This Sort Of Thing, Part 2

[verushka70]

One would think that by sharing my feelings -- although that was unintentional, and they only erupted out of me at his suggestion that we take the class -- one would think that sharing my feelings would have eased my burden somewhat.

But no. Instead, I've managed only to spread my doubts and fears to Ray, and soured things between us.

How I wish that I could undo the last month or so.

No, that's not entirely true. I wish that I could... could either remove the side of me that enjoys Ray's submission to me, or remove the weight of doubt, fear and guilt I carry because I know that there is such a side of myself.

I honestly don't know which I'd prefer to get rid of most: the weight of my emotions about that side of me, or that side of me itself. But if I can not do the former, then I must do the latter. I can't allow my internal problems to negatively affect Ray. It isn't fair, it isn't his fault... and he is essentially innocent in this.

It's true, I would never have had the nerve to go down this path without his... desire that we explore it. But he would not have encouraged me or been so enthusiastic, if he felt as bad about it as I do. Or if he'd known that that was how I felt, when I was away from him and... it.

His enjoyment of it was just that -- enjoyment, it seemed. He enjoyed it as he enjoys any other sensual pleasure. He only pursued it, I'm sure, because he thought I enjoyed it as much and as guiltlessly as he did. And he only thought so because I did not tell him otherwise.

And now I've made him feel he's depraved... and that he is to blame for my... perversion.

Oh, God. Ray. It isn't your fault. Why did I initially say that I'd never thought about it before you? I had. It's true, I didn't think of myself as a participant... but saying I'd never thought about any of it before you was a lie. A lie I wanted to believe was true, but I know isn't. And now it will be the most memorable thing I've said to you all evening, even though I later admitted that it was a lie, and told you the truth.

What can I do now? How can I make things better, set things right between us again? Can things be set right between us again, or have I permanently damaged our relationship?

Oh, God.

The doorbell rings and suddenly I am loathe to see who is at the door. Leave us alone, I want to say. Then I remember it must be the pizza delivery man. I rise and go to the intercom. It is the delivery man. I buzz him up. I have just enough money for the pizza and a tip.

Ray is still in the shower. I can still hear the water running.

I put the pizza on the kitchen counter, unsure whether to bother him or to leave him alone. Perhaps he wants me to leave. Perhaps he's hoping that I will be gone when he gets out of the shower. I hope not, but... I had best get my Serge jacket off that chair. Either so I can put it back on and go to the Consulate. Or so I can hang it up.

The shower has stopped. I hear him move the curtain aside. Presumably he's stepped out and is towelling off.

I have a strong urge to hurry him out of the bathroom and ask him if he hates me now. An urge which I resist by inspecting my Serge jacket for any lint, spots, or other irregularities. It seems fine, but I go over it twice to be sure.

While I am doing so the second time, Ray comes out of the bathroom, clad only in a towel. He walks down the hall to his bedroom and goes inside and shuts the door.

Oh, God. Just by the way he is walking... it's obvious he feels terrible. Ray, I didn't mean it! My first reaction wasn't true! I didn't mean to make it seem like it's all been your doing -- it hasn't. What have I done?

I must do something. Must ...somehow let him know that I was overreacting, that I don't consider him at fault for my love of ...having sexual power over him. But what?

Perhaps if I just tell him that the pizza has arrived...

I hurry to the closet not far from the front door, and retrieve a hanger on which to hang my Serge. I hang it from the top of the closet door and then go to Ray's bedroom door.

"Ray?"

There's a short silence. Then,

"What?"

I swallow. "There's... the pizza is here."

"Oh."

"I just wanted to, um, to let you know," I tell him, sounding and feeling foolish.

"Okay. Thanks, Frase. Be there in a minute." He speaks with a sigh and resignation in his voice.

I hesitate by his door, and then say, "All right." And I walk back to the kitchen.

It's the same kitchen, but something seems so foreign about it. And yet suddenly I am overcome with a terrible feeling of deja vu.

And then I realize why. I remember why. I remember what I said to Victoria. You must really hate me for what I did.

It wasn't until she had me there, at the peep show, that I admitted it to myself and to her. I had so wanted to believe that what I had done could be forgiven. I had so wanted to believe, up until I found my gun and six bullets missing, that she was back in my life for loving reasons only.

And now I've done the same thing. Not in action, but in essence. In my mind, there were objectively right and wrong sides to sex, even sex already considered by some to be deviant because it involves two men instead of a man and a woman. In my mind, there was some arbitrary line that we crossed. And from that point on we were on the "wrong" side of sex.

But this isn't like the situation with Victoria, I try to tell myself. I don't have to turn Ray or myself in for our private acts. They aren't against the law. Well, some of them well might be; but the criminal code for them is probably never enforced. And, anyway, those are probably the homosexual acts, not the... ones requiring restraints.

