Journal of Franklin Burke
 by: Hankster and Gerry Young

© 2011 by the Author

The author retains all rights. No reproductions are allowed without the author's consent. Comments are appreciated at...

Prologue

It was a beautiful sunshiny spring day in Palm Springs, CA, and Ryan Durbin was browsing on the computer he shared with his partner, Franklin Burke.  Ryan was never sure what he did…what key he pushed…or how it happened, but a bunch of very old black and white pictures suddenly appeared on the screen.  He didn’t recognize any of them, so he called out to Franklin who was puttering around in the kitchen.

“Frank, please come here for a minute, will you.”

“In a sec,” Franklin answered.  He arrived more like two minutes later.

“Do you know anything about these pictures?”

“Yeah,” Franklin smiled.  “Last week I was cleanin’ out a couple of old shoe boxes that were falling apart.  They were loaded with faded old family photos, so I scanned some of them and downloaded them on the computer.  Then I was able to enhance them by improvin’ the contrast and definition.”

Ryan looked at his partner with admiration and awe.  “Hell,” he said, “I’ll never learn how to use these contraptions.  I’m just an aging dinosaur.”

Franklin laughed.  “No you’re not.  You’re just a dirty old man with better things on his mind.”  He leaned over and kissed Ryan on his head.  “Thank God!” he added.

“Do you know who all these people are?” Ryan wanted to know.

“I know who everybody is, but I never met some of them.  My mother took most of these pictures.  She had a way with a camera.”  He pointed at the computer screen.  “This here’s my maternal grandfather and that’s my maternal grandmother.  They did most of my upbringin’.  I never knew my father’s parents.” 

He then pointed to a beautiful young girl in a pinafore dress.  She couldn’t have been more than sixteen.  “This is ‘Mommy Monster,’ Priscilla.” 

Franklin grew silent.  The silence continued until Ryan was prompted to ask, “Is everything alright?”

“Yeah, sure,” Franklin came back to life.  “It’s just that she was a slut, and I have no good memories of her.”

“So you’ve told me a few million times,” Ryan commented.  “She’s dead.  You should forgive her and think of her more fondly.”

“I know, I know,” Franklin rolled his eyes with disdain, “but that’s easier said than done.”

Ryan ignored him and pointed to a handsome young man in a Marine uniform.  “And that’s your half-brother, John, isn’t it?” he asked.  He and Franklin both looked sad, and they grew silent for a moment. 

Franklin nodded and mumbled, “Yes it is.”  He pointed at yet another face.  “That’s Carl, my first of four alcoholic stepfathers.”

Ryan clicked on ‘next’ and several pictures appeared on the new screen.  The pictures were all of two young men in uniform.  One was in an Army uniform and the other was in a Navy uniform.  There were several pictures of each man.  In some of the pictures the soldier was posing with Franklin’s mother, Priscilla.  In some of the other pictures the sailor was posing with another beautiful young girl.  In still other pictures the servicemen were by themselves…or together.

Without being prompted, Franklin said, “The soldier is my birth father and the sailor is his younger brother, Todd.  The girl with him is his wife.  I never met either of them.  I never met my father either for that matter.”

Ryan studied the pictures carefully and finally said, “Hell, Frank, you are the spitting image of your Uncle Todd.  I mean you WERE the spitting image when you were young like in this picture.  If I had to bet which was your father, I’d bet on Todd.”

Franklin laughed cynically and said, “I’ll be back in a minute.”  He left and went into his bedroom.  Several years earlier, he and Ryan had taken to sleeping in separate rooms, after many years of sharing the same bed.  Over the years, Ryan’s snoring had grown steadily louder and more prolonged, to the point where Franklin could not get any rest.  He had grown used to snuggling together every night, and he hated that they slept apart, but he had no choice.  He had recently heard about a famous pulmonologist, who specialized in sleep disorders, and he considered taking Ryan for a consultation, but the doctor was in Los Angeles, and he wasn’t about to make the trip, short as it was.

When Franklin returned to where Ryan was waiting patiently for him, he was carrying a beat up old red-and-white checkered diary, just like the one Anne Frank wrote in, but he wasn’t to learn that for many years after he’d purchased the book.

“Ryan, honey,” he said.  “I started this journal when you and I first hooked up.  Most of it was written right up front at that time, but I added a few pertinent things over the years.  You’ll be familiar with some of the stuff that happened after we became a couple, but the meat of the journal is earlier than that.  I nearly forgot that it even existed until I found it among the pictures.  I’d like for you to read it.”

“Why now?” Ryan asked.  “Why after all these years?”

“It’s what you said about my lookin’ so much like my Uncle Todd.  It got me to thinkin’ about that.  It’s the reason I started this journal in the first place, way back when.  I wanted to record my thoughts before my memories got dimmer and dimmer.  My life is full of unanswered questions.  Please read the journal, and maybe if we discuss it together, I can resolve some of the issues.”

“Or maybe,” Ryan said kindly, “we won’t resolve anything, but we can put your unsettled questions to bed, once and for all.”

“Whatever,” Franklin said dubiously.  “We’ll see.”  He handed Ryan the journal and went back to puttering some more in the kitchen.

Ryan held the journal in his hand for a long time.  At last he stood up, went to the fridge and poured himself a super-sized glass of Sweet Tea, and then he went to his favorite lounge chair in the sunroom.  He put on his reading glasses, made sure that he had plenty of sunlight, took a cool swig of the tea, and he began to read.

Chapter One

Nov. 1, 1962:  Dear Diary:  This is my first attempt at writing in a journal.  I am Frank Burke, 22, and I decided to start keeping a diary because this past week, I moved in with the greatest guy in the world.  He’s really amazing.  The whole experience of being with Ryan is amazing.  This Thanksgiving, for a change, I’ll really have something to be grateful for.  Ryan Durbin is ten years older than me, but he’s a helluva lot sexier and more virile than I am.  He got a job in his home town of Detroit, and when he went back there, I went with him.  It’s the first time that I’ve ever lived north of the Mason-Dixon Line except when I was in the Navy.  I lived in barracks then, so it doesn’t count.

Up to now my life has been pretty fucked up, and I figure that someday I’m gonna do something pretty stupid, which is bound to upset Ryan.  I’m hoping this diary will help explain where it is that I’m coming from, and whatever stupid things I might do, so that he’ll better understand me, and forgive me, should that inevitable day come, when I totally piss him off.

