iwasaturtleguideforafewyearsbeforemovinguphere.You?”

Ishookmyhead.“I’veneverbeenfarsouthenough.I’vealwaysbeencurious,though.EversinceIreadabouttheminRangerRick.”

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“YoureadRangerRickwhenyouwereakid,too?Iknewyouwereperfect.”

Iblushed.“Shutup.”“I’mserious.”Hesatupinbed

andreachedformyhips,pullingmebackintothesheetswithhim.“Weshouldgoonaturtlewalksometime.I’lltakeyoubackhomefornestingseason.”

“Takemehomewithyou?”Iteased.“Aren’tyoumovingalittlefast?”

“No,”hesaidwiththesolidconfidenceonlyathirty-five-year-oldinlovecanhave.“Notatall.”

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ReadingtheSigns

TWENTY-THREE-YEAR-oldTheoDeJongwasintrouble.Deep,deeptrouble.

Herehewas,fivethousandmilesfromhomeattheUniversityofNewMexico,forarareopportunitytostudywithafewhundredoftheworld’smostbrilliantlinguists.

Andinsteadofpayingattentiononhisfirstdayofthesummersession,hismind—andeyes—keptwanderingovertothemantwodesksaheadofhim.

“AlfonsoGrossman,”themanhadsaidwhenthey’dintroducedthemselvesbeforeclass,speakingandfingerspellinghisnameatthesametime.

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“Iknowwhoyouare,”TheohadansweredinEnglish,hisheartalmostbeatingoutofhischestasheshookAlfonso’shand.Dr.GrossmanwasanAmericanlinguistwho’dbeentravelingtoNicaraguaforalmosttwodecadestohelpdocumenttheevolutionofthecountry’ssignlanguage.“I’vereadyourpapers.I’mabitofafanboy.”Theobithistongueafterthelastwordslippedout,butitwastoolate.Besides,itwastrue.“Intellectuallyspeaking,ofcourse.”Thatwasalsotrue.TheohadneverseenaphotoofAlfonsobefore,andinhiswildestdreamscouldn’thaveimaginedhowappealingtheAmericanwouldbe,withhisheadfullofsalt-and-peppercurlsandcrow’sfeetatthecornersof

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hiseyesthatmadehimlooklikehewasperpetuallysmiling.

Thecrow’sfeetgrewdeeperasAlfonsobrokeintoanactualgrin.Itwasanicelookonhim.Adorable.Theofeltsomethingtugathisheart.“What’syourarea?”Alfonsosaid.

“DutchSignLanguage.Myparentsaredeaf,soit’smyfirstlanguage.I’mdoingacomparativestudyofthedialectsformymaster’sthesis.”

“Oh!”Alfonsobouncedonhistoesandbroughthishandstogetherinanexcitedclap.“Ineedtohearmoreaboutthat.Iadoredialectology,Mr.—”HeglancedatTheo’snametag.“Mr.DeJong.”

“Youdon’tneedtobesoformal.”“OnlyIdon’tknowhowtosay

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yourfirstname.Isit‘tay-o’or‘thee-o’?”

“‘Tay-o’ishowwesayitinHolland,butwhatever’seasiestforyou.”

Alfonsobeamed.“Ilike‘tay-o.’”Theofelthimselfblushing.He

hopedhissunburncamouflagedit.Now,Theosatathisdeskinhis

ComparativeSyntaxofSignedLanguagesseminar,gazingatAlfonso’scurlsandthenapeofhisneckandthewayhisT-shirtclungtohisshoulders.Hisintellectualcrushwasfasttransformingintoafull-blownone.

Ah,well.Maybetherewasnothingwrongwithaharmlessinfatuation.Aslongasitdidn’tdistractfrom—

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AmovementfromthefrontoftheroomgotTheo’sattention.Itwastheirprofessor,andshewasgesturingathim.“Whatcountryareyoufrom?”shesaidinAmericanSignLanguage.AninterpreterechoedherwordsinEnglish.

“TheNetherlands.Holland,”TheoansweredinEnglish.He’dstudiedASLonlineformonthsinpreparationforthistrip,butthesignsuddenlyescapedhim.

“CanyougiveusanexampleofapossibleclassifierinDutchSignLanguage?”

Thankgoodnessshe’daskedaneasyquestion,becausehehadn’tprocessedawordofwhatshe’dsignedbeforethatpoint.Hestoodupandwalkedtothefrontoftheroom

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sotherestoftheclasscouldsee,tryingnottopayattentiontoAlfonsoturninginhisseat,hisdarkbrowneyesfixedonTheo’sface.

