The Junior Senator

Unlike me, he didn't raise the front of his shirt to mop his brow or dry his face. He just let the sweat stay, until gravity grabbed it and pulled it through his brow or his temple. Unlike everyone else, he seemed not to notice that his sweat was running.

When I wasn't training, I was studying for the bar. Unlike everyone else, I was not neurotic about it. Wisconsin's pass rate was high, and I was smart.

When he wasn't training, he was working on the first part of his book. I didn't know if he was good, I just knew that he was prolific.

The Tuesday after Father's Day, JJ suggested that we eschew the ride and swim instead.

"It's gorgeous. We should lake swim."

"I don't have trunks."

"Swim in your shorts."

As soon as we lowered our bicycles to the ground, JJ pulled his shirt over his head. He didn't turn away. He gave me a show.

I liked the show. JJ's skin was bright white, but his chest was covered in brown hair, which narrowed to a trail that ran down his stomach, through his navel, and into his trunks. Think Richard Madden, haired but not hairy.

The hair was odd. It was not curly or loose; it was course, and it clung to his chest, almost as if it was matted or slicked down.

He was muscled. Nay, he was ripped.

I was looking at him hungrily. He noticed.

"Like what you see?" he asked, as he raised his right foot and removed his shoe.

"Very much," I admitted, as he raised his left foot and removed his shoe.

"Show me back," he said, standing up, his posture pristine and revelatory.

I crossed my arms in front of me, grabbed my shirt by the hem, and pulled it over my head, showing him that -- unlike him -- my chest and stomach were bald. I didn't even have a treasure trail.

He cat-called me, turned, and bee-lined for the water.

I tore out after him. I tackled him as the water knocked off his equilibrium. We played like children, dunking and splashing each other, until we were out of breath. It was the kind of play that, in YouTube videos, leads to that trenchant first encounter, when the protagonists finally cut through the building sexual tension with action.

We circled each other, treading, close but not too close. "I want you," I said, wordlessly and circling.

Whether with words or not, he said nothing back. He was intractable, circling.

I went under and swam toward him. I know he knew I was coming.

When I emerged, he had swum away. "Oh, so that's how we're going to play it," I thought to myself, "You cajoled me here.... And then you swim away.... Well, I'm happy to play this game."

I followed him to the depths. He thought he was a cat with a ball of yarn. He was wrong. He was a gazelle, and I was a crocodile.

We were far from shore. We were in over our heads. Literally.

I drifted toward him until we were so close that our feet and hands brushed as we treaded.

"What now?" he asked, when he had me where he thought he wanted me.

I didn't answer. Instead, I grabbed him and pulled him under. Before he knew he'd been hit, my mouth was on his, our lips touching for the first time in months.

Whether by default or design, he had me where I couldn't do much damage. When you're treading water, your hands are occupied; they can't be groping, teasing nipples or erections.

As best we could, we kissed and kissed and kissed. Our tongues lashed as our mouths filled with water.

"I missed your lips," I said, when we stopped to breathe.

He didn't say anything. He just stared at me, his eyes fixed and glazed.

"I wish you knew how much I want you," I pleaded.

"I have a pretty good idea," he said.

"Do you want me?"

"Of course I want you, H," he whispered, his words skimming the water.

"Then have me."

"I can't."

"Can't or won't?"

"Either or both, it doesn't matter. We wind up with the same product."

The sky darkened. We stayed in the water, treading, the water stilling and becoming glass, the glass covering our chins and, sometimes, our lips.

"You really can't or won't?" I asked, nonplussed by his self-control.

"I really can't and won't," he answered.

"Then why the kissing? Why not stay chaste?"

"You kissed me."

"Yes, but you brought me here, you asked me if I liked what I saw, and you said 'show me back'. You knew what you were doing."

"I couldn't help myself," he said. "I guess I don't have as much self-control as you think I have."

"I thought you had put this behind you."

"Me, too. Turns out, we both thought wrong."

We continued to circle each other, our eyes fixed on each other. I felt like a boxer in the ring, circling, waiting for the punches to fly.

"Of all the things, that was the thing?" he asked.

"What was the thing?"

"Your mouth," he answered, heartening back to the story. "On me. You could dream anything, and you dreamed that?"

