John Opens the Bottle

"Don't lie, John. I could see it on your face today. I watched lovers part. Tell me I'm wrong."

I paused. I looked Susan in the eye. I felt tears sting my eyes. I decided to stop lying. "You are not wrong."

"How long were you two lovers?"

"We were not lovers," I lied again.

"You're a liar. I know what I saw this morning."

I doubled down. "We were not lovers. We fooled around a little bit. Just the last month or two."

"Month or two?" She asked, drawing out the two so it was the longest word I had ever heard. "Did you fuck him? Did he fuck you?"

"Susan, do not do this. You do not need or want the details."

"That means yes. Please tell me you were safe."

I did not respond.

"John?"

I still did not respond. I could not.

"Oh my God, John. You fucked me this morning. With no condom. You could be sick from him and making me sick. Are you really that fucking selfish?"

Apparently, I was. I had not thought of her one time as I had made love to Randy, bare.

"Have there been others?" she asked. I did not answer, which was an answer.

"Men or women or both?" she asked.

"Just one . . . . A woman."

"Who?"

"Susan, it does not matter who it was. It just matters that it was."

"Who was it? I have a right to know."

"Fine. It was Katie. It only happened twice."

"Katie?! As in Chet's babysitter? She's a fucking child, John. You are unbelievable."

"It was just sex."

"Only a man would say that," she chided me. "As if it's supposed to make me feel better that you only fucked her, instead of making love to her. . . . And it was not 'just sex' with Randy, and you know it. You were in love with him long before you started fucking him. I tried to pretend I didn't see what I saw, but I saw it. . . . You really are a fucking narcissist."

My life washed away. Finally armed with a reason to do so, Susan asked me to leave. I did. She insisted on full custody of Chet and half of everything else in exchange for her silence. I gave in. I needed her silence. I could not have the world know why we were divorcing.

I saw Randy once after the divorce. He traveled to Denver to visit friends. I invited him to stay with me. He hemmed and hawed before giving in. The first night, we slept in separate beds. I laid awake way too long wondering if he would join me. He did not.

The second night, I invited him to share my bed. He responded that he did not think it would be fair to Matt. I was disappointed, but hid it in feigned indifference. We drank and talked. I wished out loud that he had been more open when he lived in Denver. He admitted that he wished the same.

When it was time, he resolved his reservations and followed me to my room. I undressed completely and climbed into bed. He tried to leave his underwear on, but I would not allow it. "Those, too," I chided.

Once we were under the covers, we abandoned all pretense of reluctance.

I sucked him as hard as I could. I swallowed everything that flowed from him.

As soon as he bounced back, he fucked me for the first time ever. I was on my stomach, and he hovered over me, pounding in and out of me. I felt him swell and then fill me. I was soaked with sweat.

We went at each other again the next morning before his flight out. We kissed. We sucked each other in a 69. I took Randy on his back. I cried out when I came.

He took me standing against the wall. I came when he did, splattering the burnt orange paint with ropes of cum.

When he left, I was excited about our future. I was certain I could have with him what I had wanted with Mace, a straight life to the public eye with a man on the side.

I never saw Randy again. I fretted when he did not answer my calls or my texts, fearing Matt had discovered what we had done. I should have been afraid, but not of that. After a few days, a strange voice answered Randy's phone. It was his sister. She matter of factly informed me that Randy was dead, having been killed by a drunk driver in a mid-day traffic accident. He was Matt's passenger and took the brunt of the impact. Matt was wounded, but not mortally.

I took Chet to his friend's funeral. I gave the undertaker an envelope to slip in Randy's urn. The note inside contained the four words I should have told him when he left Denver for Sante Fe. Or that I should have used to stop him from leaving at all.

"I love you, too."

Part Ten

My second marriage was brief. I met Alexis at a fundraiser for a senate candidate in 2006. She was dark and sultry and mysterious. Her husband had been wealthy beyond words and a Republican bundler. When he died, she inherited his wealth and his political obligations.

I was the last person left at her house. I was the treasurer for the candidate's campaign, so I stayed behind to collect the checks and the pledges. Alexis came downstairs in a silk robe and suggested we end the night with a scotch on the veranda. We ended it in her bed instead. She rode me ruthlessly, with a passion and a vigor that belied her 51 years.