“I’llshowyouaninstancewhereaclassifiercanbeusedtoindicateeyeglasses,asin‘Theeyeglassesfelloffmyface,’”TheosaidinEnglish,pausingfortheinterpretertorepeathisstatementinASLbeforehebegansigninginhismotherlanguage.

“Neat,”wastheprofessor’sresponse.“Let’sgetsomeexamplesfromJapaneseSignLanguagenext.”

Theowentbacktohisdeskasanotherstudenttookhisplaceatthefrontoftheroom.Outofthecornerofhiseye,hethoughthesawAlfonso’sheadmovingwithhim,followinghimrightbacktohisdesk.

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ButwhenTheolookedover,Alfonso’sfacewasburiedinhisnotebook.

TheoresolvednottowasteanymoretimestaringatAlfonso.HewasonlyintheUnitedStatesforsixweeksandcouldsurelysurvivewithoutharboringastupidcrush.

ButthentheprofessorcalledAlfonsotothefronttoshowexamplesfromNicaraguanSignLanguage,andTheonoticedthatinadditiontothecrow’sfeet,adimpleformedinAlfonso’srightcheekwhenhesmiled.

Hewassoverrukkelijk,astheysayinDutch.Gorgeous.

Theowasfucked.

***

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BornofFire

HUNDREDSOFYEARSago,whenIrelandwasstillundertheruleofitsoldlaws,aplagueofchangelingsstruckthepeninsulaofFanadinCountyDonegalonthecountry’snorthernshore.Itseemedanewborncouldn’tbearoundlongerthanafewmonthsbeforethefairiesswitcheditwithoneoftheirownelderlypeoplewho,thoughagedanddecrepit,couldnotatfirstbedistinguishedfromthehumanbabeitreplaced.Onlyafterseveralweekswouldtheswitchbecomeapparentasthechangeling’sdeceptivemagicworeoffanditsbody,thoughstillintheformofachild,wouldbegintorevealitsage,itsskinturninggrayandwitheringto

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wrinkles,anditsfleshwastingawayuntilitseemedamereskeleton.

SowhencholeraturnedthewidowedBridgetCarr’sbabyintoabagofbones,itwasnaturalforhertothinkhewasnolongertrulyherbabybutachangeling,withtherealfruitofherwombkidnappedtosomefairymoundfaraway.

Whenthefairiestookachild,therewasonlyonewaytogetitback:putthechangelingonthefireasifitwerealog,lettingtheflameslickuntilitcriedoutandswoopedupthechimneytoescapethepain.Withthespellbroken,thefairieshadnochoicebuttoimmediatelyreturnthefamily’srightfulchildtoitscradle.Inthisway,SineadMcIntyrehadbeenreturnedtoherparents,ashadJamie

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CallahanandLetitiaFreel.Bridgetwentaboutthe

preparations,throwingpeatonthehearthuntiltheflamesroared.Shetookherbabyfromhiscradleandloweredhimtotheflame,praying,“Ifofthedevil,burnawayfrommyhome,andifofGodandthesaints,showyoumeannoharm.”

Thebabycriedastheheatgrewnearer.Bridgetthoughtthismustmeanthespellwasworkingandsoonthechangelingwouldflee.Butwhenhisbootiesandbonnetcaughtfireandheletoutashrillshriek,kickingandflailing,hisgrayskinturningpinkwithfury,sherealizedhererror.Thiswasthepointwhenthechangelingoughttosproutwingsandevaporateupthechimney,butthebabystayeda

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solidpresenceinherarms,despitehisclothestonguingwithflame.

“Ach,childofmywomb!”Bridgetclutchedthebabytoherbreast,wrappinghershawlaroundhimtoquenchtheflames,anddousedhimwithwaterfromthetub.Butmuchdamagewasalreadydone.Hisrightearwasbadlysingedandtheskinofhisrightfootandankleburnedaway.Bridgetfeltterribleandcouldbarelydressthewoundsbecauseofhercrying.

Still,hewasabletosuckle,andthatwasthekeytohissurvival.HismothercalledhimAodhántomean“bornoffire.”Helived,thoughwithhisbodyforeveraltered.Whentheskinhealed,itwaspinkandugly,gnarledinsomeplacesliketreebark,

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smoothandhairlesselsewhere.Hisrightearwasjustalittleknob,andburnscarsrandownhisneckandtheedgeofhischeek.Thenewskinthatgrewoverhisfootwastightandrigid,andhistoesbecametiny,immobilestubs.Hewasneverabletorunorwalkaswellastheotherchildreninthevillage.