But... what if Ray hates me now, too? For what I did, what I accused him of -- for initially blaming him for something that is inside me? I couldn't stand it if he hates me. But would he have let me stay if he hated me?

But then, as with Victoria -- hate and love can co-exist in a person.

Oh, God.

Ray comes out of his room and into the kitchen area wearing a clean light blue T-shirt and faded jeans. His hair is half spiked. For some reason, his being barefoot makes him seem so vulnerable to me.

He does not look at me, but goes to the pizza sitting on top of the counter. He opens it, looks at the pizza... and closes it.

No, no....

"Ray," I ask him quietly. "Aren't you ...hungry?"

"Not... not really, Frase."

"I think you should have something to eat, Ray--"

"Fine, Frase, whatever. I'll have a piece of pizza then." He opens the box again and removes a slice. Without sitting down, or getting a paper towel for a napkin, or a plate -- he bites into the slice.

"Don't you... don't you want to sit down to eat that?" I ask him.

"Don't you wanna eat?" he asks me, in lieu of an answer. He swallows his mouthful, and bites off another.

"Of course..."

"So why aren't you eating?" he asks, shrugging, with his mouth full. He still hasn't looked directly at me, made eye contact.

"I guess because..." I hesitate, but then plunge on. "I guess because I had some things I wanted to say--"

He holds up his hand.

"I don't wanna hear it, Frase. I don't need to hear any more. I'll remember the things you said for the rest of my natural-born life."

He finishes his slice of pizza with a few more quick bites. Then he grabs a paper towel, wipes his hands carefully with it, and throws it away. And he walks into the living room and turns on the television.

Less than six minutes after he came out of his room, he's gone away inside himself and shut me out.

Oh, God. What can I do?

I feel utterly miserable and everything about the way Ray is acting and interacting with me -- or not interacting -- tells me he wants me to leave him alone. I wonder if he wanted me to leave, and he just didn't say so. Did he let me decide whether or not to stay?

I bring the pizza box to the kitchen table, and then get a plate and a paper towel for myself. I'm not hungry but I ought to eat something. I serve myself one slice of pizza and barely taste it as it goes down. There's nothing wrong with it; it's from the same Italian restaurant we always order from. It's just that... nothing would taste very good right now.

After finishing the slice, I consider how likely Ray is to eat more of it -- or how likely I am. Probably not very, in either case. I put the pizza into Ray's refrigerator.

I want to go into the living room, where I can hear Ray watching television, but... I feel very strongly that he does not want me there. And who could blame him? I've made him feel that my guilt, my fear, my shame is all his fault. I've transmitted it to him.

If he told me he hates me now, I couldn't blame him.

But -- There must be something I can do to get him to listen. To listen to me explain that it isn't him, it never was him -- it's me, it's inside me, and that none of my guilt and fear and shame is his fault nor should it be on his shoulders. Oh, why did I ever say those things?

I take a deep breath and resolve to go into the living room and speak with him.

I walk into the living room, and he is sitting on his sofa, slouched, his arms crossed over his chest. His feet are up on the coffee table, and he stares at the television. The TV is tuned to a station airing a sitcom. Despite the laugh track, Ray has no reaction to the events on the screen.

His gaze, such as it is, is so clearly turned inward; it is obvious he doesn't really see or hear what is on the television.

My heart goes out to him and simultaneously the self-loathing rises in me. This is all my fault. For a variety of reasons, I've never been particularly good at incorporating a love life into my "real" life. Ray is as close as I've come to accomplishing that; and the time we have had together has been one of the sweetest, most fulfilling times in my life. Now I may have ruined that beyond repair.

I walk quietly to the couch. Ray does not react.

I sit down on the couch.

He turns his head, but his gaze slides sideways to touch me briefly -- merely acknowledging my presence -- and then slides back to the television, with an unfocused look to his eyes.

"Ray," I begin, my voice cracking with nervousness. "I would like to--"

"I wouldn't," he says sullenly. But his eyes now focus on the screen he is ignoring.

"You haven't even allowed me to finish what I was going to say," I remark, trying to be patient and feeling like a heel.

"I don't need to hear what else you've got to say, Frase. You've said enough."

"Ray, I... I was wrong. It's ...it isn't your fault that I am the way I am or that I feel the way I feel. I just couldn't--"

"Fraser, I don't need any of your explanations or excuses or watering down what you said before. You made it real clear what you were thinking. I don't understand why you kept doing what you were doing, when it made you feel so... sickened. But, then, I guess I do. Because I know what it's like to keep beating your head against a wall. To keep trying to please the person you love. Trying to do whatever it is that they seem to need or want, whether you like it yourself or not. I know that feeling real well."

It feels like my chest clenches. The raw pain in his voice is so obvious. How could I have done this? I wish that I could throw myself on the floor at his feet and beg his forgiveness. But I think if I did that now, he'd be even angrier, would see it as some kind of manipulation or mocking... and it would only make things worse.