I got caught up in the whirlwind of money and sex. Both seemed endlessly available. We flew to exotic places on her private plane. We had sex as we flew.

I asked her to marry me after only eight weeks. She said yes, and we flew the next weekend to Bora Bora and married each other on a beach.

I quickly regretted my impetuousness. Alexis was used to getting her way. She bossed me like a child. She did not want to hear about, much less see, my child.

She tried to force me to quit working, so I would be available to her whenever she wanted. When I refused, she contacted one of the named partners of my firm and urged him to furlough me.

I insisted she back off. When she refused, I moved out. She reacted by divorcing me.

Our marriage was over, only 8 weeks after it started, and only 16 weeks after I had met her for the first time. The ending was merciful to us both.

*****

Two years later, Mace emailed he would be in Denver for work. We met at the Brown Palace, where he was staying.

He almost immediately asked about the absence of my wedding ring. I said only "That is over." I did not tell him how long it had been over, or that I had been married again since.

"What happened?"

"It does not matter," I said, dismissively and with a tone that suggested he should not raise the issue again.

He was returning to Denver two weeks later for three days of meetings. We made plans to meet for dinner on his last night in town. We laughed and reminisced as we planned.

Mace was aging well. "You look like Keith Urban in your old age," I said.

"Thank you. That's high praise. He's gorgeous."

"You are, too."

"You look like the guy from Office Space, only with blue eyes."

"Ron Livingston. I have gotten that before. He is not gorgeous."

"He is to me. You are, too. Still."

I covered his hand with mine. I noticed that he did not pull it away.

When dinner was over, I offered to drive him back to his hotel. On the way, I asked if he wanted to see my new home, a bungalow on Washington Park. If he said yes, I would force him to stay the night.

He said yes. We drank and talked. When it was time for Mace to leave, I refused to drive him. I told him I was too drunk to drive and that he could call a cab or stay the night. I was scheming, and I think he knew it.

Mace insisted on the second bedroom. I tossed and turned briefly and then decided to quit playing games. Naked, I walked to his bedroom, knocked, and invited myself in.

I was direct. I sat facing him on the bed, my hard on obvious. "Let us not pretend this is going to happen," I said, lowering my mouth to his.

"I have missed you," I whispered in his mouth. "I was sitting across that table from you and watching your eyes dance and all I could think about was kissing your lips."

We traveled back in time. We kissed and kissed and kissed until he raised up and pulled his boxers off.

"I want to make love to you," I whispered. Mace did not respond verbally. He pulled me down on top of him and raised his legs. I reached into the nightstand, pulled out a condom and lube, and was quickly inside of him. Mace stared into my eyes as I delivered myself to him, over and over. Fifteen years washed away.

"You feel so good," I said.

"So do you."

"I have missed this."

"Me, too."

I kept going. I had been having an enormous amount of sex in my single life, and my control had gotten unreal. I could be relentless, if I wanted to be.

I did not want to be. I wanted to come inside Mace, like I had so many times so many years ago. I arched my back and started slamming into him. I grunted and came, again and again, filling the condom. I collapsed, covering Mace with my sweaty body.

"That was a monstrous orgasm," I said.

"I know. I could tell."

"Did you come?"

"No."

"I want you to come in my mouth," I said, tracing a path to his dick with my tongue and betraying my dislike of cum. I worked him with my hand and my mouth.

He came hard, over and over. I swallowed as I kept at him, draining and swallowing all but the last drop. I gave that back to him, off my tongue after I had returned to his mouth and started kissing him again. We fell asleep.

The next morning, I asked if I could ride him. He answered "of course."

I went back down on him to get him ready. I was coating him with my saliva.

"Don't we need a condom?" he asked.

"No. I trust you."

"We need a condom," he answered. He clearly did not trust me.

I reached into the nightstand and pulled out a magnum. I rolled it on him, straddled him, and then slid slowly down as far as I could. Riding Mace was like riding a bicycle.

I rode Mace as hard as I could. He rolled me off and onto my back without pulling out. He stood next to the bed, held my legs flat against my chest, and fucked me as hard and as fast as I had ever been fucked.