Most of what I’m gonna write, before the time when I have my own memories, was told to me by my grandparents, my mother’s parents.  They hated my father, Daniel, for what he did to my mother, so maybe everything they told me isn’t true, or maybe they embellished the facts a little, or maybe they skewed the facts some, but this is what I know.  There are always two or more sides to every story, and I’ve only heard one.

My folks met at Central High School in Charlotte, NC.  They got married two days after my father’s graduation in 1939.  Right after the wedding he enlisted in the army.  He was eighteen and she was still sixteen.  The newly-weds moved to Fayetteville, NC where he did his basic training at Ft. Bragg. 

My father’s younger brother, Todd, was only seventeen at the time.  He was already married and living in Fayetteville.  There should be a law against getting married so young, especially in the south.  Todd was waiting for his eighteenth birthday to come, and he was gonna join the Navy.  During his training, my dad lived on-base, but my mom lived with Uncle Todd and his wife in a one-bedroom cottage.  She slept on the couch… supposedly.

After basic training, my father was stationed at Ft. Bragg for nearly a year.  During that time, he lived off-base with his brother, sister-in-law, and my mother.  Uncle Todd finally went into the Navy, and after boot camp, he came home on a two-week leave.  That’s when the shit hit the fan.

Todd’s wife, Doreen, had a job at the local five and dime, so most of the day, Todd and my mother were home alone.  One day my father came home early, and caught her and Todd fucking their brains out.  He told her he never wanted to see her again, and he moved back on-base.  Doreen asked my mother to kindly leave her apartment, and Todd also left abruptly, cutting short his two-week leave.

My mother never saw my ‘supposed’ dad again, and he divorced her.  You’re probably thinking that he might’ve wanted to kill Uncle Todd, but they buddied around and remained the best of friends, at least that’s what my grandpa told me.  They WERE more than ‘blood brothers’ after all.  Go figure.  My grandparents had vehemently opposed their daughter’s marriage, and she wasn’t sure that they would welcome her back in their home, so she remained in Fayetteville.  To her credit, she went to school at night and got some secretarial training.  She rented a studio apartment and found a clerical job in an accounting office.  She managed well enough.  Her beauty stood her in good stead, but it wasn’t long before she learned that she was pregnant.  Abortion was illegal at the time.  Knowing her, she would never have considered it anyway.  

You, my dear diary, have no idea how many times I’ve wished that she had thought about it, and DONE it! 

Annnnnyway...  She worked until her seventh month, and then she was laid off, laid up, and probably laid on, or laid into, considering HER…delicate condition…and with absolutely NO consideration of a greasy bald-headed dick pounding MY fetal skull.  Maybe that’s why… never mind! (Grin) 

Everybody who’s seen pictures of my father and Uncle Todd say I look just like him...my uncle I mean.  My grandparents knew both boys well from their growing-up days, and they’ve emphasized that fact to me more than once.  I guess I’ll never know who my biological father was, but I have Ryan now, and for the first time in my life, I really don’t care to think about it anymore…at least not on a conscious level.  Life marches on.  Or is that, time marches on?

We lived in Fayetteville for the first few years of my life.  Priscilla never sought child support from either of the Burke boys.  Anyway, they were off to war, and Uncle Todd’s wife wouldn’t give her the information to contact them, so she never bothered to pursue it.  You may wonder how she supported herself, since she never got a penny of child support.  Well, my crib was in a far corner of the apartment, and as I grew older, I realized that she never slept alone.  There was always a man in her bed.  Sometimes two or three shared the bed with her at different times throughout the night, or at the same time. 

Eventually I outgrew the crib and slept in a daybed.  The wrestling games my mother played were perfectly visible to me, and I began to realize that she was playing games with these men, and then they gave her some money for it.  Either we needed a bigger apartment or changes needed to be made.  When I was nearing six years old ‘Mommy Monster’ decided on a change.  She swallowed her pride and we moved back to Charlotte and into my grandparents’ home.  For the first time in my life, I had a room of my own, and I wasn’t kept awake by the games my mother played.

Oh, Diary, by now you’re probably shocked by the events of my early childhood.  These are not things I talk about easily, but I need to bare it all now, in the event I ever screw things up with Ryan.  If I do, I can show him this journal, because I need him to understand how scrambled my brain is, and ask him to forgive me.  Trust me.  It’s going to get more shocking.  My life gets more fucked up after our move back to Charlotte.

Right now I’m getting writer’s cramp, so I think I’ll put the journal away and continue in a day or two.

Chapter Two

Nov. 4, 1962:  Dear Diary: This evening Ryan made arrangements for us to spend Thanksgiving Day with his parents and grandparents.  Hell, they are all so perfectly normal, I’m scared shitless.  I don’t know how to act around a mentally well-balanced family.  My own family is all screwed up.  I think they call it dysfunctional, nowadays.  The Durbin’s have even accepted our living arrangement and life style.  Now that’s very hard to believe.  I think, maybe, they might even like me a little.  Still, I can’t help being scared.  I don’t remember ever sitting down to any holiday dinner with my own family.  Every day with them was like the day before.  There were no celebrations, and no special days.

Anyway, to get back to putting everything down in writing for Ryan to see someday, as I told you, Dear Diary, we moved back to Charlotte when I was about five.  I slept every night in my grandparents’ house, but my mother was more apt not to come home at all, except early in the morning.  She would shower, put on fresh clothes, and go to work.  Sometimes she never even spoke to me before leaving the house.  It was not hard to conclude that she had resumed her whoring ways.  It sure didn’t appear that she was giving out sexual favors for free.  Her life style, and her extravagance, belied the meager salary she made as a retail clerk at Woolworth’s Five and Dime, or the few dollars she made from the occasional picture albums she produced for neighbors, after one of their parties.  I had no idea how much sex my mother needed, but it was obviously a lot.

She met Carl, my step-father to be, on my sixth birthday.  Her idea of a celebration was to take me to the drug store fountain for an ice cream soda.  At the time, Carl was working as a delivery man for one of the soap companies.  He was busy stocking the shelves, when we first came in.  Whenever my mother entered a room, all eyes followed her.  She couldn’t have made a bigger stir if Marilyn Monroe herself walked in.  We sat down at the fountain, and Carl stopped everything he was doing and sat right down next to her. 

I didn’t think that he was particularly good looking, but he was built like a super hero.  You could see his muscles bulging under his delivery-man’s uniform shirt.  Even without knowing why, I was attracted to him.  (Now I know why, Dear Diary!)  For sure my mother was attracted to him.  The two of them talked incessantly while I sipped my soda.  I tried to make it last as long as I possibly could.  I don’t think that Carl or Priscilla minded at all.