Aodhándeemedhimselflucky.Deathwasnotuncommonwherehelived,anddeathamongchildrenwasaregularoccurrence.Hehadsurvivedinfancy,andthatwasenoughforhim.Heconsidereditanextrabonusthateveryoneinthevillagewastoopoortohavestairsintheirhouses,sotheonlytimehehadtoclimbupanddownthemwithhisinflexiblefootwaswhengoingtoMassonSundays.

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GhostofaChance

THENIGHTImetFrankhadbeenaslowoneattheuniversitylibrary.Mostofthestudentsweretoodrunktobestudying.We’dwonourhomecominggameagainstourarchrivalsthatafternoon,transformingtheeveningintoacampus-widebacchanal.EvenupwhereIwasonthelibrary’sfourthfloor,withallthewindowstightlyshut,Icouldhearcelebratoryhorn-blowingandjingoisticchantsfloatingupfromthestreet.Imanagedtoignorethem,focusinginsteadonthesoothingwhoosh-whooshoftheairblowingthroughtheHVACpipesabovemyheadasItappedawayatmylaptop,occasionallypausingto

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consultoneofthemanybooksspreadoutonthetableinfrontofme.

Iwasaseriousseniorwhodidn’tcaremuchformyuniversity’sconsistentrankinginCampusmagazine’stoptenlistofpartyschools.IenrolledbecauseitalsoconsistentlyrankedinUSNews&WorldReport’stoptenlistofpublicresearchuniversities.Besides,Iwasfromin-state,andthetuitionwasrelativelycheap.Allmymajorlifedecisionsuptothatpointhadbeenbasedonlogicandprudence.Ididn’tparty,andIdidn’tdatemuch.MyparentsjokedIhadbeenanoldmansincethedayIwasborn.IpreferredtosayIwasmaturebeyondmyyears.

Severalofthefluorescentceilinglightsflickeredoffastheyalwaysdid

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aroundmidnight—partofthecampus’efforttosaveelectricity.Ialwaysfeltalittlespookedatthathourasmyeyesadjustedtothenewdimness.BackwhenI’dbeenlittleandspenteverysummerwithmygrandparents,mybubbelikedtoentertainmewithstoriesofspiritsbothterrifyingandbenevolent—ghosts,demons,dybbuks,golems,andibbur.Beingaloneatthislatehourtendedtogetmethinkingabouttheterrifyingones.Iturnedthetablelampontochaseawaymytrepidation.Thelibrarywasopenuntiltwointhemorning,andIintendedtostayuntilclosing.

AsIturnedbacktomycomputer,Iheardsomeonehummingfromamidthestacks.ItwasatuneIrecognized

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butcouldn’tputafingeron—classicbig-bandmusicfromanearlierera.ItsoundedtomelikesomethingFrankSinatrahadmadefamousonceuponatime,ormaybeanothermemberoftheRatPack.

Funny.Ihadn’tnoticedanyoneinthestacksearlier.ButIdidtendtogetabsorbedinmywork.Ileanedbackinmychairandpeekeddowntherowofbookshelves.Theownerofthevoicestoodinthemiddleoftheclassicssection,runninghisfingersalongthespinesasifhewerereadingthetitlesinBraille.

Hemusthavefeltmyeyesonhim,becausehelookedup.Myheartdidasomersaultinmychest.Hewasastunningmarriageofbothhandsomeandpretty,withachiseled

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jawanddelicateblueeyes.Hisskinwassopale,itwasalmostluminous.

“Whatsongisthat?”Isaid.“I’msorry,wasIsinging?Ididn’t

realize—DidIdisturbyou?”“Notatall.Itwasnice.”“Oh.Thankyou.”Heloweredhis

gaze.“‘SeptemberSong.’”“Becauseit’sSeptember?”“Alwaysgoesthroughmyhead

thistimeofyear,eversinceIfirstheardSammyDavisJr.singit.Sinatrasangit,too—butI’mpartialtoSammy.”Hisaccentwasdistinctive,likesomethingoutofaHepburn-Tracymoviefromthe1940s,eachvowelpronouncedwithasweet,glidingweight.ItwasclassicuppercrustNewEngland,ablue-bloodedvoicetogowithhisblue-

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bloodedlook:short,darkhairgelledinplacelikeayoungJohnF.Kennedy’s;apinkpoloshirttuckedintobeigechinos;socklessfeetensconcedinwell-oiledpennyloafers;andawhitecableknitsweaterhungneatlyoverhisshoulders,itsarmsjoinedtogetheroverhischestlikelovers’claspedhands.