"Do not come inside me," I said. "I want you to come in my mouth again." Mace knew I did not like cum. I was trying to express how much I wanted him by taking what I did not like from him.

Mace pulled out and pulled the condom off. I scrambled to the head of the bed. Mace straddled me and fucked my face. He came so hard and so much that I gagged, cum running down my chin.

Mace licked my chin, kissed me, and took me in his hand. As he sucked my tongue, I came.

Mace moved his flight back and we spent the day in bed. It was just like old times.

I drove Mace to the airport. I wondered if he would come back.

Before he exited the car, I asked "Do you ever wonder how our lives would have turned out if we had just kept going?"

"No," he said, matter of factly. "I'm living that life, just not with you."

"Touche, Carrot," I said, as my heart shattered and scattered. "Touche."

Part Eleven

I tried marriage one more time, just for appearances sake. I went in the opposite direction of Alexis. Michelle was 15 years younger than I and came from a very meager background. In many ways, she reminded me of Mace. She was smart and self-made, humble and reticent.

She was very traditional. She was not a virgin, but she pushed sex with me off until we were married. We had sex for the first time on our wedding night. She was not good at it, and she did not like it.

I did not care. This marriage was for convenience and window dressing. I needed a mother to Chet, who had come to live with me full-time when his mother quit Denver and moved to her family's house in Southhampton. It was 2011. He was 15.

Michelle needed a stable base. She was smart but frightened. She feared she could not make it on her own. I was 44 and successful. I was a safety net.

Michelle and Chet got along better than she and I did. They adored each other. I was the odd man out in my own house.

One year into our marriage, Michelle and I were in different rooms on different floors. When I was interested, she gave in to me, within certain boundaries. I could not go down on her, and she would not go down on me. I could finger her clitoris, but I could not slide a finger inside of her. I could fuck her, but only if I had gotten myself close so the actual penetration was brief. I had to wear a condom.

I rarely was interested in sex with her. It was not fun. And, I had been having a clandestine affair with Lin, a young associate in our office, for the past year. Lin's family had emigrated from China before his birth. He had gone to Stanford for both college and law school, had clerked on the Ninth Circuit, and was now a second year associate in our firm. He was almost certainly gay, but he was deeply in the closet. Gay was not an acceptable life in China or in the minds of his parents. He had never disappointed them. He was not going to start now.

Other than Lute, I was not typically attracted to dark hair and dark eyes. I preferred fairness, like Mace and Randy.

But, I thought about Lin the entire day I met him. There was a joyousness in his face that few had.

Two days later, I found myself visiting his office. I had concocted a project just to have something to talk about.

Lin was wicked smart, and I got him involved in every piece of litigation I was leading. I did not need to. I wanted to. I wanted to have a reason to see him.

We traveled to New Orleans together to depose an expert in a patent infringement case. Lin's preparatory work was outstanding. I annihilated the expert on cross-examination. The Court would never certify him. Lin and I celebrated our good day at Mother's and then on Bourbon Street.

Lin suggested a final drink in the bar. I agreed. One drink turned to two and we ended up having three final drinks.

In the elevator to our floor, Lin shuffled awkwardly and then leaned against the wall. He looked me straight in the eyes and smiled. I recognized the look as one of the seven deadly sins - lust.

Our rooms were three doors apart. We looked at each other, fumbled with our keys, unlocked our doors, and entered our rooms. While Lin was looking at me, I had wanted to ask him in for a fourth final drink. At the last minute, I decided I could not. My reputation was intact, at least at work.

I had stripped and climbed into bed when I thought I heard a light knock on my door. I got up, pulled on my boxers, and went to the door. I could see Lin through the peephole. He was wearing the hotel's robe.

I opened the door a crack. "What do you need, Lin?"

"I don't need anything. I just thought maybe you wanted some company. Or another drink."

"I do not want another drink," I answered. I intentionally did not mention company.

Lin stepped into my room. "Me, either," he whispered.

"Then what do you want?" I asked.

"This," he said, grabbing me through my boxers.

I pinned Lin to the mirror. "This has to stay between you and me," I whispered as I untied the robe.

"You have my word."

I kissed him. He was small, maybe 5'6" and 140 pounds. He was built like a gymnast.