They were married a couple of months later, and we moved to Carl’s family farm about thirty miles away.  Carl’s youngest brother, Tommy, was about twelve or thirteen when we moved in.  I had my first sexual experience with him.  It’s hard to say who the instigator was, but it was probably me…at the tender age of seven. 

We were stacking hay bales in the loft of the barn one day.  It was so damned hot, we both stripped off our shirts.  After a while we had to take a break, and we lay down in the hay.  Tommy’s wiener started to sprout out of his shorts, (he must’ve not been wearing underpants), and so I boldly took mine out too.  It wasn’t long before nature took over, and I stroked Tommy’s cock and he stroked mine.  I liked how it felt.  Tommy shot a white thick fluid all over my hand and I got a strange tingly feeling in my cock.  I know now that I had my first orgasm, dry as it may have been.  It was too early to think of myself as queer, but I know now that I was.  We never played again, and never, never spoke of it.

Before my seventh birthday, John, my baby brother, my half-brother, my step-father’s own flesh and blood, was born.  John was still very young when the four of us moved to Port Natchez, Texas, so that Carl could get work on one of the many Gulf Coast fishing boats.  The only good thing I remember about that experience was that the shrimp and the crawdads were the best I’ve ever eaten.

One day, when John was still a toddler, and Carl had been out fishing for several days, I came into the house.  I was all dirty, hot, and sweaty from playing outside with John. 

“Go take your bath, and leave the door open,” my mother said.  Remembering back, there was no anger in her voice at all…and there might’ve been just the hint of a smile on her face.

“You close the door when you take a bath,” I yelled back.  “Why do I have to leave it open when I take one?  I’m nine and a half years old.”

“Because I told you to,” came the expected retort.

“You get to see me nekkid all the time,” I said.  “Bet you wouldn’t let me see you nekkid,” I replied like the smart-Alec I was.

“Go take your bath, and leave the door open,” she said, the smile gone from her face. 

I took my bath, got out of the tub while it was still draining, dried off, and wrapped the towel around my slender waist.  I walked out to the living room toward the little cabinet next to the couch (my bed) to get some clean underwear, and I noticed that the door to my mother’s and Carl’s bedroom was closed.  I called out to her for some reason.  I don’t remember why.

“Come in,” she called back, “and close the door.”

I thought that was really strange.  She had never asked me to do that before.  I opened the door and the first thing I saw was…HER…lying on the bed, on her back, without a stitch of clothes on.

“Take the towel off, and climb up here,” she told me.  I did as she ordered me to do, but I was scared to death.  I just knew that this wasn’t right.

She told me to do things that I really didn’t understand, things I learned later on were adult things, and being the good boy that I was, I obeyed her.  I tried to do all the things she instructed me to do, but I failed.  I started crying.  I felt ill.  I can’t even tell you, Dear Diary, all the things that went on in her bed that day.  It still makes me sick to remember it.  I wish there was some way to forget.  One thing I know for sure.  If I record the details, I will surely go mad.

She got off the bed, had me stand there on the edge of the bed, and she squeezed me hard, trying to comfort me.  She squeezed so hard that I vomited all over her, and I don’t remember anything after that.  I have prayed a million times that I could forget the whole incident, but it won’t go away.

About a week or so later, Carl and his drunken buddies took me hunting with them.  They had me carry a .22 rifle.  They wanted me to shoot a squirrel or rabbit or deer.  I didn’t want to kill the animals, and they all teased me and called me names, until I started to cry.  I ran back to the house as they yelled, “crybaby” and “sissy” and “faggit” at me.  They were laughing their fool heads off, and I felt totally humiliated.

Sometime later…days, weeks, months…I don’t know…I heard her and Carl yelling at each other.  They were having a really bad argument.  I remember hearing him say, “I’ve got my own son now.  I don’t want another man’s faggit son in my house.  He’s too big a sissy to shoot a ‘coon for Pete’s sake.”  I didn’t know if he was talkin’ about a raccoon, or a colored person like my best friends, Harvey and his wife, Beulah, back in Charlotte.  God!  I was growin’ to hate Carl and his friends more and more.

I locked myself in the bathroom and cried for hours.  I remember thinking I wanted to run away, but where would I go?  What could I do?  A few days later, when my mother was out shopping, Carl took me to the airport, put me on a plane, and sent me back to Charlotte to my grandparents.  They told me that neither he nor ‘Mommy Monster’ let them know I was coming until I was in the air and about halfway home.  But as I advised you earlier, Dear Diary, I take everything my grandparents told me with a grain of salt.

These are terrible memories for me, and even though there are more terrible stories to come, I find myself emotionally drained.  I need another break, Dear Diary.  I’ll get back to you in a few days.  I have to keep going on this journal, hard as it may be, so that someday Ryan might understand my madness.

Chapter Three

Nov. 24, 1962:  Ryan and I spent Thanksgiving Day with his family.  First we went to church.  They are Presbyterians and I am Baptist, but it made no never you mind to me.  I don’t think I ever had a better meal or a warmer, friendlier Thanksgiving.  Thank you, God, for Ryan and his wonderful family.

Dec. 1, 1962:  Back to my story, Dear Diary.  My growing up years in Charlotte are too painful to recall all the details.  If the truth be told, I think I have successfully erased most of those bad memories from my brain cells. 

I guess grade school wasn’t too bad, (I remember those days) but middle school and high school were sheer torture.  At least in grade school I had a friend.  We spent a lot of time together, fishing, swimming, movies, and the like.  It was down at the lake we had the most fun.  We would find the most deserted spot, get nekkid and play with each other’s privates.  All we did was handle and fondle.  It felt really good, but we didn’t bring ourselves to any sort of climax…too young, I guess. 

It was all over before I was eleven.  My friend (I don’t remember his name.  Maybe it was Sebastian, or something like that.  But for the life of me, I just can’t remember) and his family moved away.  I never even had a chance to ask him where he was moving to.  Maybe it was Spain...he always said that his father wanted to move there.  One day he was here, and the next day he was gone.  I wish I could somehow get in touch with him, and find out how he is, and what his life has turned out to be.  Not remembering his name, sure doesn’t help the cause.

After he moved away, I had no friends.  I was constantly made fun of and called “faggit.”  I was never overtly bullied, but I would get tripped up in the halls, and boys would yell at me, “Suck my cock, sissy boy,” or “I’m going to fuck you in the shower, Fraaaanklin.  If you drop your soap, I’ll know it’s on purpose.”