IrealizedIwasstaringandshouldprobablysaysomething,buttheonlythingsIcouldrememberaboutSammyDavisJr.atthatmomentwerethathe’dsung“CandyMan”andwasJewishlikeme.Neitherseemedthemostsuaveapproach.AsoverachievingasIwas,Ihadnevermasteredtheartofconversingwithattractivemen.SoIchangedthe

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subject,pointingtothebooks.“DoyoustudyGreek?”

Heshookhishead.“Iusedto,butnotanymore.JustthoughtI’dcomedownhereandbrowsetheshelvesforoldtimes’sake.”

“Findanythinginteresting?”Theyoungman’spaleblueeyes

metmine.Hesmiledwithoutavertinghisgaze.“PerhapsIhave.”

Didhemeanme?Myfacewentwarm,butItriedtoactasifmensaidsuchthingstomeeveryday.Iscootedoutofmychairandwalkedovertowherehestood.“I’mJeremy.JeremyAnderson”

Istartedtoreachoutforashake,butattheexactsamemomentheshovedhishandsinhispockets.Isavedfacebypattingmyfingersover

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FarFromHome

“CONNECTWITHMATEO,”Rajivsaidtohisrig,pullingitfromhisearandholdingitaninchinfrontofhislefteye.Itscannedhisretinawithsoothingbluelight.Rajivhadprogrammedthedevicetoverifyhisidentitybyretinalscanbackwhentheyweredating,justbeforeRajivsentMateotheirfirstsext.Thelastthinghewantedwastodrophisrigsomewhereandhavearandompersonaccesstheirentireonlinesexlife.

Rajivreinsertedtherigintohisrightearlobeandcheckeditinthemirrorashewaitedforthecalltoconnect.Itwasasimple-lookingrig,agoldstudthesamefinishashis

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weddingring.He’dpreferredagoldrigeversincereadinginhiscollegehistoricalanthropologycourseaboutgaymenofthelatetwentiethcenturywearingearringsintherightlobetoidentifyeachother.Althoughgaymenhardlyneededtohideanylonger,helikedthewaysomethingascurrentasarigcouldconnecthimtothepast.

“Hello,love.Canyouseeme?Iseeyou.”Mateo’svoicecamethroughbeforehisimage,whichslowlytranspiredinthreedimensionsontheemptysquareoffloorinfrontofRajiv’sloungechair.

“Notquiteyet,”saidRajiv.Warp-speedcommunicationstechnologyhadimprovedinrecentyears,butholographicimageswerestillslowin

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comingonlineduringlivechats.Mateoappearedfirstasaclusterofroughyellow,brown,andgrayoctagonsthatsubdividedintosmallerpixelsuntilfinallytheyformeddistinct,lifelikelines.Thenthecolorsdiversified,transformingasepiaimageintoacolorfulandmostlylifelikereplicaofarealitytakingplace250millionmilesaway.

Mateosatonafoldoutchairnexttoapop-updesk,thesortsoftemporaryfurniturethatwerehallmarksofanewoutpost.ThecameraandrelaygaveMateo’sbrownskinanartificiallybluishtingedespitethebeige-yafternoonsunlightcominginthroughhiswindow,andathinhaloofcoloredpixelsradiatedfromhisbodylikespecksofdust

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brightenedbyapolychromaticsun.IfRajivunfocusedhiseyes,thepixelsdisappearedandRajivcouldalmostconvincehimselfthatMateowasreallyintheroomwithhim,bodyaswellassoul.

Rajivdidn’tlethisvisionblur,though.Mateo’sshirtwasoff,hismuscularchestchiseledlikefinesandstone,andhismoreprivateembellishmentsbulgingagainstthefrontofgraysweatpants.Rajivdidn’twanttomissanyofthosedetails.“Iseeyounow,hotstuff.”

“So,it’sgoingtobethatkindofnight?”

“Itcanifyouwantittobe.”Rajivhadtheurgetobrushhishandovertheflannel-coveredlump,tofeelitsheatasitgrewbeneathhistouch.

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SweeterThanBlood

IWASAveganbeforeJohnturnedmeintoabloodsucker,andIstilllikemybeetjuiceasmuchasIdidbackthen.SowhenJohnfinisheshisnightshiftatthehospital,weusuallymeetatthegaydistrict’stwenty-four–hourjuicebar.That’swherewearenow,atatablebythewindow,Johncounselingmeonhowtobealessmiserablevampire.