"I love doing it. I mean, I seriously love doing it. The first time I did it, I was like 'yup, that's for me'. If I could only do one more thing -- sexually I mean -- I'd do that."

"What about, you know, penetration. Have you ever?"

"Have I ever? Yes, JJ, with both boys and girls. I like it with boys better. I catch and pitch. I tend to wind up with pitchers, so I catch way more often than I pitch. But, I can take the mound when I need to."

"It seems like it would be... I don't know... unpleasant... to catch, that is?"

"With the wrong person, it is. But, with the right person, it's fantastical."

He didn't say anything. I feared he was judging me. I felt the need to defend.

"It's fantastical because it's so intimate, being inside someone, having someone inside you.... "

He paddled to me, until our noses were virtually touching.

"I wish you knew how much I want you," he echoed back to me.

"I wish you'd show me."

He kissed me. This time, he was the aggressor, his tongue in my mouth.

"I was being so good," he said into my mouth. "Not kissing you.... And now I can't not kiss you.... Now that I've started kissing you again.... I can't not kiss you."

With my mouth, I pulled him as I paddled back toward the shore. I wanted to get where I could stand, where I could use my hands, where I could pull him into me, where I could press my body into his.

We were in chest high water and my hands were all over his slippery back and sides. Like they almost always did, his hands held my face and head.

"Nothing ventured nothing gained," I thought to myself as I lowered my hands to the firmness of his ass and pulled him into me, crotch to crotch.

"Grrr," I heard in his throat.

"Did you just growl?"

"I don't know."

I started moving my hips, grinding my pelvis against his, my erection -- which was up and to the right -- searching for his.

"I want you so much, JJ," I whispered.

"I can tell.... I can feel your.... you know."

"Can I touch you?"

"No.... I don't think.... No."

We kept kissing, and I kept grinding. I had never come from frottage, but I was going to if he allowed me to keep going. He riled me like no one else ever had.

He didn't allow me to keep going.

"H," he whispered into my mouth. "I think you should stop."

"I can't," I whispered back.

When he tried to pull away, I clamped him to me, our lips parting so I could hold him to me as tightly as possible. His arms were above mine, holding me as hard as I was holding him, his left ear pressed to mine, his right hand in my hair.

I kept moving. I was so turned on, I had to keep moving.

"Oh, H," he said, "you have to stop."

"Fuck," I thought to myself, not wanting to be that guy, the one who keeps going when he's been told no.

I pulled back and slid down and into the water. I didn't want him to see on my face just how crestfallen I was.

When I emerged, he was walking toward the shore, his back to me. I hurried to catch him.

"I'm sorry about that," I said. "I truly am."

"There's nothing to be sorry for," he answered. "I didn't want to stop, either. But, it was either stop or strip, because my shorts were getting very painful, and -- if I had stripped -- then, well, I don't know what I'd have done."

"I know what I'd have done."

We shifted foot to foot for awhile, letting our erections flag and our skin dry. Surreptitiously, I stole glances at him in his wet shorts, seeing for the first time the outline of him, straight down. I was impressed.

"I am not a weak person," he said. "In fact, I thought I had proved -- both to myself and to others -- that I was immune to temptation, especially sexual temptation, having never once given in to it, even when literally everyone else was giving in."

"You showed great strength there," I said, knowing that he had.

"Perhaps, but only after giving in. Like I said, I shouldn't have kissed you or kissed you back, whichever it was. I had finally gotten okay with not doing it, and now I have to start getting okay all over again."

"That, or you could just keep kissing me."

"I don't think I can keep kissing you. Because, next time, I may not show great strength. I mean, it took everything in me to choose stop over strip. And, even in the choosing, I hesitated. I could feel you against me. I wanted to see what I was feeling. I wanted to touch what I was feeling. I wanted you to see and touch what you were feeling."

"I wasn't feeling anything."

"Funny. A size joke. Hardy har har."

"I'm serious. I was searching for you. I wanted what you were feeling to find yours and connect with it, to meet so to speak. They never did."

"It was straight down. It always is."

"I saw that. I sneaked a peak, in your wet shorts. You fill them out quite nicely."

"I don't know. It's the only one I have and the only one I've ever seen."

"You've never watched porn?"

"No."

"You had to see the boys in the showers."