My grandfather knew what was going on, but it didn’t help me much that his solution to my problem was to try to make a man of me.  He was forever after me to walk like a man, and to stop gesturing like a girl.   He would admonish me not to carry my books in the crook of my arm, and all that shit.  He was very careful never to let me see him nekkid, but he told me once that when he and a fishing buddy were on a trip, they showered together, and washed each other’s backs.  What am I to make of that?  What do you make of it, Diary?  I gotta admit, I tried to do what he wanted of me, and I did improve some, but not enough to stop the sassing.  It didn’t help me much that Gramps died during my junior year in high school.  I still miss him so much.

Gym class was a never ending nightmare.  I played basketball some, but badly.  I was fairly good in tumbling and other gymnastics, but I was, and still am, a terrible athlete.  The showers after gym class were particularly straining for me.  One time, after I got staring at a guy’s cock, which had grown a little in the shower, I was rewarded with being pissed on by three of my class mates.  I quickly learned not to stare, and to bury any carnal thoughts I might stupidly conjure up.

‘Mommy Monster’ came for a one week visit every year.  Her visit always coincided with Carl’s annual hunting trip with his buddies.  She always brought me a present or two, but hardly talked to me.  I can’t remember her ever asking me once, what was going on in my life. 

We hardly saw her anyway.  As soon as she arrived, she ran off to visit old friends, boy friends, I reckon.  I didn’t give a fuck, but I’ll bet she did… fuck, that is.  If you are thinking that I was devastated, I certainly was NOT.  I had my little brother, John, all to myself.  I would play with him, have pretend picnics in the back yard, and then we would shower together.  I would get him squeaky clean and smelling sweet like his momma.  Then we would go to bed together.

I quickly learned that John liked to rub his little weenie against me as much as I liked to rub my bigger one against him.  Once I nearly came, so I pulled away.  I wasn’t John’s father, and I didn’t want the dubious pleasure of explaining to him what had just happened to me.  I think I was more scared that he would tell someone… grandpa, or worse, Carl.  It was only once a year, but I counted the days until John’s visit.  I never thought of it as a visit from HER.

Twice over a period of eight years, my mother had herself a new husband or maybe a new boyfriend…I’m not sure.    John told me that both men were nicer to him than Carl had ever been.  If he had asked me, I would have told him that everyone was nicer than Carl.  John never saw Carl, and Carl didn’t seem to care much about him.  He made no effort to see or to contact his son.

All through high school I wondered if there were other guys like me, sissies, I mean, who liked boys better than girls.  As discreetly as I could, I would search faces.  I hoped to find a face that would look back at me kindly.  If I ever did, I vowed to approach him, and then I would fantasize a torrid love affair between us.  I never found such a face, or maybe I was too afraid to make the connection.  Who knows?

There were a couple of things I did know.  For one, I was never going to go to college.  My grades were fair, but not scholarship worthy.  My grandma did not have enough money to pay for one semester, much less a whole four year course of study.  For another thing, I knew I had to get out of Charlotte.  I was tired of being an outcast.  I needed to meet men like me …brothers … my own kind, if you will.  But I would need a job, and I had no skills, so I decided to enlist in the Navy.  I said the Navy…not the Army.  I wonder if that’s some more proof that Todd is my biological father, and not Daniel.  Stupid thought!!!

I wrote to John and told him that I was enlisting in the Navy.  He wrote back and told me that when he was older, he wanted to join the Marines.  It made me wonder if he was as unhappy as I was.  With a slut for a mother, and a series of father figures, he might well be.  I always hoped that John was treated better than I was by the men Priscilla slept with.  I knew that it probably wasn’t true, but I dared hope.

A week or so before high school graduation, I visited the Navy recruiting office in downtown Charlotte.  I filled out a lot of forms, took a physical, and was asked to wait in a small cubicle.  The wait was short.  A young, good looking officer came in.  I almost hoped he would ask me to strip again, but he extended his hand, which I gladly took.

“I’m Dr. Craig,” he said.  “I just need to ask you a couple of questions.”

“Sure,” I mumbled.

He sat opposite me and placed a clip board on his lap.  It had several pages on it, which I guessed were my growing service records.

“Do you like girls?” he asked me with a big smile on his face.

“Yes,” I answered confidently.  Well, Diary, stop smirking.  I didn’t hate them then…still don’t. 

“Do you have a girlfriend?”

“A couple,” I lied, before continuing.  “But being the good Christian boy that my family and church expects me to be, I’ve never done anything … uhh … I guess you’d say ‘intimate’ … with them ‘cause we’re not married.”  He then went on to ask a few other inane questions, and left abruptly.  Minutes later, a Chief Petty Officer took his place.  He shook my hand and said, “Well Seaman Recruit Burke, you’re in the Navy now.  Report back here at nine hundred hours on July 5th.”  He handed me a sheet of paper, and said, “Here’s what you should bring with you, nothing else.  You are free to leave.”  And that was it.

Dec. 8, 1962:  Dear Diary:  Ryan and I are busy decorating our apartment for Christmas.  My grandparents never did that.  We never even had a Christmas tree, and we never exchanged gifts.  I made up my mind to send John a gift this year…but nobody else in my family.  Ryan doesn’t think we are doing anything special, but I am overwhelmed with emotions.  It’s straining our budget, but I’m having so much fun helping him buy gifts for his family, and making our apartment look like a stage set, with all them lights and such.

But back to the story I am writing for Ryan.

Six of us assembled at the recruiting office on July 5.  The Chief, who had shaken my hand and informed me that I was now in the Navy, lined us up in a straight row.  “This is your last chance to change your minds,” he offered.  “Anybody here wanna go home?”

Nobody moved, so he had us raise our right hands, and he swore us in.

“Jackson,” he called out.  Jackson was a big colored guy.  He musta stood a foot taller than anybody else.  He stepped forward, and the Chief gave him a big fat folder, “I’m puttin’ you in charge,” he said.  “If any of these slobs don’t obey your orders, you report them when you get to Great Lakes.  You unnerstand BOY?” 

Jackson looked scared shitless in spite if his size.  “Yessuh,” he mumbled.

The chief handed Jackson a bulky envelope.  “Inside this heah envelope are your service records, travel vouchers, and food vouchers, for the sixaya, all the way to the Naval Station.  Ya’ll won’t have to spend a penny gittin there, but if y’all want smokes and candy and such junk, you pay for it yourself.  Unnerstand?”

We all nodded. 

“Jackson, if you don’t know,” the Chief continued, “the train station is three streets north of here.  March your troops over there and use the vouchers to buy tickets to Great Lakes.  Unnerstand?”

