Second Comings

"This was such a wonderful day, Jordan. One of the very best of my life. Thank you so much for all this," she said as she waved at the expanse of the bay and the stars overhead. She leaned into him, put her head on his shoulder, and he didn't pull away.

"I love you too," he whispered, and she respected his need for privacy, for secrecy. Then he leaned over and kissed her on the forehead.

She squeezed his hand, her lips sought his and again, and again, while he didn't pull back from her she felt his unease. 'Oh, what have I done to this man,' she said to herself over and over again. 'Why must it always be this way?'

When they made it back to the room she undressed and they went to the bed and lay together a while. She still had on her garters and stockings and her heels, and he started rubbing her stocking tops once again. Soon they were kissing, and minutes later she felt his hands on her penis, tentatively at first, then more insistently. She rolled onto her back, let him explore her world with his hands, then she joined him. They rubbed together, grasped her need and jacked her desire to flaming heights, yet when he moved down to take her in his mouth she pulled away, moved her face to his and they kissed until he grew sleepy, then she held him to her breast and let him fall asleep there, and she held him through the night, hopeful she had stopped him in time.

+++++

He seemed quiet the next morning, almost too quiet, but he helped her into the car and they were soon headed west on 90 – in unsettled silence, then north on 91 towards Brattleboro. He remained quiet, almost distracted, until they were back in the village. It was just noon, yet he drove into the little one car garage and stopped the engine. She helped him carry his new computers into the house, and stayed to help get them up and running, but he remained distant all the while. As she watched him she thought he seemed fragile now, almost like a very old man, then he went into his room and lay down. He was soon fast asleep, and she watched him for a while, unsure what to do. After an hour she got her bag and drove home, now full of her own despair.

She wanted to run away as soon as she got back to this strange new place she now called 'home', but nothing felt like home. She felt alone, alone like she had all her life. Alone with a body that had betrayed her every step of the way. She wanted to run, and keep on running forever, because everything she touched seemed to turn to dust, and the permanence she yearned for eluded her soul like fast moving shadows of clouds crossing distant walls of cold stone.

She looked at her reflection in a mirror, lost in wonder at what she saw there, but having no idea, really, who that was staring back.

Part II: November

Secord's bags were packed and in the back of the Audi, his laptop and folders full of essays to grade stowed in a small leather carry-on. He walked through the house once again, checked the thermostat was reset and the water off. He looked out the window at the bare trees and gray skies of an early winter and shook his head, hoped the forecast snow would hold off 'til he made it to Logan.

It was the Saturday before Thanksgiving, and school was out for the week; he'd been invited to give a presentation at the annual ASEAN security conference. This year's meeting was in Tokyo – and despite the limited time available he'd decided to go. He was an acknowledged expert on China's emergent naval presence in the region, and besides, the speaker's fees were simply irresistible. Even more worrisome, once the college had learned of the invitation, from Sharon Hastings no less, the pressure had risen dramatically that he go. His speaking was a feather in their cap after all, and now all the talk in the department was that his tenure was all but in the bag.

So he was southbound on 91 lost in thought – again. One step ahead of his dreams, still running from Michele Lansing and the impossible dilemma of her existence. He thought of the last time he'd been on this road – back in August with her by his side – and how completely confused he'd been that day. And the night before.

It had taken weeks – weeks! – for him to get that night out of his mind. The utter madness of that night had pressed-in on him from all sides, until classes began and he was able to force all thought of her from his head.

He thought he'd picked up whispers of rumors about his involvement with Lansing on campus, but he soon put an end to that, and Sharon Hastings had been instrumental in the success of that little diversion. Soon after the leaves began turning he'd taken her on that drive up to Woodstock, and he'd fucked her so thoroughly he was sure any rumors would be squelched. Soon enough all the Lansing whispers melted away, and he was left in peace to conduct his classes. A tangled web indeed...

Then a call from D.C. had come; he was wanted at the White House. Not full time, but to give periodic assessments to NSC staffers advising the new president. He'd talked to Hastings, his class schedule rearranged, and soon every other Wednesday he was on Amtrak's Vermonter headed to D.C. Then the ASEAN conference invitation came along, and after that everywhere he went on campus, students and faculty alike looked at him with something akin to awe. All remaining talk about Lansing was forgotten by then. All that remained of her came in his dreams.