"Ray," I begin again, "I continued to do what I was doing because I... enjoyed it. Yes, when I was away from you... my negative feelings would swell. And those receded when I was with you."

Before I can proceed, he's uncrossed his arms from his chest and placed his hands over his ears. Childish, to be sure. Immature.

But he's already heard too much from me tonight... And I can understand the impulse: he has no desire to hear any more. No desire to feel any worse than he already does.

So be it. I rise from the couch and go back into the kitchen nook, observing him from a safe distance over the breakfast bar.

Eventually his hands slide down from the sides of his head and he puts his face in his hands.

Oh, Ray. I simply must get this across to you--

An idea dawns on me. The difficulty of discussing things of an intimate nature -- we had this problem before. And we dealt with it before. I'm not foolish enough to believe that it will work as well as it did before, but -- certainly the possibility of improving things between us tonight makes it worth the effort to try. Even if the improvement is one of only slight degrees.

I surreptitiously pick up his cordless phone. Holding it against my body, I leave the kitchen and breakfast nook with it and go to his bathroom. I shut the door behind me, put the toilet seat cover down, and sit on it.

His cell phone was on the end table next to the sofa, with his gun, holster, handcuffs, and keys. I know the number by heart... and I dial it.

I hear the electronic trill of his cell phone ringing through the bathroom door, over the inane laughter from the TV, at the same time as I hear the different ringing sound through the earpiece of his cordless phone. He doesn't answer it after the first ring or the second. Just when I am giving up hope that he will answer it at all, he answers on the third ring.

"Ray here."

"Ray, it's me," I say quickly. "Please don't hang up."

He doesn't hang up but he doesn't speak either. I hear him breathe.

"If you will just listen, I would please like to explain to you what... what happened tonight, when you asked me about that, that seminar... why I ...reacted so badly."

He says nothing for a moment; there is no sound but his shallow breathing. Then,

"I'm listening," he says, in a flat, nasal tone.

"Thank you, Ray," I tell him. Benton Fraser, you had best choose your words very carefully and you had best consider that your problems with this ...issue are yours and yours alone, and should have stayed that way, I tell myself.

"I, I-- Ray, for most of my life, I've been unacquainted with the... the sensual pleasures, except for perhaps the most... basic ones. Good food. Warm clothing. Animal fur. All kinds of snow and ice... chinooks... And, after puberty --" I clear my throat, embarrassed... "-- masturbation. I -- I am not very experienced at dealing with sensual pleasures, much less with sexual pleasures." I swallow, trying to push down the lump that rises in my throat at the thought of Victoria and the bad similarity between my handling of that and my handling of this.

"You have, at various times through out our partnership and friendship, mentioned my apparent lack of lust, lack of thought about sex or sexual things, my 'monk like' life. And in that respect, you have touched on a sensitive issue.

"Warm demonstrations of love and affection, as you must be aware by now, do not come as easily to me as they do to you, and when I am physically affectionate, it is always in private. I... have my reasons, and probably they go back to childhood. After my mother died, and my father's depression, I was sent to be raised by my grandparents.

"They loved me very much, but they weren't the most demonstrative people in the world. I did not become comfortable with... with physical affection. The few flirtations I had with girls in my youth never amounted to anything, because I had no idea how to... how to go about pursuing them.

"My... grandmother taught me chivalry, and that stood me in good stead. Sort of. Parents sought me as a 'nice young man' to take their daughters out. Everyone knew their daughters or sisters would be... completely safe and unmolested with me. But-- but--"

This is so hard. I have avoided thinking about any of this for ...a very long time. But it is, I am sure, part and parcel of what is wrong with me now. And even though I probably shouldn't be telling him some of it, for ...honourable reasons... it is connected to how I am. The only way he'll have a clear picture of how I came to be the way I am, is if I do tell him.

"At any rate, my polite and proper behaviour did not win me any girlfriends, probably because my natural curiosity and desire had been rather... successfully arrested by severe adolescent shyness and insecure dread, and the way my grandmother raised me to behave."

I pause, wondering if he is still listening. Just when I am about to ask him if he is still on the line and still listening, he speaks.

"Yeah...?" he says, though there is an undertone of curiosity within the sullen timbre of his voice.

"Ray... you'll never tell anyone what I am telling you now, will you?" I must ask him.

"No," he says, sounding surprised. "No, why would I?"

"I just wanted to be certain. I'm sorry." I can not help sighing. Trust... I've come to realize, is not one of my strong points. It should be, with Ray of all people... but it is not. Yet another failing on my part. I take a deep breath and continue.

"Anyway. I grew to manhood with barely any understanding or experience with flirtation or physical affection. What little experience I had was with a girl named... well, never mind. Anyway, she was, I think, emboldened by my passivity and politeness to try various things with me.