Jackson nodded, looking more scared than before.  I swear the poor guy was turning white.

We each had a small bag, which we picked up.  We weren’t certain what to do until the chief smiled, looking human for a change. “Good luck, Recruits.  Now get your asses in motion and y’all go get trained.”

In the terminal Jackson opened the envelope.  The poor guy looked so scared, that we all felt sorry for him.  He turned to us.  His face implored us to help him.  Suddenly, Jesus sent us an angel.  A sailor approached us and asked, “You guys goin’ to Great Lakes?”

You could hear the collective sigh of relief.  “Uh huh,” we all said at the same time.

His sleeve displayed two slanted stripes.  “I recognized the envelope,” he explained.  “I finished my trainin’ two weeks ago and I’m returnin’ from leave.  I’m headin’ back to Great Lakes for training as a Hospital Corpsman. My name’s Cal Burke,” he said as he extended his hand.  We all shook his hand and made introductions all around.

“We have the same last name,” I said to him.  “I know we ain’t related.  I know every relative I have In Charlotte.”

“This is quite a coincidence!”

Cal turned to Jackson.  “Three months ago I had your thankless job.”  He looked at all the different vouchers and pulled a few from the pile.  These will buy you the train tickets.  The next train out is at 2 PM.  I’m on that one also.  It’s a sleeper.  We all get to spend one night on the train.  We should reach Chicago about 10 PM tomorrow night.  Be sure to eat dinner tomorrow evening, because the mess hall at the base will be closed when we arrive.  I’ll show you where to go when we get there.”

No collective sigh this time, just one big one from Jackson.  It’s funny, Diary, for the life of me, I can’t remember Jackson’s first name.  I may never have known it.  We had two hours to wait until lunch, and four hours until we would leave for Chicago. 

Cal joined our group, and we all pumped his brain for information as to what we were in for.  I learned that his corpsman training would be six months long.  I quickly reckoned that if I went to Hospital Corps School, Cal would still be in training when I got there.  I felt a tingle in my groin.  I guess I should mention that I had fallen head over heels for Cal.  Who wouldn’t?  He was extremely handsome, had blond hair, blue eyes, straight nose, six feet of muscular, non-fat body, a bubbly butt, a twinkle in his eye, and a friendly demeanor.  (Come to think of it, Dear Diary, we could have been brothers.)  His tight uniform trousers displayed a bulge I longed to grab.  I couldn’t take my eyes off him, and he kept staring at me.  At the time, I was sure I was imagining that he even noticed me.  I wasn’t the best looking guy in the train station.

At a little past noon, Cal went over to Jackson and showed him the food vouchers that we could use in the small restaurant in the terminal.  Then he returned and sat right down beside me.  It was obvious that Cal intended to become a member of our group on the long trip ahead.

“Let’s try to share an upper and a lower,” he whispered to me. 

The room began to spin.  Was that some sort of invitation?  I can’t explain why, but at that moment, I believed that my life was about to change in more ways than just boot camp training.

Chapter Four

Dec. 26, 1962:  I learned yesterday what Christmas is all about.  I went to church in the morning with Ryan and his family, and spent the day at his parents’ home.  His two younger sisters, both sets of grandparents, and a widowed aunt, were also there.  Before sitting down for the holiday meal, we opened the gifts.  I got shirts, ties and sweaters, and when I began to sob like a baby, a hundred arms enveloped me to comfort me.  Unfortunately, that made me cry even more. 

The ladies made the best meal I ever ate.  I was so stuffed that I had to forego making love to Ryan last night.  I was just too bloated. 

But back to the trip to Great Lakes.  Right up front, Diary, I want to tell you that I lost my virginity somewhere along the way.  I wish I knew exactly where we were when it happened.  I would love to mark the spot.

To this day, I don’t know how he worked it out, but Cal got a lower berth for himself, and I slept right above him.  All of us recruits, and Cal, used the washroom to clean up, and some of us shaved…not me.  At the time, I was shaving every third day or so.  By the time I was finished with Boot Camp, I was shaving daily.  You would also, after getting dry shaved by The Chief one morning.  I climbed into my berth and stripped to my boxers.  I could tell that Cal was doing the same.  I closed the curtains to my quarters, and hoped I could fall asleep.  Frankly, I was too full of anxiety thinking about boot camp, but I was excited at the same time.  I fell asleep rather quickly.

Sometime in the middle of the night, I woke up.  My curtain was slightly drawn, and Cal’s face was poking through.  Before I could react, I heard, “Shhh.”  His hand went through the opening and rested on my cock which was now over six hard inches.  He began to stroke it.  When I didn’t stop him, Cal took it as a go ahead sign.  The truth is, I was too scared to do or say anything.

“Move over as far as you can,” he whispered.  Quicker than I could figure out what was happening, he pulled the curtain apart, swung up like Tarzan, and entered my space.  He closed the curtain, lay on top of me and began to kiss me.  I won’t even try to describe the pleasure his kisses and his probing tongue gave to me.  I would have been content to lie there and kiss him all night…and nothing more, but Cal had other ideas.

There was precious little space in the berth, but he managed to turn into a sixty-nine position.  He pulled down my shorts, and took my cock into his mouth.  I nearly passed out from shock, ecstasy and fright.  I could feel his cock probing my face, and I managed not to faint.  I took a deep breath, and swallowed as much of his seven inch cut beauty as I could.  He had no underwear on, and I never knew when he had removed his skivvies.  I loved the taste of him, even the bead of precum that I devoured hungrily.  All I know is that I felt an orgasm cumming on, way too fast.  I had to stop sucking him as my body convulsed.  I pushed my fist into my mouth to muffle any sounds, as I gushed into Cal’s mouth.  I could tell that he was swallowing every last drop.

“Give me a sec,” I whispered to him.  After I regained my breath, I resumed what I was doing, and Cal came, but it took him longer.  I was sure that he had learned to delay his orgasm, and I made a mental note to ask him how he did it.   I wasn’t sure if I could swallow his cum like he did, but I strengthened my reserve, and I did just that.  Why was I worried?  I loved the taste of his cock, and I loved the taste of his cum even more.

Cal parted my curtain, peeked outside, and vaulted out as easily as he had jumped in.  He was wearing his skivvies, which I had never seen him put back on.  Once his feet were firmly planted back on the floor, he whispered to me, “We’ll do this again.  You’re amazin’.”  Months passed before we had another opportunity.

Jan. 2, 1963:  Ryan and I made a little party in our apartment last night, and I’m more than a bit hung over today, but Ryan’s still asleep, and this is a good time to continue my story, Dear Diary.