Hesetshisglassdownwithaflourish,asifhe’sabouttomakeapronouncement.“Keith,you’reamasochisttoworkinabarbershop.”

“AmI?”Henodsandwidenshiseyes.

“Thetemptationmustbeagonizingwithallthoserazorbladesaround.

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Don’tyousometimeswanttopressalittletoohardwhenyou’reshavinganunsuspectingcustomer?Maketheslightestnick?”Heleansinconspiratorially.“IknowIwould.”

Ofcourseittemptsme.Still,I’mnotwithoutscruples.Inolongerhaveasoul,butitspresenceorabsenceshouldn’tmakeadifferencesinceIneverbelievedinsoulswhenIhadone.Besides,nickingcustomerswouldbebadforbusiness.Theundeadhavetopaytherentsomehowiftheydon’twanttodwellinsewersandoldcemeteries.IwasabarberbeforeIbecameavampire,andI’mabarbernow.Noteverythinghastochangewithdeath.

Itakeasipofmybeetjuice.It’ssweetandiron-richlikeblood,andit

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stainsmytonguethesamedeepcolor.Withalittlesaltadded,it’sheavenly.“Maybeyoushouldhavetakenmyworkintoaccountbeforeyouchangedme.Orprovidedsomesortofvocationalrehabilitationtoeasethetransition.”

“Iwould,iftheVampyreGuildofferedinsuranceforthissortofsituation.”John’ssmileathisownjokeexposeshiseyeteeth.Theydon’tlookmuchsharperthananormalhuman’s.NowonderIfellpreytohimsoeasilythatnight.

“IfonlytherewereaVampyreGuild.Satanicritualsatcemeteries,livesacrifices,plansforworlddomination—soundsalotsexierthanthelifeI’mleadingnow.”Ilookaroundthejuicebar.Customersfile

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inandoutforhangover-preventingvitamin-and-mineralfixesafterall-nightbenders.Drunkpeoplesmellterrible.Theirbloodisallpissandbitterness.

Johnrollshiseyes.“Asifyou’dlikethatanybetter.You’retoomuchofasoftieforthatkindofthing.Mostofusare.”

“Justsaying.ThinkhowmuchyouallcouldaccomplishifyoualliedyourselveswiththeDarkLord.”

“It’snot‘them,’Keith.It’s‘us.’Youneedtostartacceptingthat.”

“Idon’thavetoacceptanythingIdon’twantto.”Itrytobelieveit,eventhoughanachegrowsatthebackofmytongueaswespeak,alongingforbloodthatcanonlybeameliorated,butnotslaked,bythe

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beetjuiceIkeepsipping.Johnreachesacrossthetableand

takesmyhand.“YouknowIdidn’tmeantochangeyou,darling.Youwerejustsosexy.AllIcouldthinkaboutwasmakingyoucome.I’msorryIgotcarriedaway.IfIcouldtravelbackintime,youknowIwould.”Hepouts.It’snotanact.

ForamomentIrememberwhatIsawinhimthatfirstnight.Hewaspretty.Pale.Anemicbutnotsickly.Helookedlikeapieceoffinechina,hisskinalmosttranslucentandoffsetbythickblackeyelashesandadarkbrownheadofhair.Later,whenIcametoonthetilefloorofthebathroomstall,hisbeautywasnolongersohaunting.Hisskinwasruddyandopaque,hischeeksstained

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withtears.HeburiedhiscurlsintomyshoulderandcriedI’msorry,I’msorryuntilthewordslosttheirmeaning.

“Iknow,but‘sorry’won’timprovemysituation.Anddon’tcallme‘darling.’”

“Iwishyouwouldn’tbesocold.We’reinthesameboat.Whynotbefriendsinsteadofjustsireandspawn?”

Inspiteofmyself,Igivehishandasoftsqueeze.“Bepatient.AfterafewhundredyearsmyresentmentmightfadeenoughthatIcanlookatyouwithoutwantingtopunchyouintheface.”

“Iguessthat’ssomething.”Hepullshishandbackandlooksdownathisownglass:alsobeet,butlaced

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RoughLove

MICHAELANDIweren’tvirginswhenwemet,butwewereeachother’sfirstseriousboyfriends.Itwasinevitabletherewouldbemisstepsalongtheway.