I picked him up and tried to drop him on the bed. He hung around my neck like a spider monkey and pulled me down on top of him. As we continued to kiss, he used his feet to pull my boxers down. He quickly had his hands on me. He slithered down me, sucking my nipples and kissing my stomach before taking me in his mouth. He was talented. He took me down his throat to the base and milked me with his tongue and his throat muscles. I rolled left so he could take control. He did. He sucked me with abandon. I came hard, filling his mouth. He kept at me, sucking and swallowing until I was too sensitive to take any more.

I pulled him to my face and kissed him. "Take your underwear off."

He did. His dick was average, which was more than I had expected. Rumors about Asian men preceded him to my bed.

I pinned him to the bed. His body was taut, but his skin was remarkably soft. I kissed my way to his groin and was about to take him in my mouth when he announced "I don't like that . . . Fuck me instead."

I grabbed a condom from my things, rolled it on, and moved back up his body. I sucked his neck as he strained for my dick. I slipped into him. He loved getting fucked. His body arced and strained. He urged me on, begging me for more and to speed up.

I got lost in his words. I came as he begged me to fuck him faster, harder, longer. He came when I had, without touching himself. He smeared his cum all over his chest and stomach, pulled the comforter up over us, and turned his back to me. I slid in behind him.

The next morning, I asked how he could be gay and not like blow jobs. "I don't know," he responded. "I just don't. At all. I'd rather get fucked any day. And, I come every time."

We didn't talk at work. I visited his apartment regularly. I liked standing while he blew me. I liked watching his dark, full lips slide up and down the shaft of my dick. He liked watching me watch him.

He could spread his legs flat on a bed, perpendicular to his body. When he did, he was wide open. He loved being fucked, and I loved fucking him. He had muscles in his ass that I never knew existed. He used them to urge me on and to stop me.

He never fucked me. The only time I sucked him was when he would hang his head over the edge of the bed, and I would slide completely down his throat. His dick would be in my face as I fucked his face, and every once in awhile the urge to blow him overcame me. I would suck him until I came. He never came from me sucking him.

Like with Lute, we were not lovers. We were animals, meeting for carnal acts of lust and then separating. The only night we spent together was that first night.

*****

Chet pleased me by deciding to follow me to Yale. The week before his high school graduation, he came out to me. I had been suspicious. He was 6'4", well-built, and handsome, but he had never even mentioned a girl.

When he came out to me, I urged him not to make the choice he was making. He insisted it was not a choice. I insisted it was. I thought of myself as I did. In my mind, I had chosen not to be gay.

I sent him to a therapist, hoping she could convince him he was not what he thought he was. She was a waste of time and money. She agreed it was not a choice and urged him to confront me each and every time I suggested otherwise.

I could feel Chet drifting away from me. I blamed his therapist, not my atavism.

I decided to go see her. She assured me she could not talk to me about what she talked about with Chet. I assured her I did not want to talk about that, but instead wanted to have a philosophical discussion with her.

I started seeing her weekly. I told her about Cole and Lute and Mace and Susan and Randy and Alexis and Michelle and Lin. I explained to her the rational choices I believed I had made along the path of my life. I extolled the strength I had shown by rejecting a life with Mace and a life with Randy. I assured her Chet could make the same choices if he cultivated the same strength I had.

She insisted what I extolled as strength was actually weakness. "It would have taken strength," she said, "to buck expectations and norms and choose Mace, whom you have described as the love of your life. You were too weak. You deprived yourself of the love of your life out of weakness, not out of strength."

"I am not gay," I insisted.

"Maybe not," she said. "But, you are also not straight. You can lie to yourself, but your life is not the life of a straight man. At a minimum, you are bisexual. I'd characterize you as gay. You have had three great loves. Two were men. One was a woman. You lost the love of that woman over the love you had for a man. You're a smart man, John. What does that tell you?"

I continued to counter her. I refused to accept her analysis or her diagnosis. But, I kept going back.

The longer I saw her, the more I feared that Chet had somehow, someway picked up something from me and so believed being gay was an acceptable choice for him to make. It was 2014, and the world was vastly different than it had been 20 years before when choosing Mace would have been so consequential.