Because he rarely saw her on campus, as it turned out. They taught in different buildings, and he never went anywhere near the student clinic, so all was good in that regard. Even so, when he drove through town he caught sight of her every now and then, and he felt the distant rumble of thunder course through his veins when he did. Still, life had taken on predictable patterns, and the comfort derived from this predictability had no doubt saved him from a serious depression.

Sharon Hastings had helped, too. She wasn't quite the most gorgeous woman ever, but her eyes were something else entirely, and after he'd confirmed that Dennis was indeed involved with a male student he'd thrown caution to the wind. She simply waited until late at night and then slipped in the back door, and they took care of each other night after night. She asked for nothing more in return, and was indeed prepared to give nothing more than comfort, and Secord appreciated the arrangement for what it was: release from, and denial of all things Lansing.

Soon he was negotiating the morning traffic headed into Boston, then pulling into the long term parking garage at Logan. He checked his luggage through and got his boarding pass at the American counter, then made his way to the Admiral's Club. He was scheduled to meet Gary Patterson in the Club at eleven; Patterson was a former NSC staffer at the White House like himself, now teaching at the Kennedy School – and another Asia specialist. He checked in at the Club counter and went back to a reserved lounge and waited. There were already a couple of Naval officers in the room, War College types he saw, and he shook hands with them before grabbing juice and taking a seat.

He took out a folder and began reading through essays, checking off good points and specious arguments in purple ink, reading each essay at least twice, grading on the overall coherence of the arguments presented, and on the key supporting facts included. He found it engrossing work, and he was proud of the work he had read so far. These were good kids, he thought. Smart, interested, concerned about the direction the world seemed to be taking; many were probably bound for government service, and he took his role in this process seriously.

Patterson arrived and took a seat next to his, and Secord put away his papers and talked with his friend until their flight was called, then the group walked down to the JAL 777 together. They were all sitting in business class, and as soon as the plane was airborne most everyone settled in for the long, over-the-pole flight. Secord, however, pulled out his papers and resumed reading – purple pen in hand. When he looked up, hours later, it was dark out. He walked to the head, grabbed a glass of ice water from the flight attendant, and stretched his legs over and over again, hating these fourteen hour flights more than anything else on earth.

He returned to his seat and turned down the lighting, then lay back in his seat and there she was, waiting for him as soon as he closed his eyes. Her legs, those stockings and high heels, her hair tightly coiled, the unbridled lust that came for him whenever he let his guard down like this. He opened his eyes, flipped on the video and of course it had to be Lost in Translation. The dominatrix masseuse was walking in on Bill Murray, leg up on his lap now, telling him to 'lip my stockings!' again and again. Like most people, Secord liked the movie but had no idea what was going on most of the time, then it hit him. He opened his travel documents and found he was staying at the same hotel used in the movie, the Park Hyatt, and he laughed at that. He sipped his water while he watched the film, lost in the couple's unfulfilled parting in the final scenes once again, the deeper meaning of the film – if indeed there was any – still lost in translation.

The plane suddenly banked sharply and Secord came out of his reveries; he looked out the window and saw flames pouring out of the engine on the right wing.

"Now that's something you don't see everyday," one of the Navy officers in the row ahead said.

Secord watched silently as fire extinguishers discharged, and soon the 777 settled into a slower speed with a slightly more nose-up attitude while he listened to the running commentary from the aviators in the next row.

The captain came on a while later, explained that there had been an incident, but that the aircraft was fine now, though their arrival would be delayed.

"Now there's a master of understatement," Secord said. "Maybe we should ask him to join us at the conference?" This prompted nervous laughter from the people within earshot, but the rest of the flight was uneventful, even the landing seemed almost normal – if you could ignore all the fire fighting equipment lining the runway...

+++++

The Shinjuku Park Hyatt Hotel seemed a decent enough place to stay, Secord thought as he unpacked and stowed his clothing, but he was seriously jet-lagged now and could care less about the room. He hadn't slept one minute onboard, and the little 'incident' had bothered him more than he let on. A twin engined jet, hundreds of miles from land, losing an engine? He vowed to make sure he was on a four-engined jet next time he made this kind of trip, but now he just wanted to shower and go to bed. As soon as he lay down, however, she was there again, waiting for him.