IthoughtIcouldpredictsomeofthem.Wewerefromwildlydifferentbackgrounds:hewasEastCoastandIwasFarWest.HewasurbanandIwasrural.HewasblackandIwaswhite.HewasJewishandI’dbeenraisedinalittletownwherethefirstquestionanyoneaskedwhentheymetyouwas,“Whatchurchdoyougoto?”Itwasalmostinevitableourdifferenceswouldresultinsomekindofmisunderstanding.

Butourfirstbigkerfufflebowled

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meoverallthesame.Imethimtheseconddayofmy

junioryearatcollege,inamorningShakespeareseminarI’dmanagedtosneakintomyscheduleeventhoughitwastechnicallyforEnglishmajorsandIwasdoublinginhistoryofartandchemistry.Iwasgettingmytabletoutwhenhestrolledin.IswearIstoppedbreathingassoonasIlookedupandsawhim.

Orrather,hisass.Myeyesstoppedbeforetheycouldgoanyhigher.Hewaswearingapairofmustard-coloredstretchjeanswithabackseamthatperfectlysplithisbehindintotwosucculentbunsasroundandsteamingasapairofdinnerrollsfreshoutoftheoven.

IliketotellpeopleIfellinlove

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withhimatfirstsight.Butlet’sbehonest:itwaspure,unadulteratedlust.I’dneverseensuchanappetizingass,anditwasn’tforwantoflooking.I’dspentmyfreshmanyearshakingoffmyconservativeIdahoupbringingandtransformingmyselfintoaproudgayslut,buryingmysheathedcockinasmanymanlybottomsaspresentedthemselvestome.Myfavoritesweretherepressedmachofootballplayer-typeswhopretendedtobetopsuntiltheclothescameoff,thenbeggedforagoodpoundingassoonasIskirtedaspit-slickedfingerovertheirpuckers.Iftheywantedmetospankandbitetheirprettykeisters,well,allthebetter.Ilovedthespringinessofawell-muscledtushandwouldhave

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beenhappytoprodandpokethebestofthemforhours,ifonlymydickwouldlastsolong.

ButMichael’sasswasevenbetterthanaquarterback’sripplingderrière.Noamountofworkingoutcouldhavecreatedsuchperkyperfection.ItwasagiftfromGod,morebeautifulthanthesmoothmarblerumpofMichelangelo’sDavid.

“Um,hello?”Avoicecamefromsomewhereabovemyhead.Thepersonowningtheflawlessbacksideturnedaround,removingitfrommyfieldofvisionandreplacingitwithanequallyflawlessfrontside.I’mprettysuremygaspwasaudible.HehadabulgeasbigasMountRainier.

Itwasmorethanmymindcouldcomprehendatsuchanearlyhour.I

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lookedforsomethinglessintimidatingtofocuson,myeyesskimmingoverhisfittedbluepoloshirtandgoldenarmsuntilIfoundhisface.Iprobablygaspedagain.Themanwasgorgeous,withaplump,kissablemouthandbrowneyesrimmedwithvelvetylashes.“Er,hi.”

Hislipscurledintoalopsidedgrin.Histeethshowedwhenhesmiled.Theywereperfect—nottoobigandnottoosmall,andslightlyroundedatthecornersinsteadofsharpsquares.Theyremindedmeoffreshwaterpearls.Oneofhisteethinthebottomrowwasslightlycrooked,whichlentalaissez-fairesortofjoytohisgrin.Ilikedthat.Hesatdownnexttome,allcasual,asifgettingvisuallygropedbyotherguyswasan

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everydayoccurrenceforhim.“Youanassman,huh?”

Heatspreadfrommychesttomyears.WhenIblush,IturntheapproximatecolorofacherryFrootLoop.NotwhatIwantedtolooklikeatthemoment—notifIwasgoingtomakeagoodimpressiononMr.PerfectAss.“Sorry.Iwasn’ttryingto,um,objectifyyou.Ormakeyouuncomfortable.”

Hissmilegrew.“I’mnotuncomfortable.Asforobjectifyingme,wecanstartthede-objectificationprocessassoonasclassisthroughifyouletmetakeyououtforcoffee.We’llgettoknoweachotherasthemultifacetedhumanbeingsweare.”Helookedmeupanddown,hiseyeslingeringonmychest.I’dbeendoing

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alotofweightsthatsummer,anditwasinthebestshapeithadeverbeen.IwasgladI’dchosenatightgrayT-shirtthatmorningtoshowoffitscontours.Heraisedoneeyebrowandleanedinclose,likehehadasecrettoshare.“AndmaybeI’lllearntostopobjectifyingyou.”