"But her 'aggression' could hardly be called such. She... she was inspired to try quite innocent things with me. Holding my hand. Hugging. Close-mouthed kissing. And I never did them unless she... initiated them. When the day came that I ...first caressed her breasts through her shirt, she drew my hands up to them herself." Oh, this is not helping anything. This is... rambling reminiscence on my part. I must get to the point.

"You may have," I continue, my voice wavering slightly in trepidation, "you must have heard of Victoria Metcalf."

I hear him inhale. "Yeah, I heard of her," comes his voice, wary.

"Right. Well, the circumstances under which she and I ...met... could hardly be called ideal. In fact they were ...rather desperate. I've had time to look back on it and... I think that the desperation of our life-threatening circumstances, and an enforced intimacy, necessary in order to survive, both had an effect of... breaking through my proper and polite training and my natural reticence and shyness. And, too, our isolation also influenced my behaviour, I think.

"At any rate, Victoria was experienced. I was not. In one night of desperate relief that we were still alive, and intense gratitude to each other -- for neither of us could have survived the blizzard without the other -- she introduced me to a ...veritable banquet of sensual activities. But once I had those experiences with her I-- I-- could not get enough. I don't mean to imply that I became a... beast, but... I did avail myself of her... affections as often as I could over the next few nights.

"I think her life experience thus far had been largely with aggressive and demanding, sometimes abusive men. So my innocent eagerness and polite self-control were foreign to her, and -- well, I suppose she might have been lying. But... she said that I was the tenderest man she'd ever known."

"Yeah, Fraser, that's nice," Ray suddenly interjects. "I remember Stella tellin' me similar bullshit. So what's your point?"

He is, I think, only trying to be vengefully mean to me. And who could blame him. I swallow without getting upset and continue.

"My point is only that... that the shyness that you noticed in me, the fact that I ...rarely initiated things, rarely became 'wild' as you described it -- it is deeply ingrained in me. I ...if I have unlearned it at all, it's been because of you. Victoria was -- we hardly had any time together before she was incarcerated.

"At any rate -- my time with Victoria was very short. She... she made one more short appearance in my life, when she was released two years early for good behaviour. You have no doubt read about it in ...the case file. Her second and last appearance in my life, I was more sexually aggressive than I had ever been, which isn't to say I was terribly aggressive -- but, but I did initiate things. If only because it had been... eight years since I'd been with her.

"I had missed her terribly and felt terribly guilty for being instrumental in her prison sentence. But that ache was so old and buried, I guess it was dulled by time and distance... until she was with me again. I had forgotten how beautiful she was. Everything I had previously felt about her... arose in me. And I completely misread her ...motivations."

"Wait a minute... are you saying you didn't sleep with anyone between when you first slept with her, and when she got out of prison and found you here in Chicago?" Ray interrupts and asks me. The sullen tone is gone from his voice, at least, so I am grateful for that.

"Yes," I admit to him.

"Did you... did you sleep with anyone after her?" he asks, more quietly.

"No," I answer.

"Oh," he says. Before I can interpret that one syllable, he adds more. "Fraser, you shoulda... I didn't know you'd only slept with one other person," he says in a much gentler tone. It is so... soothing. "Why... why didn't you tell me?"

"Ray, perhaps it's become apparent to you, that I -- I don't --"

"Kiss and tell," he finishes for me.

"Yes," I admit. "It's part of... part of the proper behaviour my grandmother taught me."

"But... okay. Go on." He sounds genuinely curious now, if cautious.

"Anyway, Ray, that is my entire sexual history... up until you. I... I had crushes, I know that, on other... males, when I was in high school, and in the RCMP academy... but of course, being the way that I am, and well aware that an unwelcome advance could ruin my career or possibly lose me my life, nothing ever came of them.

"Anyway. So... then I ended up here. And Ray, the other Ray, he-- he ended up--"

"--As me," Ray interjects.

"--Yes, and I felt drawn to you. But I knew I could never do anything about it, I knew you were unlikely to do much beyond punch me in the head if I were to make any advances, which I certainly would not have done anyway."

"I wouldn't have punched you in the head." He sighs.

"Yes, but I didn't know that, at the time," I explain. "Anyway -- long story short: I am here with you now. And the... the passive side of my character, which dominates, is the side of me you became most well-acquainted with. And it was the side of myself I was most well-acquainted with. I never -- had been as aggressive with anyone as I have been with you these past several weeks. And I know that ...that was a great departure. It... changed things with us.

"And I should have been grateful for that. In that way, you freed me from my self-imposed isolation and ...allowed me to pursue you." I swallow. "But that pursuit was mingled simultaneously with the use of... accessories, and the exploration of a much more... volatile kind of ...sexuality. I was, I think, no sooner out of the frying pan, than--"

"Into the fire," Ray interrupts slowly and deliberately.

"Yes," I agree.

