The Virgin and the Hustler
By: Morris Henderson
(Copyright 2009-2012 by the author)
 

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

Chapter One

The dorm was almost empty.  The few friends I had made during my freshman year had gone home or to Florida for the traditional spring break revelry.  My roommate in the dorm had gone home to Long Island.  Going home to Wyoming was out of the question for me since my parents were scrimping to pay my college expenses and couldn’t afford plane fare.  My roommate invited me to his house for the week but I declined.  His constant arrogance and subtle insults about living on a ranch in “Indian territory” was tolerable only in small doses.  Spending a week with him would be more than I could endure.

Months before, I had looked forward to the peace and quiet of Christmas Break after a grueling period of classes and far more homework than I had expected.  Being alone at Christmas time was difficult but I caught up on my homework and even got ahead in the assigned reading.  I spent some time, in spite of the cold weather, as a tourist, exploring a rich variety of the big city attractions—at least those I could afford.  Spring break, being shorter and warmer promised to be more enjoyable.

By Wednesday, however, boredom crept in.  I had finished all my course assignments and could do no more until the Profs laid on more.  I had even read for pleasure a couple of books that I hadn’t had time to get to.  What would I do that evening?  I had a wicked thought.  I would do something that I had always wanted to do but never had the opportunity.

I took the subway down to Times Square.  At that time, many years ago, 42nd street hosted a number of adult book stores and small theaters showing X-rated films.  I intended to see a porno movie but after roaming around for a long time, I saw from the marquees and posters that all the films featured women, sometimes servicing men and sometimes each other.  That’s not what I wanted.

I had known for a long time that I was different. I was not attracted to girls.  What I really wanted was to find someone like me who was also different.  I had researched what little there was to be found about homosexuality in the public library. (The school library had been “cleansed” and this was long before the Internet.)  I therefore knew there were men out there like me although, like me, almost all of them hid their true identity from the public.  One day, I hoped, I would find one.

Having given up on the movie theaters, I ventured into an adult book store.  Perhaps I could find something there to interest me.  Upon entering, a raspy voice challenged my presence.  “How old are you, kid?”

I looked up and found the source of the voice.  A grizzly old man seated on a platform behind a high counter was glaring at me.  “Eighteen,” I replied.

“Don’t look it,” he growled.  “Lemme see yur ID.”

I pulled out my Wyoming driver’s license and showed it to him.  He studied it through his bifocals, seemed to concentrate on doing the simple math, but finally snarled, “OK.  Yur eighteen.  Wyoming, huh?  Never met anybody from Wyoming.”

He handed the license back to me.  I had become accustomed to people’s reaction when they learned where I lived.  I had even developed both polite and sarcastic rejoinders depending on the situation but I just took my license and walked down a narrow aisle in the crowded shop.

After ten minutes, it became clear that I would not find what I was looking for.  There were some dildos and other toys that I found fascinating but the prices were unbelievably high.  The magazines were also pricey but I would have paid for one if it was what I was looking for.  I walked out of the store disappointed and frustrated.  I roamed around Times Square for a while just to kill time and then took the subway back to 116th Street.

Back in the dorm, I showered off the city grim.  Taking advantage of there being virtually no one in the dorm, I leisurely jerked off in the shower before returning to my room.  It was still early, not quite ten, but I climbed into bed and fell asleep wishing I had found what I was looking for downtown.

The next day was warm.  I put on gym shorts, a tee shirt, and sneakers and walked over to Riverside Park to enjoy the weather and a good book.  I hoped that a little reading would dispel my loneliness.  I found a grassy area, stripped off my shirt to restore my tan, and lay down on my stomach to read.

Several minutes later, I was startled by a voice right next to me.  “That must be a very good book,” it said.

I looked up and saw a teenager sitting on the grass next to me.  He had the complexion, jet-black hair, and features of a Latino.  He wore no shirt, only baggy shorts and worn sneakers with no socks.  But it was his face that captured my attention.  Dark eyes sparkled from under arched brows and a half-smile that signaled a friendly nature.  His very worn gym bag was on the ground next to him.

“I called to you twice, mister.  But you didn’t answer," he said.

“Sorry,” I apologized.  “I guess I was wrapped up in my book.”  I turned the book over, laying it open to keep my place and with the cover showing.

He glanced at the book and asked, “You like mysteries?”

“Once in a while, yes,” I responded while wondering why he had interrupted me.

“I do, too,” he grinned.  “But I don’t get much of a chance to read.”

“And why’s that?” I asked.

His expression turned suddenly sour.  “Too busy,” he said as he cast his eyes to the ground.

“Busy?” I asked.  “What keeps you so busy?”

He stalled, pulling up few blades of grass and rolling them in his fingers.  “Whatever I can do to earn a few dollars.  That’s why I came over to talk to you.  But I see I’m disturbing you so I’ll leave you alone.”

He stood up to leave but my curiosity had been aroused.  “Wait,” I said.  “You don’t have to go.  In fact, I would enjoy having someone to talk to.  Sit down.”

He sat down, cross-legged this time.  I couldn’t help but see up the leg of his baggy shorts.  He had no underwear and the tip of an uncut cock was plainly visible.  I quickly averted my eyes, a habit I had practiced for a long time, but the image remained in my mind, eliciting thoughts I couldn’t suppress.  It was then that I became aware of his body: thin but not skinny, firm but not muscular, and dark nipples contrasting with his tawny skin.  The young man wouldn’t turn heads but was nevertheless handsome.