“Um,sure,”Isaid,flusteredinawayIhadn’tbeeninyears.

Heextendedhishandformetoshake.“MichaelKeen.”

Itookit.Itwaswarmandstrong,withthincallusesonhisfingertipsandthepadsofhispalms.I’dneverbeenmuchofahand-holder,butIwasovercomebytheurgetohangontohimaslongasIcould.Thewayourhandsfittogetherfascinatedme,theridgesandcurvessnugging

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againsteachotherlikeasecondskin.“BlakePeterson,”Isaid,feigningtheconfidenceIwishedIhad.

Itturnedoutwedidn’thavetowaitforcoffeeforthede-objectificationprocesstobegin.Theprofessorbelievedininteractivelearning,andsincewe’dbeenrequiredtoreadfourofShakespeare’scomediesthatsummer,wehadplentytotalkabout.Michaelwasabitofagenius,andfunnytoboot.Bythetimeourtwohourswereup,Iwasswooningoverhisbrainsasmuchashisbutt.

“Stillupforcoffee?”hesaidwhentheprofessorletusout.“OrdidIboreyoutoomuchinclass?”

“Yesonthecoffee,noontheboringme.Theopposite.IthinkI

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PacificRimming

THEFIRSTTIMEwemethimwasattheShorepineBoginPacificRimNationalParkReserve,justamileinfromVancouverIsland’swesterncoast.Thebogisastrangepieceoftemperaterainforestsodifferentfromthenearbybeaches,itswatersstillandquiet,nothingliketheever-moving,ever-crashingwavesoftheshore.Wherethebeachissand,rocks,andtheiodine-richscentofkelp,thebogismoss,ghostlystuntedpines,andthesweet-sharpsmellofacidicbrine.

Wearrivedjustaftersunrise.Ken,myhusband,hadreaditwasthebesttimetospotbirds.Theonlywaytotraversethebogwithoutsinkinginto

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itwasbysteppingontotheboardwalkthathoveredafootortwoaboveitsmossysurface.Andthebestwaytoseebirdswasbylookingthroughbinoculars.

Binocularsaregreatforseeingthingsthatarefaraway,buttheyblockeverythingelseout.That’showwemanagednottoseetheyoungmanuntilwerealmostontopofhim.

Hewascrouchedattheedgeoftheboardwalkjusttenyardsaheadofusandpeeringatsomethingovertheside,asstillasagreatblueheronwaitingforprey.Abadmetaphorforabogwherenofishlive,butthat’showIthoughtofhim,anyway.Theperiwinkle-grayofhisT-shirtandhisblack,slightlymussedhaironlyaddedtotheheron-likeeffect.A

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cowlickstuckoutinthebackinanapproximationofthebird’sfeatheredcrest.Hislegswerefoldedlikeaheron’stoo,tightasapocketknife,hisarmsasclosetohissidesasrestingwings.Theirdarkhairsweredelicateplumageagainsthispaleskin.

HewasmorestunningthananyothercreatureI’dspottedthatmorning—withtheexceptionofmyhusband,ofcourse.Idroppedmybinocularsandletthemhangagainstmychest.InudgedKen’selbowandpointedintheman’sdirection.Iknewhe’dappreciatethesightasmuchasIdid.

Ken’sbreathdidasharpintake—loudenoughformetoappreciate,butnotloudenoughtobreakthesilence

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ofthebog.“You’reagoodspotter,”hesigned,hishandsclosetohisbodyinawhisper,thenwinked.

Webothlooked.Themanmusthavebeenflexibletoholdthatsamepositionforsolong,soIguessedhewaseitheryoungerthanusordidalotofyoga.Ienviedhisflexibility,andIalsoenviedthejeansstretchedoverhiscurvesandangleslikeasecondskin,highlightingthemuscledroundnessofhisass.Ithoveredjustinchesabovethewoodenplanksoftheboardwalk.Iftheboardwalkhadbeenahuman,thepositionwouldhavebeenacrueltease:You’dliketotouchme,butyoucan’t.Myhandstingledwiththelongingtofeelthatass,topressagainstitandpartthesolidfleshuntilthecreviceatthe

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centeropenedwide.KenandIwalkedalittlecloser.

Hiseyessparkledwithmischief.“Stopdrooling,”hesigned.“Thisecosystemisveryfragile,andyoumightupsetthebalanceoftheentirebogifyourspitgetsinit.”Hislipshadthatsmug-flirtatiousquirktheyalwaysgetwhenhe’steasing.