"So... you not only never slept with a guy before, you never did any of the stuff we did -- before, or ...recently. Is that it, Frase?"

"Yes, Ray, it is. I mean, I had read about much of the things we did up until a few weeks ago--"

"Reading isn't the same as doing, Frase."

"Yes, Ray, I ...realize that." I swallow. "At any rate. My head was still kind of spinning with happiness and a bewildering sensuality, as well as... an uncertainty, insecurity. When I first saw you and Detective Patterson ...working together, it raised the possibility of... I'm ashamed to say it, Ray--" I take a deep breath, "--the possibility of your betrayal, of me losing you to him. I realize now that that was ridiculous, but at the time I didn't--"

"You didn't know," he adds softly.

"No. I knew only that you had much more experience than I at this sort of thing... Which only served to frighten me more. It seemed you easily had the knowledge and experience to leave me and find others, and I knew I did not have the same abilities. It seemed possible that Detective Patterson somehow communicated with you on a level I could not. And so I, I took you. And I felt terrible about ...about making you mine so, so... brutally. And I felt ashamed of my motivation for doing so. And, and then... you told me you--"

"I liked it," he says simply.

"Yes," I agree, glad he is helping me. "I was -- I was horrified that I could have treated you that way... and ashamed at my loss of control... and... and... powerfully excited by your... your..."

"Laying back and taking it. And wanting more, right?" he asks.

"Yes," I answer simply.

"Oh, Fraser. I... I had no idea this was all connected like this..." he begins.

"Ray, I am trying to explain -- please, don't blame yourself. I know I said I would never have done any of it, if it hadn't been for you. But the fact is, that the cause of my ...obsession with... taking you was the pleasure I derived from it. Well, it can't be quantified, but I had simultaneously never taken the initiative that often or that eagerly before, and had never restrained anyone while... in the act. I was certain it was... very wicked. I am... still uncertain as to how unusual and ...disordered it is."

"Fraser... so what you're saying is you went from sex like macaroni and cheese, to sex like a super hot red curry in, like, half a year or less?"

A food analogy is apt, I suppose.

"Yes, Ray, that is... essentially what I mean."

"Jesus Christ," he says. "I didn't realize..."

"Yes, well, I didn't tell you, Ray," I say quietly. "And I'm sorry. I probably should have. I'm not entirely sure where I stand on any of this. And, when my understanding of anything is ...uncertain, I am as capable as anyone else of falling back on... what I know. And, what I 'knew' was... that to do the things we've been doing is... a deviant form of sexuality. So in my case... if, if our regular sex was macaroni and cheese, and our... sex with restraints was very hot red curry, well... in my case, I no longer wanted anything but the very hot red curry... despite a pre-ulcerous condition."

"Pre-ulcerous... yer saying..."

"Meaning that even though my conscience suffered for it later, I could not refrain from... always ordering the hot red curry." I pause.

"I guess... I guess you never... had anything that intense..." he speaks haltingly.

"No, I hadn't. And its intensity is not what makes it bad. And I do understand about... consent. I know that you fully welcome and enjoy my... aggression and ...the control I... take of your body. I just... I'm just... I'm not sure I can believe it is just a 'spicier' form of ...lovemaking. There is something... so absolutely wicked and fascinating about it, that ...that it makes me certain I am bad or somehow morally bankrupt to so enjoy it. I find myself wondering what kind of sick and ineffectual man would need to tie or restrain his lover?"

"Which doesn't mean you're at fault! You're not. I didn't have to continue ...'forcing' myself on you. I knew you liked it, I knew you wanted it, but I still had a choice, Ray. I could have chosen not to do it. It made me feel bad and guilty, even as it felt so good and so right. I could have chosen not to do it, so that I wouldn't have to deal with feeling... bad about it. But I chose instead to continue exercising power and control over you, in these... very intimate ways.

"Essentially, I ...I couldn't stop myself. Combined with the fact that it already seemed like it must be utterly deviant and decadent, the fact that I couldn't deny myself the pleasure of... taking you... it made me feel even more out of control. Which is ironic, because I suppose you had never felt me more in control."

I pause. My throat is dry and I feel like I've been talking for hours. I hear Ray take a deep breath.

"Fraser... I don't know what to say..."

"Ray -- oh -- please believe that I don't blame you for it. It isn't you, it is me. And I only blamed you at first tonight, when you asked me to look at the catalogue, because I was... when I read that class description... it sounded... it sounded... too intimate. The idea of showing my face in public at a gathering of strangers who all have only this one thing in common -- I felt simultaneously eager and terribly embarrassed, humiliated, and ...unmasked. I was afraid you had guessed the truly depraved depths my imagination has been sinking to of late."

He takes another deep breath, and then expels it slowly and with a sigh.

"I'm sorry, Frase. I just... I dunno what to say." He sounds calmer. I hold onto that thought.