He couldn't go on this way, he said to himself as he threw his clothes back on. He went up to the bar, but it was still early and the place was eerily quiet.

"You tired?" he heard a woman ask, and he turned to the voice. "Or maybe you like to party now?"

Secord looked at this 'woman', but once he looked at her hands and shoulders he was sure the girl was a tranny. "Maybe some other time," he said politely, but he felt completely shook up inside at the irony of this unwanted appearance. He asked the cocktail waitress for a Bloody Mary, then settled in and looked at a wall of clouds rolling in from the sea. He watched the hooker as she worked the room; her all black attire was certainly fetching enough, he thought, but she really wasn't all that convincing – and he was surprised the hotel was letting someone like her work the bar. Maybe someone was taking a cut...

One of the military types from his group was sitting across the room, and the hooker struck pay-dirt with this guy, an Air Force colonel. The colonel paid up and walked with the girl from the room, and Secord just shook his head, wondered how that would work out. His drink arrived about the same time Patterson did, and a pianist sat down at the huge Yamaha and began cranking out a passable Clair de Lune.

"Any booze in that drink," Patterson asked as he sat down.

"Too much," Secord replied.

"Sounds like my kind of place." Patterson signaled for the waitress and asked for another "just like his", then he picked up an appetizer menu and fiddled through it. "Jesus H Christ. Twenty five bucks for a beer. This is worse than Norway."

"Oh, that's right. You went to the NATO conference in Oslo last summer. How'd that go?"

They talked shop for a while, each tossed down three drinks in about a half hour, then Secord left – sleep finally calling out for him like the sirens.

When he got down to his floor there were dozens of police officers hovering in the hallway; there had been, he assumed, an altercation of some sort. He showed his room pass and was allowed to go to his room, and when he passed the room where the trouble had occurred he looked in, saw the hooker dead on the floor, and the Air Force colonel ranting on the telephone. Secord shook his head and went into his room, slipped off his shoes and fell onto the bed, then onward, into a deep sleep.

His phone woke him before dawn the next morning; he ate two aspirin as he crawled into the shower, and after dressing he went down to the restaurant for breakfast.

Patterson was already there, and he looked worse than Secord felt.

"I feel like a horse took a shit in my mouth," Patterson moaned.

"Smells like it, too. I told you the drinks were strong."

"Strong? There was sodium pentathol in that last one."

Secord groaned understanding. "I slept like the dead last night."

"You hear about Jennings yet?"

"Who?"

"The Air Force guy. Picked up a hooker at the bar. Turned out she was a he. He broke the fucker's neck."

"What?"

"Jennings killed the little cock-sucker!"

"What? Why?"

"Why? Fuckin' fag, I guess. That's why. The local gendarmes aren't pressing charges, either."

"You're kidding."

"I think trannies are considered a nuisance in Japan. Not like Bangkok, anyway. Also, I think the hotel wants everything kept quiet, too."

"I saw her. She tried to pick me up. Jesus, what a terrible..."

"What'd it look like?"

"It?"

"Yeah, fucking 'it'. If some tranny dude tried to pick me up, I'd fucking kill it, too."

"I see."

"So, was 'she' cute, Jordan?"

"Cute? No, not really. And she was obviously a trans. Hands way too big, I guess. But my guess is some guys wouldn't pick up on that."

"Well, they say a stiff prick has no conscience."

"Is that what they say, Gary?"

"Man, are you taking the hooker's side, Secord?"

"Side? Gee, I always thought murder is murder, Gary. And that was, at the very least, a human being, not an 'it'."

"You're beginning to sound like some kind of bleeding heart democrat, Secord. Maybe you've been in Vermont too long."

Secord laughed. "You might be right, Gary. So, what's on the agenda today..."