"I averted my eyes."

"I'll show you mine if you show me yours."

"I don't think that's a good idea, H."

But, as he said it, I pulled my shorts out directly in front of me, so he could see in from the top. As if drawn, he stepped forward and looked down. As he looked, I pressed my forehead to his.

"Wow," he said.

Without asking, I slid my forefinger into the band of his shorts and pulled them open.

I saw nothing, an unexpected layer of compression shorts blocking my view.

Using my middle finger, I pulled them out as best I could.

I couldn't see much, but I was thrilled by what I could.

As advertised, he was straight down, the base thick under an unkempt bush. I licked my lips at the sight, which reminded me of Bret from AustinZane.com (also known as Rhett from Straight College Men).

Neither of us moved, even to breathe. In fact, the only movement was the involuntary beating of our hearts and the equally involuntary plumping of my penis.

Finally, I spoke, my voice a hoarse whisper. "Wow, teacher man."

"You should close our shorts," he said, again showing strength I did not have and, even if I had it, would not have shown.

"Maybe," I said. "Or, maybe, we should drop our shorts, go back in the water, and get it out of our system. That way, it won't be a thing that can't happen, hanging over us like the Sword of Damocles. It'd just be a thing that happened, instead, something we had to try and then don't have to do again. It'll stop being big and weighty."

"Maybe," he said. "Or, maybe, it would be our undoing, as I don't think it would be something we 'don't do again'. I think it would be something we couldn't stop doing. It'd be something we did all the time, even when our senses told us it was too dangerous. It'd be like the kissing, something we couldn't stay away from, even though we knew we should."

Our foreheads were still together. Our shorts were still open. My penis was hard and leading.

"Buddy," I said. "His name is Buddy."

"You named it?"

"No. When my father gave me the talk, he referred to 'your little buddy'. You know, 'keep your little buddy in your pants' and 'don't let your little buddy lead you astray'. Ever since, I have called him Buddy, the name my father gave him."

"Mine doesn't have a name."

I thought for a moment. Jackson John Masters Junior was Triple J which was "Trip."

I shared the name and how I'd gotten to it. When he didn't respond, I observed "Trip's not as happy to meet Buddy as Buddy is to meet Trip."

"Stage fright," he answered.

"You have nothing to be afraid of."

"I disagree. I have everything to be afraid of."

I let the shorts close. My forehead still to his, I reached into my shorts and moved my erection so it was straight down.

I moved my mouth to his and gently kissed his lips as I used my hands on his hips to move our groins together. Surprising me, he used his hands on my ass to press into me. Our mouths were still together, but our lips were not pursed.

"JJ...." I whispered.

"No," he answered.

"I want to make you hard...."

"No," he cut me off, moving his hands from my ass and his lips from mine, the embrace continuing but the close contact between our groins lost.

"I wish I had never met you," he said into my right ear, wounding me as if a scythe had opened me from stem to stern. "Before you, all the pieces of my puzzle were in place. Everything fit perfectly. Now, it's all coming undone. I don't know anything anymore."

"I'm sorry," I said, lying. "For how it's affecting you, not for having met you. Meeting you has been one of the best things that has ever happened to me, if not the best. I love you, JJ. And, I'm in love with you."

"I love you, too, H. And, I think I'm probably in love with you, too, as I'm feeling for you something I have never felt for another. It's almost like a compulsion or an obsession. I don't know, maybe it's an addiction. Whatever, you're everywhere. If I could for a moment be honest with myself, I'd admit you're everything to me."

"I want to make love with you," I said, again pressing Buddy into Trip. "I want to know what it feels like to have you moving inside of me."

"I can't," he said, his forehead still to mine. "I just can't."

*****

That night, I tried to sort it all out, but I couldn't. When I was with him, I was not the me that I knew. I was a Libertine, but -- with him -- I wanted to be chaste, or at least limited to him. I was self-centered, but I fretted over him. I was self-interested, but -- with him -- I was selfless.

That night, I didn't sleep. Instead, I did something I never did: I empathized. I put myself in JJ's place, imagining what he must be feeling and thinking, how vulnerable he must be feeling.

Our long runs had been windows, one for him to see into me and one for me to see into him:

Romantically, he was a naïf. He had kissed only one girl, and -- until he met me -- he had kissed her only with his mouth closed.