"None of this is your fault, please believe me. I don't blame you, I know that this desire is inside me. And it feels like it's... it's been inside me for a very long time. And I never had the opportunity to explore it until... until now. With you."

"Maybe... You know, Frase, you know how they say 'all things in moderation'?"

"Yes, Ray?"

"Did you ever think that maybe things like goodness and niceness and purity should all be done in moderation, too?"

I open my mouth and then shut it. The thought had not occurred to me but-- but-- it seems absurdly simple and logical. How utterly Ray-like to realize something, to pierce through to the heart of it instinctually. But what about common courtesy?

"Uh, no, Ray that hadn't occurred to me. Shouldn't people be good and nice whenever they can?"

"With strangers, sure... but I'm talking in your personal life. I'm just saying... you can have too much sugar. Sometimes you need salt. Or sour. Or bitter. Or a... mix."

Again, he instinctually hits on the crux of the matter.

"Ray, that's... that's brilliant. You know, there are schools of philosophical and theological thought which posit that there can be no good without evil, and that therefore--"

"Frase, I'm not talking about good and evil or philosophy or religion. I'm just sayin'... if people were good and nice and pure like their religion and their parents told them to be -- women would never get pregnant and the human race would die out. If it's not healthy to think about or have sex all the time, twenty four/seven... then is it healthy to never think about or have sex, ever?"

He does it again.

"No, I suppose not. Ray... that's very wise."

"No, it's not. It's just common sense, Frase."

"Oh." I suppose that's true... but coming at this point, it seems profound.

"Well, since ya haven't dated many American chicks -- I mean, any American chicks -- lemme just say one thing: if you're too nice, if you don't try anything, like at least try kissing them or ask to come up to their place... they'll think you're gay. Most of 'em anyway."

"But, but that's absurd, Ray. Why would they think that?"

"Cuz they know a typical American guy is horny and wants to get in their pants and will try like hell to get in 'em."

"But--"

"Frase?"

"Yes..."

"Do you ever put the moves on chicks?"

"Well, no, Ray, I've just explained to you..."

"And who're you with now?"

I pause. Him, of course. But that doesn't mean-- "Ray, correlation does not imply causality. Just because I--"

"Look, all I'm saying is, if some American chick was wondering why you didn't try anything on her... wouldn't she be at least half right thinking you're gay?"

I hadn't thought of it that way. "I suppose you're right, Ray." I sigh, and as I do, he does too.

"Frase?" he asks me.

"Yes, Ray?"

"You ...gonna go back to the Consulate tonight?" He sounds... worried. Resigned.

"I... I hadn't planned to. I... had hoped we could... work this out."

"Well... I'm... I'm pretty beat. I ...just don't wanna talk about all this anymore. I ...I gotta think about things."

"I understand, Ray. I can take a cab--"

"Huh? No, no -- I just meant, I'm all talked out, I'm all listened out. I just wanna sit here an' watch TV for a while, and then go to bed. It's... it's a lot to think about an' I still don't know exactly how I feel about ...everything."

"Of course, Ray. I feel the same way--"

"I appreciate the thought, Frase. We'll... we'll see what happens. But right now... I just don't wanna think anymore. I'm just saying -- can we call it a day with all this... talk?"

"Of course."

"Good. Okay. I'll... well, I'll see you when you get back out here."

"Right," I say, and then I hear him click off his cell phone.

I shut off the cordless phone and rise from the toilet seat cover, where I've been sitting.

A clean cut, neatly dressed Mountie in his regulation white Henley and black riding pants with yellow stripe and black suspenders looks back at me from the mirror. There is no hint from his appearance, except for a certain telltale weariness at his eyes, that he is anything less than boring.

Perhaps that is a good thing.

I leave the bathroom, and self-consciously cross the room to replace Ray's cordless phone in its cradle. I feel his eyes on my back the entire time. When I turn to look in his direction, though, he is still watching the TV, slouched back against the couch and sideways against the arm.

I hesitate and then walk slowly over to the couch.

He looks up at me, weary, tired, sad. Oh, Ray.

"May I... may I sit down, Ray?"

"Oh, Frase. Ya don't have to ask. Siddown."

"Thank you," I say, and I sit. At the opposite end. Away from him. I am sitting with him, but not with him.

The nine o'clock news is on, and we watch the latest news about the broken water main that disabled the subway trains through the Loop, and the city treasurer's overturned conviction for corruption. I so desperately wish that I could touch Ray, even if to just hold his hand -- but, but it would be so good to hold him and be held by him. But I keep my hands folded in my lap.

"Hey." Ray speaks and turns towards me.

"Yes, Ray?"

He draws his feet up onto the couch and turns so that his back is against the arm of the couch and his legs point in my direction.

"Frase, I thought you -- and the Ice Queen--"

"Oh, that," I say. I can feel my cheeks getting hot. "Inspector Thatcher and I have a... complicated relationship."