Iplayedalong,swipingthebackofmyhandovermymouthtocatchanyerrantdrool.“There.Thebogissafefrommylust.”

Kenlaughed—anabrupt,melodiousbarkthatstartledthestranger.Hewhippedhisheadaround,hiseyeswide.

Theysoftenedastheyflickedoverus,registeringthematchingweddingbandsaroundourringfingers.I

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didn’tmisstheglanceacrossthefrontofourtrousers—Iwasalreadysportingabitofabulge—orthewayhiseyesmovedmoreslowly,calmlyastheymovedbackupourbodies,seductiveinthewaytheylingeredonourarmsandchestsbeforemakingcontactwithourfacesagain.

Wewalkedcloserandherose,gallantandgracefulasabird.

Hewasdefinitelyyoungerthanbothofus.Therewasnosaltinhispepper-darkhair,andhissmoothskinbarelywrinkledevenwhenhesmiled.Iguessedhewastenyearsourjunior,probablyinhislatetwenties—whichwouldactuallymaketheagegapslightlymorethantenyears,consideringIwasturningfortythenextday.

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Fortynolongerseemedsoold,withthewaythestrangerlookedatme.

Hegaveasmallwave.“Goodmorning.Niceday,isn’tit?”

“Sureis,”Ianswered.Kenturnedtowardme,hidinghis

handsfromthestranger.“Seethewayhe’slookingatus?Totallygay.Tellhimhehasanicebutt.”

Irolledmyeyes.“Youtellhim.”“Sorry,Ididn’trealize…”the

youngmanstarted,andthenhishandsbegantomoveclumsilyasifhereallywereabirdandtryingtoformshapeswiththetipsofhiswings.“YouDeaf?IknowAmericanSignLanguagesmall.”Hesqueezedhispalmstooclosetogethertoemphasizetheminusculesizeofhis

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knowledge,ignorantthathiswordchoiceandsyntaxhadalreadycluedusin.

Ken’sexpressionwasamixofsmittenandcondescending,similartowhathegivesoneofourdogswhentheylearnanewtrick.“I’mDeafandmyhusbandisahearingchildofDeafparents.Yousignverywell.Wheredidyoulearn?”Kenarticulatedthewordssoslowlyitlookedlikehisarmsweremovingthroughmolasses,butitwasclearthehottiehadneversignedwithanactualhumanbeingbefore.Hissuntannedfaceturnedpinkwithexasperationandhelookedreadytofaintfromdizziness.

“Sorry,don’tunderstand.”Hottiefrowned,hisplumplowerlipjutting

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outslightly.“Neversign.Learnfromi-n-t-e-r-n-e-t.”Hefingerspelledthelastwordwithadizzyingbouncebetweeneachletter.

Kenputafriendlyhandonhottie’sforearm.Myhusbandisbothpatientandanincorrigibleflirt.“Don’tworry,Ireadlipstoo.AndMike”—Kenpointedatme—“ishearingandacertifiedinterpreter.We’lldookay.Whatwereyoulookingatjustnow,anyway?Wecamehereforbirds,butallI’veseensofararerobins.”

“Whichwecanseeathome,”Iadded.

Hottielaughed.“Metoo.Myname’sJasonbytheway.”HelookedstraightatKenashespoketomakethelip-readingeasier,whichI

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thoughtwassweet.IcouldtellKendidtoo,thewayhiseyesmeltedalittle.

Kenshookhishand.“Nicetomeetyou,Jason.I’mKen.”

Jasonbithisbottomlip.Icouldpracticallyseethesparkbetweenthem,burstinglittleflaresofheatintothetepidmorningair.Theirpalmslingered.Mydickrosetohalf-mast.

“Ihaven’tseenmanybirdshere,”Jasonsaidwhenhefinally,reluctantly,letgoofKen’shand,thenshookmine.Hishandwaswarmbutdry,thepadsofhispalmsslightlycallused.“Buttheplantsareawesome.Come,look.”Hecrouchedbackdownandwefollowed,eachoneithersideofhim.Hesmelledgood,allsun-warmedskinandatraceof

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toSpanish.WhenwritinginEnglish,it’s

commonamongAmericanSignLanguageuserstocapitalize“Deaf”torefertoacultureorculturalidentity,andtowrite“deaf”whenreferringspecificallytoapartialorcompletelackofhearing.Similarly,“Hearing”isoftencapitalizedtorefertopeopleorculturalpractices,butnotcapitalizedinmedicalterminologysuchas“hearingloss”or“hearingimpaired.”Ihavereflectedtheseconventions.

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