He had bedded only one girl, and in only one position.

He had not bedded her on his wedding night (he'd gotten a bad hand job), the next day or night (another bad hand job), or the next day. She had been afraid, and it had taken her 48 hours to relent and open her legs to him.

She had not enjoyed the relent. He had hurt her when he entered, and he had gone at her too hard when he was close.

She had cried.

She had then withheld.

While she no longer withheld (they had become committed to the marital bed), she didn't enjoy doing what wives must do. He received it as often as he sought it, but he didn't often seek it, respectful of her boundaries.

They had not done much else sexually. He had tried to go down on her once, but she had stopped him with "that's gross."

He had never been blown, much less rimmed or licked and sucked in every cranny and nook so he learned what he liked and what he didn't, what he loved and what he didn't, and what he absolutely had to have.

He had never been desired or wanted, only accepted.

He had also never desired or wanted. He took; he didn't give.

Before me, he had never kissed a boy.

Before me, he had never noticed a boy.

Before me, his path had been set. He would father and husband and live a life like the life that Atticus Finch had lived, admired and respected, everything in its place, nothing out of order.

Only, I had moved things. I had disrupted the order.

When he was around me, he forgot all that he was intended to be. He kissed me until his mouth was raw. He stayed with me while his family waited. He stared into my shorts, when everything that he was insisted that he look away.

As I had before, I thought I knew what I needed to do. I just didn't know if I had the strength to do it.

*****

I was still rolling my path around in the back of my mouth when I noticed a small envelope that had been slipped under may apartment door. I don't know how or when; I had been up all night, only feet from the door.

I knew who it was from. When I opened it, I recognized his clipped, tight script:

I can't have conversations like we had yesterday. I'm afraid I won't be able to say what I want to say if I have to say it.

So....

I created an email account that cannot be traced. The address is Packers4ever@[deleted].

Do the same, using whatever you want @[deleted] as your address. Here's how. [deleted].

We'll converse in writing. I'm better in writing, as I think I've proved.

He undid my decision on what I needed to do. Instead of leaving him be, I did what he directed. As soon as I accessed the account, I found an email waiting, him to me:

I'm sorry, but I just can't stand before you and deny you anything. On Tuesday, when I looked into your eyes, I crumbled. If you had pressed the issue, well, I just don't know....

You didn't press. You could have, but you didn't. Thank you for that. When you relented, I knew the breadth and depth of your affection for me.

So, I want to start fast....

We know so much about each other, but not enough.

Tell me about you and I'll tell you about me. In case that sentence doesn't resonate, it's "show me yours and I'll show you mine," only on my turf, not yours.

Me to him:

I'm discreetly and secretly excited about this new form. I think it may free us both.

In the spirit of freedom, I'll fill in some of the cracks and crevices you don't know about me....

I was born a poor black child.... NOT.

I actually was born a privileged white child. I remain he. Except....

I stepped off the privileged white child carousel when I accepted that I like dick.

Correction: I love dick.

Blah blah blah, you knew that already.

You also know this:

I hated you before I met you.

I hated you when I met you.

I didn't want to know you. But, to know you is to not hate you.

To know you is to love you.

I'm not who I was before you.

Him to me:

I'm certainly not who I was before you.

Me to him:

Unfair! You can't just quote me back to me.

Him to me, changing the tone:

I am adrift. Before I met you, I had never...

Noticed another man. I really hadn't. There is no point in my life that I recall seeing another man and thinking "he's cute" or "he's handsome." No. Point. So, I have searched and searched for an answer as to what this is/why you. My searches have left me unsatisfied, as they all suggest my feelings for you are a reckoning for who I have been all along. I don't accept that. It's not the general men; it's the specific you.

Wanted another man. I really didn't. I don't really understand what sex between two men looks like, as I've never imagined it.

Since I met you, I have not...

Noticed another human. Yes, I've sublimated my desire for you into desire for my wife, but -- every time I have entered her since I met you -- I have been entering you. Every time I have kissed her, I have been kissing you.

Wanted another human. I want you. Only you.

Me to him:

Thank you for your honesty. Before I met you...

I had never been in love.

I had never given myself to another, not physically, but emotionally. I have given you more than I have given everyone else combined.