The best thing that I can say about my boot camp days was that it was uneventful, in the sense that it went quite smoothly.  I actually enjoyed the enforced discipline, the precision drilling, firing range, swimming class, fire fighting (in spite of singed eyebrows), etc., but the best part was how muscular I became.  I went in a skinny runt, and came out a muscular hunk.  It was wonderful how the skinny guys beefed up, and the chubby guys lost weight and gained muscle.  They gave us each a test of endurance going in.  I did about ten push-ups and about ten pull-ups on the high bar.  We had the same test at the end of training, and they had to stop me.  I was well over one hundred of each of the disciplines, when they said I could stop. 

At home, I used to whack off nightly, but I seemed to have lost all desire during boot camp days.  It was always a topic of discussion among us guys, whether it was true or not, that we were secretly being fed saltpeter to reduce our libidos.  There was a time I thought that it was pure hogwash, but after a few weeks in boot camp, I began to believe it.

My grades were good enough that I got what I asked for, as far as specialty training was concerned.  I was assigned to Hospital Corps School right there in Great Lakes.  At the conclusion of training, I was given a train ticket home, and two weeks leave.  Most of my company parted at the train station, but I didn’t mind.  I had never gotten close to any of them, and none of them was going on to HCS.  My only prayer was that Cal Burke was still there, and that we could pick up where we left off. 

I came home, and the only family member around was grandma.  My mother and John were not due to arrive for months.  I had no friends in Charlotte, and I soon grew bored, so I went back to Illinois early, and checked into HCS ahead of schedule.  I was assigned my barracks, and I was allowed to go on liberty any time I wanted, until my whole class would be gathered together.  I spotted Cal the very day after I arrived.  He was marching from one class to another with his company.  He never saw me, and if he did, he did not acknowledge my presence.

That evening, I went to the enlisted men’s club.  I was playing pool by myself, when I heard a voice say, “Hi Burke.  How ya doin’?”  I turned and there was Cal grinning  at me.  We went to the bar, ordered cokes, and found a quiet place to sit and talk.  “Hang around,” he said.  “The place clears out by nine, but they are open until eleven.”  My cock began to stir, and all I could do was nod at him.  We helped the time to pass by playing pool.  By 9:15 we were indeed alone in the vast room.

Cal took me over to a dark corner that was poorly lit, and we sat down together on a bench.  What happened next was the stupidest thing I ever did in my life.  If I live to be a hunnert, I will always wonder at my stupidity.  Cal took out his cock.  It was throbbing with desire, and I was hungry.  I leaned over and took it in my mouth.  Cal laid his hand on my head and helped me bob up and down.  After a while I thought I heard some movement in the room.  I tried to look to see what it was I heard, but Cal was cumming, so he held me down until he came in my mouth, and then he let me up.  When I looked around, there was nobody there.

Cal made no move to reciprocate.  Instead he put his cock back in his skivvies and stood to leave.  I didn’t try to stop him.  I was sure we had been seen, and I was truly scared of the consequences.

A good ten days passed, and nothing happened.  I had started classes, and I was enjoying learning new skills.  I even got friendly with some of my barracks mates, a first for me.  Almost two weeks later I was called into my CPO’s office.  He was standing to one side, and an officer was sitting at his desk.  The officer addressed me.  “Seaman Burke,” he said with absolutely no emotion.  “You are receiving an Undesirable Discharge on grounds that you are a possible security risk.  Go back to your barracks and pack your bags.  Here is a final pay check and a ticket back to Charlotte, North Carolina.  Your train leaves at fifteen hundred hours so I suggest you move quickly.”  At least it wasn’t a Dishonorable Discharge.  I remember thinking that I was lucky at that.

I started to leave the room, but I turned to the officer and asked, “How can I be a security threat if everyone knows that I am homosexual, and prefer men to women?  Certainly I can’t be blackmailed.”  There was silence for a moment and he answered, “If we let you stay, we’ll have to let them all stay.”  Now I didn’t know what to say, so I left.

It came and went so fast that I was left flabbergasted.  So…Cal and I were spotted that night.  I could only wonder what happened to him.  I never did find out.  I couldn’t face any of my buddies, so I did get out of there as quickly as possible.  I took the commuter train to Chicago, and made my way to the train terminal with my sea bag.  I had two hours to kill before my train would leave for North Carolina, so I sat quietly on a bench until I had to pee.

I picked up my sea bag and walked dejectedly to the head.  I was the only one there.  I leaned my bag against the wall and went to a urinal.

Suddenly I heard the sound of a door being locked.  I looked around and there were four sailors in the head with me.  One of them had just locked the door.  I was scared out of my wits.  “I hear you like to take it up the ass, faggit,” one of them said.  “Well, we aim to please,” another one hissed at me.

I’m not sure what hit me, but I took a blow across my head, and was thrown to the ground.  The world was spinning and I was hazy, but I could tell they were pulling down my pants.  I heard a lotta laughter, and a voice said, “Go ahead, Stevie, give him that monster of yours.  Open him up for the rest of us.”

So Stevie entered me, without getting me ready, and without any grease.  The pain was excruciating.  I felt like my innards were on fire.  After his initial entry I fainted dead away…thank God.

I don’t know how long I lay there after they left, but they found me in a pool of blood.  I woke up in a Chicago hospital.  I was no longer in the Navy, and I had no idea how I would pay for all this.  The doctors told me that they had to repair me surgically, and that I had lost so much blood, I was lucky to be alive.

Grandma came to get me, and she paid the hospital bill.  She never told me how she got the money.  I was ashamed to face her, but she said to me, “Franklin, honey, you are a good boy, and I will always love you, no matter what.”

Dear Diary, it has been close to four years since the incident.  After much urging on his part, I finally let Ryan enter me one night.  He was so careful, and he greased us both up real good, but it still hurt like hell.  I kept yelling at him to hurry up and cum.  I have begged him to forgive me, but I am just not ready for anal sex.  I don’t think I ever will be.  He wants me to do it to him all the time, and I find it distasteful.  I guess because of the pain I experienced, I can’t get hard enough to enter him that way, even though he’d like me to.  My prayer is that someday, I’ll be able to do it, and make him happy.  He is my love.

Chapter Five

Jan. 15, 1963: Back in Charlotte, I was unable to find any work.  It became evident to me that everyone knew of my shame.  I had to get away, far away.  I had heard somewhere that Atlanta was an up and coming, rapidly growing city, which offered many opportunities to young people.  I decided to go there.  At the train station Grandma slipped some money into my pocket.