"Meaning what?" Ray asks warily, stretching his legs out on the sofa somewhat, though his knees remain bent. His feet are close to my left thigh, but do not touch it.

"Meaning... she, she needed to make use of me as a decoy, of sorts, when she first got here... she was trying to fend off the advances of a superior officer who was here to handle a lawsuit. In front of him, she acted as if she and I were having a relationship so that he would leave her alone."

"An' that's it?" There's a gleam in his eye that means he must know or suspect something more.

"No... Oh, if you must know, I kissed her once."

"You kissed the Ice Queen?"

"I did."

"Get out."

"No. I really did."

"What's she kiss like?" he asks, curious, and for a moment the weary sadness in his face is replaced by frank, slightly bemused, curiosity.

"It was... very nice."

" 'Very nice'? That's not very descriptive, Frase," he says, with a slight smile.

"She has a ...strong but tender mouth. Is that better, Ray?"

"Yeah, that's better..." he says, trailing off. His eyes seem bluer than usual, perhaps because of his light blue T-shirt.

"Ray, might I..." I hold my breath and slide my hand over his right foot, which is close to my thigh. I lift it and turn slightly and, using my other hand, press both thumbs into the ball of his foot.

"You wanna give me a foot massage?" he asks, surprised.

I can only nod, hoping that he understands what I'm really trying to do.

I can see him weighing things in his mind -- his hurt, the contagious guilt and shame from me, his pride, his wounded heart... and his need for warmth and touch.

"O-okay," he says, stammering only slightly. The tension in his ankle and lower leg disappear as I turn toward him and cross my legs tailor style on the sofa. And I hold his foot and begin to massage it.

He leans his head back on the couch arm his back is against, and sighs. He makes a variety of small, sensual noises while I work on his right foot. Then he begins humming a song... which is punctuated by small groans or sighs when I hit a particularly tense spot and work the muscles gently until all the tension is released. We don't speak, but the tune he is humming is short, so he keeps repeating it.

"What's that you're humming, Ray?"

"Huh? Oh. Uh, nothin'. An old, old Frank Zappa song."

It is good to be talking again, even if about trivial things. His foot is soft and pliant in my hands. His feet are not calloused, except on his heel and the outside edge of his big toe. Otherwise, the skin is soft, warm and dry. He must buy shoes that fit well. I release his right foot and start on the left one.

"It's rather a catchy tune, if short," I tell him.

"You probably wouldn't like it if you heard it, Frase," he says, his head still leaned back on the couch arm, staring at the ceiling.

"Why not?" I want to say, I'm more open-minded than you think I am... but then I realize that, on the heels of this evening, that is not true and not a good thing to say; it would just bring up all we discussed.

"I don't think you'd like the words," he says softly.

"Why? What are the words?"

"You really wanna know?" he asks, still looking at the ceiling. But his eyes are half-lidded now, hidden by the fringe of light lashes.

"Yes, I would," I reply.

"Okay..." He closes his eyes and takes a breath. Then he begins singing:

"What's the ugliest part of your body?
What's the ugliest part of your body?
Some say your nose,
Some say your toes,
I think it's your mind,
I think it's your mind..."

He finishes and he is right. I do not like the words. I do not like them because, unfortunately, they are true. I sigh.

"I toldja you wouldn't like it, Frase," he says apologetically. He opens his eyes, and lifts his head to look at me.

If that was his revenge for earlier tonight, it is small by comparison. It pains me, but probably in an amount which is only a drop in the bucket of hurt he must still be feeling because of my behaviour tonight. I look back down at his foot.

"No, you were right, Ray. It's ...difficult to hear, mainly because I think Mr. Zappa was right." I can't help sighing.

"Yeah, but... if it can be the ugliest part of your body... it can probably be the most beautiful part of your body, too," he says softly.

I look up, and the look on his face is a combination of regret and ...hope. It seems like hope.

"I suppose," I say noncommittally.

"I could hum something else..." he says, and begins humming again. This is a more melancholy-sounding tune, and he trails off fairly quickly.

"What was that?" I ask, hoping to continue this tentative re-connection.

"Oh... nothing." He looks embarrassed now, and looks away.

"Well, you don't have to tell me if you don't want to."

"I don't want to because it isn't very nice," he says quietly.

"Well..." I say slowly. "It was you who said that perhaps being good and nice all the time may not always be a good idea."

"Well... okay..." he says, and then sings quietly:

"But I don't care if you don't,
And I don't feel if you don't,
And I don't want it if you don't,
And I won't say it
If you won't say it..."

He trails off.

Obviously, though he doesn't want to talk about it any more, it is very much on his mind. Which I can understand, though it pains me.

"I'm sorry," he says, his gaze jerking up to me from his foot.

