The Fuck-Up

I fucked it up.

Plain and simple, that’s what I did with Spencer.

It was that second night we spent together, toward the end of our time. I’d promised I would send him home at a reasonable hour so that he could get some sleep; he had a rehearsal the next day for which he needed to be nimble. We lay there, exhausted and pleasantly sweaty, our limbs knotted around each other. He played with the band of metal encircling my ring finger. “So tell me about this,” he said.

“What do you want to know?” I asked. I hadn’t hid my ring. I hadn’t stuck it in my pocket when we’d met, or left it on the bedside table so that there wouldn’t be any questions. When I’d taken him out to dinner earlier that night, I hadn’t kept my left hand beneath the table, or concealed it with my napkin.

“Where is she? Or is it a he? Out of town for the weekend?”

“Halfway across the country,” I said. “Indefinitely.” My heart was beating fast as I painted my situation in brief strokes.

“And you’re planning to move?” I nodded. “When?”

I explained that it could be two months from now, or six, or a year. I simply don’t know.

He continued to toy with my ring as we lay there in the silence. I felt I should say something to fix things. I didn’t know what, though. I’m usually good with words. On this night, they failed me utterly. I wanted to say, “But we can still have fun!”, but that sounded callow. I wanted to say that it didn’t matter, but it would have been a lie, and it would have denied his own feelings. It mattered.

“I’d better go,” he said at last. Together we dressed in silence, sorting out our belongings from the pile of clothing at the bed’s foot. It was worse than awkward. It felt as if I’d wounded him.

Downstairs, I sat next to him on the sofa as he pulled on his shoes, feeling like a knock-kneed, clumsy teenager desperate for approval. “I’d like to see you again, if you want to come back,” I said at last.

He sat with his hands between his legs, his limbs limp and askew. “Against my better judgment, I probably will,” was all he said. Then he sighed, gave me a quick hug, and left. I watched him drive off from the front window.

It felt like I’d been slapped. And worse, that I’d deserved it.

I screwed it up, I wrote to one of my better friends. I feel like such a damned fool.

There have been many times in my life when I’ve met someone for whom I have feelings. There’s always a sensation of inevitability when I run into these people. I know them right away. They make my heart race and grow soft. They are men for whom I’ll do anything to get to know. They’re men I’ve loved deeply. Over the years I’ve managed relationships with a few—they became lovers that still live in my heart, though our paths followed side-by-side for only a short time.

And when I think of these individuals now, sometimes it’s with a sense of sadness. There was the last man I loved, a poet with whom I exchanged verses and fluids, until he grew frightened and closed himself away. There was the man to whom I gave up my ass without effort, a decade ago, because he’d never before fucked and knew the right words to whisper into my ear to get me to show him—and I loved the nights we shared until he chose a vocation that involved a vow of celibacy. There was the timid boy I loved years ago who feared his family more than he loved himself, and who allowed himself to be trapped in a traditional marriage that drove him to an early death.

Then there are men I think of with nothing but fondness and a grin, like the clown from Australia who treated me like some kid of sidekick, or the everyday hero who celebrated my kinks as much as I appreciated his. There’s Scruffy, whom I love unabashedly.

Because this is my philosophy in life. We don’t get everything we want. We pick and choose the paths we trod. Sometimes we can choose the people with whom we travel. It’s up to us to relish the journey, any way we can. As sorrowful as parting from someone can be, especially when they’ve been close, the good times with someone for whom you care are too few and too beautiful to pass up. They’re the fruits plucked from orchards along the road, wonderful and full of zest and sweetness. I believe it’s far better to have those times together, those experiences, than it is to pass them by merely because of the potential for hurt later.

That’s what I feel, anyway. I know others aren’t the same. My friend wrote me back, saying, Your relationship and your move are pre-existing conditions, so technically you’re off the hook. He made sense. But I went to bed that night with a heavy head, and guilt in my heart.

Spencer agreed to come over the next night. It was his suggestion, actually. I was reluctant to put it forth, after I’d plainly let him down. While he was in the shower, I lay on my bed with my fingers intertwined, trying to think of what to say—because it was plain I needed to say something. Eventually he wandered in, completely dressed, damp, and padding for my side on bare feet. “Can we talk?” I asked.

He bit his lip and nodded. I could tell he was still thinking about the night before.

Once he’d finally laid his wet head on the pillow, I opened my mouth, and decided to be as plain and simple as possible. “First of all, I want to say I’m sorry,” I said. “I don’t make friends easily. Not real friends. I find those very rarely. When I do, I want to see more of them. I like you. I like you a lot. I’ve been very selfish about wanting to see more of you, and for that I apologize.”

“I think I’ve been selfish too, then,” he said in a subdued voice.

So far, so good. “Second, I’m sorry for the awkwardness last night. It’s a little tough for me to realize we’ve only known each other a couple of days. I do know this, though: I like you a lot. I feel highly protective of you. I would never, ever do anything to hurt you, or cause you distress. Believe me on that.” He nodded. “I really want to your friend, if nothing else.” It hurt to say those words, because I wanted to be so much more than a friend. But I forced them out. “I’ll be here for you however you can stand it, if you’ll have me.”

That was it. I’d laid my heart out on the table with the bare essentials. He took a moment to consider what I’d said. “I think I was weird last night because it hit me that this won’t be going anywhere.”

“Don’t say that,” I said, a little stung, but recognizing the truth of it. “Don’t ever say that. Does your art go anywhere?” He shook his head a little, not understanding. “You practice the most ephemeral of art forms. Your life goes into a performance that’s beautiful while it lasts, and then. . . .” I gestured with my fingers to indicate the thin air into which the performance vanished.

“You can notate the moves,” he said, moving his head up and down. “You can record the performance. But it’s not the same,” he agreed.

“But you can’t say it doesn’t go anywhere, just because it has a finite life.” I looked into his eyes. “It’s worthwhile. It’s worthwhile because it exists, even if for a short time.”

His lips parted, as if to say something. Our eyes lingered on each other for a long, silent moment. Then, he decided to remain quiet. His head raised, though, and his hand sought the back of my neck. We kissed softly at first. Unsurely. Then, he grew hungry. After a long moment I leaned over to switch off the light, and then I lay atop him, our bodies buckling and moving in soundless rhythm.

Our lips remained locked while we ripped the clothes from each others’ bodies. When I entered him a very few minutes later, we were still kissing. He cried out, not from pain, but from the shock of having me force myself in him so violently and without much lubrication. Then he clung to me as if he hoped we’d never part.

I fucked it up. And then I patched it, by being as simple and honest as I could.

I’m lucky to have him walking alongside me, even if for a brief while.