When I arrived in Atlanta, I checked the telephone book, and headed right for a YMCA.  I intended to stay there until I got a job and could afford an apartment of my own.  I figured I could get a studio like the one my mother got when I was an infant.  I certainly didn’t figure on getting laid fairly regularly at the “Y.”  It didn’t give me much incentive to leave, and I didn’t, until I moved in with Ryan.

I got a job rather quickly in a moderately upscale steak house in the downtown area.  I quickly made friends with some of my co-workers and with some of the other guests at the “Y.”  The best thing I can say about the few months I stayed there was that I learned the true meaning of the words “fuck buddy.”  Sure it was fun to get laid (never fucked), but I didn’t have any emotional ties to my tricks, and looking back on it, the sex wasn’t that great.  I had fallen in love with Cal, and so those precious few stolen moments I had spent with him, seemed like paradise to me. 

I had been staying at the “Y” for about four months when I met Ryan.  Before I tell you about that, Dear Diary, I want a pat on the back.  During that time, I opened my first savings account, and was beginning to have the comfort of a few bucks in the bank.  On Grandma’s birthday, I sent her a sentimental card and $25.  That must have shocked her no end.

One of my fellow guests at the “Y” told me about a great new queer bar that had opened in downtown Atlanta.  Several church groups picketed the place every night, but they had been unsuccessful in getting it closed. They simply could not prove that any wrong doing was going on at the club.  We decided to go there first chance we got.  I had just gotten past my twenty-first birthday, and I was feeling very adult.

About a week later, I went there with two friends on a Wednesday night.  I worked six lunch and dinner hours a week at the restaurant, and Wednesday was my day off.  Feeling like a twenty-one year old big shot (was I that pompous only a year ago?) I offered to buy the first round.  The bar was crowded…two and three deep, but I patiently waited my turn.  When I got close enough to the bar to see the bartender, I nearly flipped.  The guy behind the bar was a replica of Cal.  He was about 5’11” tall, blond hair, blue-grey eyes.  Biceps that wouldn’t quit (he was wearing a muscle shirt), abs that looked like sand on a beach, and a butt to die for.  He was wearing very tight jeans and his bulge was very well outlined.  The name RYAN was printed on the front and back of his shirt.  My whole body ached to meet this guy, sit and talk to him for a while and then…

The bar was open until 2 AM.  My buddies left about 11 PM, but I hung around.  A few minutes before midnight, Ryan was relieved by another bartender.  As he removed his apron I asked, “Hey Ryan, can I buy you a drink?”

He smiled back at me.  My heart went thump, thump. 

“I get a free drink at the end of my shift, “he explained.  “Let me buy you one. What’ll you have?”

“Whiskey sour,” I answered.  That was the popular drink of the time. 

Ryan made himself a scotch and soda, and made me a whiskey sour.  It was the strongest whiskey sour I had ever tasted.  Was he trying to get me drunk so he could fuck me?  Dear Diary, I admit to panicking.   We sat at a quiet corner table and talked until closing time.  As we got up to leave, Ryan asked me if I would like to spend the night with him.  Fuck, yes.

That night at the bar I learned a lot about him.  Even though he was ten years older than me, he had just graduated from Emory University.  His education was delayed by Army service during the Korean War.  He had worked at the club since it had opened.  He had majored in Education with a minor in Mathematics.  He was from Detroit, and had just obtained a teaching position in a Detroit high school.  He would be leaving in mid-August to return to the Motor City.  My heart sank.

At closing time, he took my hand, and led me to the parking lot behind the club.  Goddam, he had a car.  We got in and started out.  I was glad to see that the picketers were gone.  A week later they were gone for good.

Ryan lived off campus in a very tiny, one bedroom apartment.  It looked like a mansion to me.  As soon as we entered, he closed the door and grabbed me.  He started to kiss me with such passion as I had not known before. I was truly shocked.  His tongue parted my lips, and then my tongue met his in a teasing session.  We undressed as quickly as we could and fell together on his bed.  Ryan was cut, like me, but he was at least an inch longer and somewhat thicker.  His monster was bobbing up and down, and I couldn’t wait to taste it.  He must have felt the same way, because we ended up playing sixty-nine. 

When we were both about to cum, Ryan stopped the game.  He pulled a tube of lube from his bedside table.  I knew what he wanted, and I began to shake.

“I can’t do that,” I said.

“Then do me.”  He handed me the lube.

“Next time, mmmaybe,” I was stuttering.  “Let’s just finish up this way.  I want to swallow your cum.

“Sure,” he said, and he kissed me passionately, before we resumed the position.  I never had such an intense orgasm since Cal had done me in the upper berth.  I came first, and when Ryan came, he screamed loud enough to be heard back in Charlotte.

Of course, I eventually explained to him my fear of anal sex, and he could not have been more understanding, but he insisted that I top him occasionally.  It is tough for me, but I love him so much, I do it.  I can only perform, however, after he gets me to a point of no return with his tongue.

Recently Ryan admitted to me that he considered me to be a one-night stand that first night.  He surprised even himself that we continued to ‘see’ each other. He confessed that he fell in love with me, but wasn’t quite sure when.  With me, it’s always love at first sight.

Well, Dear Diary, we are up to date, but I won’t show this to Ryan unless I have to.  I try not to let him see my fears and insecurities, and I am succeeding, except when it comes to anal sex.  If the time comes and I have a complete melt down, I’ll show him this journal.

Chapter Six

Oct. 1, 1968:  Hello again, Dear Diary.  I thought I had retired you, but now I must confide in you again.

First of all, Ryan and I no longer live in Detroit.  A couple of years ago, we went on a vacation to Palm Springs during winter break, and fell in love with the place.  Who wouldn’t?  It was nice and warm all day, and only got a little chilly at night.  Detroit’s bitter winter weather was a planet away.

We decided to move to California.  Palm Springs was growing rapidly, and Ryan could easily obtain a teacher’s job.  As for me, I had a succession of non-skilled jobs, and would have no problem finding employment in a surging economy either.  Leaving OUR family was the only problem we were confronted with, but we promised to visit them as often as possible.

While looking for an apartment, we came across a small motel for sale.  We knew through the “queer underground” that there were a lot of homosexuals living in Palm Springs.  We figured that more would come.  We put an offer in on the motel and it was accepted.  The terms were very favorable, and we could manage if the motel prospered, and if we remained fiscally responsible.