"It's... all right, Ray," I reply, looking back down at what I am doing after only briefly meeting his eyes. "I suppose it only makes sense that songs such as these might... occur to you at a time like this. I'm the one who should be sorry. And I am."

"It's all right," he sighs, though I can tell it really isn't all right. Will it ever be again? I desperately hope so.

We don't converse any more while I finish up with his foot. He lets his head fall back on the arm of the couch, which is a good sign, I think. It means he can at least relax with me. I give his heel a good final squeeze.

"There you go," I say, patting his foot and releasing it.

"Thanks, Frase, that felt really, incredibly good," he says sincerely, lifting his head to look at me again. Sometimes, when he looks at me and his chin is tilted lower than usual, his eyes seem very big. This is one of those times. They pin me to the spot.

"I'm glad. I wanted to make you... feel good... " I say. I don't want to bring up all the hurtful things we said earlier, but... I did want to make up for it somehow, in whatever small way he would let me. What I want to say is, I wanted to make you feel good -- again.

"You did. Kind of. Mostly." He tilts his head first to one side, then to the other, as if cracking his neck. "My feet feel really good... an' it's weird how something like a foot massage can make yer whole body feel good. I was getting tired... now my body feels alert and stuff."

"Does it?" I reply conversationally.

He draws his feet back towards his side of the couch, and pulls his knees to his chest.

"Frase... I know we... we can't just... go back to the way things were," he says, looking away.

"No, I suppose... we can't," I acknowledge. He's right, of course. And despite my attempts to repair the damage, there is nevertheless still quite a bit of damage.

"But... but... we can give it a rest."

"Give it a rest," I repeat, unsure what he means.

"Yeah, like..." He pauses, and releases his knees, sliding them down into sitting tailor style, as I am. Then he leans forward a bit. "Frase," he whispers, and then he pushes himself forward onto his knees, so he is sitting on his heels. Then he pushes again, so he is on his hands and knees. It is not so far a distance between us on the sofa, but he crawls the short distance to me. I am not sure what to make of his feral appearance and so I do nothing but watch him. He puts his hands on my knees.

His eyes search my features.

"Let's go to bed, Frase," he whispers. Then he closes his eyes and leans in and presses his lips to mine, just a simple close-mouthed kiss. His lips are warm and dry on mine, with a gentle pressure.

My hands slide swiftly up his arms, from his hands on my knees to under his armpits and around his back, as if I have no control over them. And my arms go around him, and I pull him to me... not sudden or fast, but slowly and steadily so that he can resist if he wants to, so that he can pull away if he needs to.

He does not. And so I pull his body to me, and the rest of his long and lean body complies and his narrow buttocks are soon in my lap and I pull his body tightly to me and try to hide my face in his chest. My cheek is against the soft, worn cotton of his T-shirt and I can hear his heart. The beat is regular, and it was slow, but it speeds up slightly.

His arms have gone around me, around and over my shoulders. His lips are pressed into my hair and I feel the alternating coolness and damp warmth of his breath in my hair, inhaling and exhaling, as he strokes the nape of my neck.

I want to cry with relief but I don't. I hold it in and the urge passes and at least he is in my arms and holding me as tightly as I am holding him.

I can feel my penis harden, and I know he must feel it too, since he is sitting in my lap. But neither one of us does anything about it. I hold him tightly to me, not moving, feeling my erection get harder. And he holds me tightly, not moving either, except for his lips, which purse periodically against my hair, and his hand, which continues to stroke the nape of my neck.

My erection subsides, and he is still in my arms and still holding me and I am still holding him. The nine o'clock news is over and Ray's heartbeat is slow and regular again.
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

Notes:

1. "Urbane" newspaper is modelled on the Chicago Reader, a local free weekly with great music and movies sections, provocative journalism, and ...interesting personal ads.
2. Horizons is modelled on Discovery Center, an adult continuing ed center on Lincoln Avenue.
3. "An Introduction To Bondage And Domination" is modelled on "Bondage and Domination, An Introduction", which is a one evening seminar which Discovery Center recently began offering. The information Ray and Fraser read is based on the class description of the real class in the catalogue.
4. Mistress Ruby is modelled after Mistress Jade, who is listed as the instructor of the real course.
5. "Oh what a tangled web we weave, when first we practice to deceive" is attributed to Sir Walter Scott.
6. Fraser's reference to Ray giving himself "fully. Completely." is a slight reference to the Tragically Hip's CD Fully Completely, and the title song on it.
7. "What's The Ugliest Part Of Your Body", from the album We're Only In It For The Money, by Frank Zappa, 1968
8. "I don't care if you don't..." lyrics from the song "Let's Go To Bed" from the album Japanese Whispers, by The Cure, 1983

Comments

[buzzylittleb.livejournal.com]

Hi! I think you already know that I totally less than three this series. I've just been re-reading it, and the psychology is perfect and the sex is awesomely hot.