+++++

Secord thought about that exchange all through the conference, but never more so than when Jennings was around. He heard Jennings speak about it only once, but the man was full of righteous indignation and expressed total satisfaction at having killed the 'faggot'. Most of the attendees apparently felt the same way, too, and that bothered Secord even more, but he wasn't surprised. He wondered about the status of these people, wondered if their rights really were taken so lightly. Homophobes were legion, of course, but after that University of Georgia study was released he looked at frank homophobes differently now. The old Freudian saying that overt homophobes were more than likely latent homosexuals had been given new life after that revelation, but to Secord – murder was murder, as simple as that. If that hooker had tried to roll Jennings, well, that might change matters, but apparently all the kid did was pull down his shorts and bingo, light's out.

He watched Jennings as they boarded the return flight home, and there wasn't anything about the man that reflected regret or concern about having killed another human being. Secord's seat was ahead of the wing this time, and he settled in as the flight boarded, pulled out the last of the essays he needed to grade and got to work.

Jennings came and sat down in the seat next to his.

Secord looked at the man and shuddered inwardly, then got back to his papers.

"I liked your presentation, Secord," Jennings said. "You really think the Chinks are going to make a move on the Spratlys soon?"

Secord capped his pen, looked up at Jennings. "It's inevitable, Colonel. Look, like I said in my presentation, the United States had no direct interest in Vietnam, none at all, until Chevron and Standard Oil found – potentially – bigger oil reserves than in the entire Persian Gulf region – and right smack dab in the middle of the South China Sea. NSC-68 only changed our political calculus; we went to Vietnam to contain communism, not to preserve Exxon's access to that oil. But think about it; China isn't going to ignore all that oil, are they, and they're going to say that's because the region is really in their back yard. The problem is going to arise when the other claimants object to Chinese expansion into their perceived territories. These other claimants are all former SEATO member states, as you well know, and all were frustrated by that organization's systemic failures. But it's as a result of those failures, really, that we're going to get pulled into these confrontations – whether we like it or not. We need to prepare, now. No matter the cost. Because China will make a decisive move there within a few years."

Jennings nodded his head. "Have you briefed the Joint Chiefs on this?"

"Too many times to count, Colonel."

"Really? I'm surprised."

"You shouldn't be. Iraq was a gravy train. There was simply too much money available for the taking, and China doesn't yet appear to be a threat, and won't, until it's too late anyway."

"What do you think we need to do now?"

"A strategic shift to Asia. That's priority one. Two: get the Philippines to let us reopen Subic Bay. Get Japan off their fat, lazy asses. China will implode, eventually, just like Japan in the 30s. Access to resources will define how bad that implosion is, and how dangerous their reaction is globally."

"Could you come out to Colorado Springs sometime soon? We have a lecture series there I'd sure like to see address, so you can make this case."

Secord handed Jennings his card. "Just call me. Personal number on the bottom."

"Thanks. I guess you heard about all that bullshit at the hotel."

Secord's jaw clinched. "Sure did. Sounds like a bad time."

"I don't know what to think about the whole thing."

"You know what? She tried to pick me up too. Before she went to your table."

"No shit?"

"Had big hands, shoulders. I kind of figured she was a trans. You didn't pick up on that?"

Jennings looked away. There it was, he had...

"So," Secord paused as he looked at the colonel, "what went down up there?"

"Interesting choice of words. He did, as a matter of fact. Are you sure you want to talk about this?"

"Maybe you need to talk about this," Secord shot back, "before it eats you up."

Jennings nodded. "It has been."

"I know."

"Has it happened to you?"

Secord nodded.

"No shit?"

"No shit, colonel. It fucks with your head, too. You'll start to ask why you ignored all the signs, you'll question your manhood, you'll look at your reflection in the mirror and wonder if you're gay..."

"I already have," the man whispered, looking down at his hands crossed over his lap.

"Well, that's just one part of the story, colonel. The other part is much harder to wrap your head around. Most of these transexuals aren't men, not in the usual sense of the word, anyway. And I'm convinced they're not simply gay men out for a thrill. Most think of themselves as women, and I think the case can be made that, by and large, they are women, women who like men. At the same time, I'm not so naïve as to think that's the case one hundred percent of the time. There are bad actors out there. Gays fucking with straight men's heads, and straight men cross the line without understanding the emotional risks...but I'm not sure there are really many encounters like that. I see most of these people as women now, women trying to make their way through life under very difficult circumstances."