The two things which most attracted us were that the swimming pool area was completely enclosed and private, and the motel came with a one bedroom owner’s apartment.  It had a complete kitchen, living room, dining room and sun room.  We loved it, and intended to convert it into a motel for gays (the new, ‘friendlier’ term fast coming into vogue).  If we were successful, it would be the first of its kind in the city.

As soon as we owned it, and moved in, we painted every room (sixteen) by ourselves, and hung pictures of near naked hunks over each bed.  Twelve of the rooms had a standard size double bed.  The other four had twin beds, if requested.  If need be, we could put the twin beds together.

We advertised in some gay newspapers we were aware of, and we were moderately successful when we first opened two years ago.  Now, dear Diary, we always have a waiting list.  The guys are most attracted by the nudity at the pool, I think.  I learned a lot from it myself.  Cocks are like fingerprints.  No two are exactly alike.

Let me get back on track, and for the reason I am writing to you again.  My brother, John, has been in the Marines for a little over six months.  This morning I received a call from him.  He wants to come for a visit.  I didn’t like how he sounded, and I have a bad feeling.  He’s arriving tomorrow morning, and I have to pick him up in LA at the airport.  Shit!  I hate that airport, and I hate that drive even more.

Oct. 17, 1968:

When John got off the plane, I was not surprised to see him in civvies.  I told you that I had a bad feeling.  Driving back from the airport, he sobbingly confided in me.  Before I tell you his story, he told me that he hadn’t heard from Priscilla since he joined the marines, and he had no idea where she was.  That made two of us.

Cutting to the chase, my brother told me that he was as queer as I was.  If homosexuality is inherited, it had to have come to us from Priscilla, since we had different daddies.  Anyway, he had been hitchhiking from the Naval Base to town one Saturday morning, and he got picked up by a Naval Officer.  As soon as John sat down in the passenger seat, the officer reached over and placed his hand on John’s crotch.  John panicked for only a moment, and then he reached over and rested his palm on the officer’s crotch.  The officer pulled in at a motel and booked a room.  He and John spent the rest of the day, the night, and all the next morning in bed.  John told me that it was the best sex he ever had.  They sucked, they fucked, they rimmed, they dueled with their tongues until the pleasure turned to pain, and they spent hours just holding each other, and fondling their cocks and balls.

A couple of weeks later, the base was buzzing with an unsettling rumor.  There was a witch hunt going on.  The SP’s had caught a sailor, in a back alley, sucking a marine’s cock.  The pair had been brought back to the base and interrogated.  They were forced to name the names of other men they had relations with.  John was in a panic, and his worst fears came true.  His officer friend was picked up, questioned and he named John.

John was unluckier than I had been.  His discharge was dishonorable.  He knew it would be hard to find a job, and he began to sob.

I pulled the car over onto the shoulder of the road, and put my arms around him.  I begged him not to worry.  We always needed help at the motel, and he could work for us.  We were too busy for the two of us to run the place alone anyway.  He calmed down a little, at least for the moment.

He slept on the sofa in our living room, and I know that Ryan (sorry Love) tried to seduce him a couple of times.  He wasn’t successful, and I benefited from his defeat.  It left Ryan so horny, he took his lust out on me.  Lucky me!

John worked for us long enough to earn two pay checks.  Yesterday, I went shopping, and Ryan was at the Reception Desk while John was skimming out the pool.  There were several guests at the pool…all nude.  John was wearing a swim suit.  The guests got playful.  They meant no harm, but they surrounded John and tried to pull down his trunks.

He ran back to our apartment, got dressed and ran from the motel.  I had to piece together the rest of the story.  He ran to the tallest hotel in Palm Springs; climbed to the roof, and jumped.  Unlike Ryan and me, who had accepted what we were, John could not accept being gay, so he took his own life.  Most people would say that it was a cowardly thing to do, but I beg to differ.  It takes guts to kill yourself.  I had no idea how to reach our mother, but, of course, I let Grandma know.  Sooner or later, Priscilla would learn from Grandma.

Dear Diary:  This little incident has added to my ‘fuckedupedness.’  As Ryan knows, I am now officially a basket case.

Oct. 16, 1969:  Dear Diary:  Today is the anniversary of John’s death.  Not that I will ever get over it, but at least I am back to being a functioning human being.  Ryan and I are running the motel smoothly.  It has been a very successful project, and we just completed plans to add a wing with ten more rooms.  We have all the permits in place, and work begins next week.  As an extra added bonus, our architect has found a way to add a second bedroom and bathroom to our apartment.  Ryan’s snoring is getting worse all the time, and I have a feeling that the second bedroom will get lots of use.

Epilogue

That was the last entry in the diary.  Ryan finished reading it, and laid the book down on the side table next to his hardly-touched glass of Sweet Tea.  There were tears in his eye.  He got up and went into the kitchen.  Franklin was still there doing God knows what…probably nothing…scared to death of what Ryan might think about his journal.

Ryan came up beyond Franklin and put his arms around him.  “Frank, my love,” he started, “I knew your childhood was unhappy, but I never knew how bad it was.  Why didn’t you tell me, baby?  I would have understood.  I could have helped you.”

“I don’t like to talk about it to anyone.”

“I’m not anyone, Frank.  I wish you had told me.”  Ryan hugged Franklin tighter, and now Franklin burst into tears.

“No wonder you needed therapy after John’s death.  He was the only bright spot in your young life.  No matter who your fathers were, you grew in the same womb.  You were true brothers.  Your loss was beyond the ordinary.  I wish I had known.”

The two men held each other for a long time saying nothing.  Franklin was sobbing lightly, and Ryan was rubbing his hand up and down Franklin’s back.

After what seemed like hours, Franklin released himself.  He looked in Ryan’s eyes and kissed his lover.  “I’m better,” he declared, smiling at Ryan.  “I’m much better.  In fact, I’m going to be much better for the rest of my life.  Let’s not stay home tonight.  Let’s go out and celebrate.”

“What are we going to celebrate?  I should ask how are we going to celebrate?  Neither one of us has had a hard drink in years.” 

“Let’s just go to a club, and watch the young kids gyrate their asses to what passes as music these days.  I just feel good, and I want to be among people for a change…people who feel good also.”

“You’re crazier than I thought,” Ryan laughed.  I’ll go shower and change.  He left the room with a spry step.  He hadn’t been that spry in years.

When he was alone, Franklin went into the living room and over to the mantle.  Sitting there was a picture of his grandmother.  He stared at the picture with a smile on his face.

“Hi Grandma,” he spoke to the picture.  “I promise you, I’m all right now.  I’m fine.  You go and rest easy.  Thanks for never having left me.  I love you.”

Posted: 09/09/11