Although I had tried to be discreet, the length of my gaze and my failure to say anything must have revealed my thoughts because he smiled and said, “Like what you see, mister?”

His question threw my mind into a spin.  I groped frantically for something to say that would explain or excuse my thoughtless and dangerous behavior.  Nothing came to mind so I stammered, “I was just admiring your nice-looking body, that’s all.”  I immediately regretted saying that.  It’s not the sort of thing one says to another man, much less a stranger.

But the young man raised the stakes by asking “Want to see more?”   He pulled the leg of his shorts back to give me an unobstructed view of his cock that hung invitingly across a pendulant ball sack.

Alarms sounded in my head.  The young man was obviously coming on to me.  If I accepted his implied offer, I would reveal for the first time ever that I was queer. (The term, “gay,” had not yet come into common usage.)  Instinctively, I retreated by saying, “What makes you think I’d be interested in seeing more?”

“Hunch,” he said.  “Maybe hope.  When I saw you laying here reading, I liked what I saw.  So I called to you and then came over.  Then I saw how you looked me over.  I’ve had a lot of experience.  I’ve come to know when a guy is interested in me.  I think you are.  Am I wrong?”

I was not ready to admit my interest but I was tempted.  My resistance faded quickly when he hiked up his pants leg and briefly fondled himself.

“Nice cock,” I said without thinking and suddenly realizing that I had confirmed his suspicion.

He quickly got down to business.  “I can give you a blow job.  Or you can fuck me.  I like your looks so I’ll give you a bargain rate.”

“Is that how you earn your money?” I asked.  “By selling your body to anybody with cash?”

I didn’t mean to insult him but he obviously took it that way.  “Hey!” he said defiantly.  “It’s better than selling drugs.  My neighborhood is full of dealers and junkies.  I want no part of that.  If I can make men happy, isn’t that better than ruining the lives of drug addicts and risking my own life at the same time?”

“I apologize,” I said.  “I didn’t mean to insult you.  I just didn’t know what kind of life you faced.  Forgive me?”

“Okay,” he said.  “But how about my offer?  You wanna have some good sex?”

I did indeed want to have some good sex.  I had wanted it for years.  And this young man was not only willing but good looking.  He was fairly articulate and showed unusual initiative in approaching me.  After the disappointment in Times Square the previous night, I didn’t want to pass up the opportunity for real sex.  I would have preferred sex with someone other than a hustler but I may not have that chance for who knows how long.  I was assured of privacy in my dorm room so I inquired, “How much?”

He quoted a price and quickly added, “That’s half of what I usually charge but you’ve got a sexy body.”

“I have a problem,” I said regretfully.  “I don’t have any money to spare.”  I hated having to turn down his offer.  Just looking at him made me horny as hell.

“Too bad,” he groaned.  “I guess I’ll have to find somebody else.  But they won’t be as good looking as you.”

I didn’t want him to walk away.  Even if I couldn’t afford his price, I would enjoy the company of a handsome young man for a while.  “The best I can do is to buy you a good meal.  Will you join me for lunch?  I’d really like the company.”

He looked at me as if a meal enticing but said with a tone of indignation, “I’m not giving you sex for just a meal, mister!”

“I didn’t mean it that way,” I said.  “The fact is, I’d like to have company for lunch ... with no obligation for sex.  How about it?”

The truth was that I wanted company—someone to talk to—but I also wanted to find out more about why the young man was selling his body.

“Okay,” he said.  “I haven’t had a good meal for a few days.”

I realized that we could not talk about his life and “occupation” in a restaurant so I suggested, “How about we get a carry-out and come back here to the park for a picnic?”

“Sounds good,” he said.  “Most places won’t serve me anyway because of the way I’m dressed.  Some get downright mean about telling me to leave.”

We walked to a nearby McDonald’s.  At the door, he hesitated and said, “I don’t think they’ll let me in.  I’ll wait here.”

“If you want,” I said.  “What would you like?”

“You’re buying, mister.  You choose.  Surprise me.”

I bought two big Macs, two large fries, a large drink, and an apple pie for him.  I settled on a cheeseburger and a drink because I didn’t have enough cash for more.

His eyes nearly popped when he saw the size of the sack I walked out with but he made no comment.  We returned to the park, found a shady spot (It had gotten quite warm.), and settled ourselves down on the grass.  I opened the sack and divided its contents.

“That’s all mine?” he asked incredulously.  “Are you not hungry or are you really broke?”

“Both,” I said.  The broke part was true.  I was hungry but he needed food more than I did.

He devoured his food without stopping to talk, which seemed to confirm his admission that he hadn’t eaten for days.  I nibbled on my sandwich and sipped at my drink while a thousand questions popped into my mind.  What drove him to hustling?  What kind of family did he have?  Did he live on the streets and, if so, how did he cope?

When he finally finished, he said, “Thanks, mister.  I feel a lot better now.  You’re really nice to buy my lunch ... and not expecting sex, I mean.”

“Well,” I said.  “There’s one thing you can do for me.  I’m curious about why you do what you do.  Would you tell me about yourself?”

He gave me a curious expression that I couldn’t interpret.  I began to worry that I was prying into something he didn’t want to talk about.  But my concern was short-lived when he began to speak.

“You probably don’t know what it’s like living in public housing in the Bronx,” he began.  “Drugs.  Crime.  Gangs.  Poverty.  Going to school was the highlight of my day.  At least it was reasonably safe.  That is, until the kids in school found out I was queer.  I could live with them calling me names but they started beating up on me.  I dropped out of school.  I couldn’t tell my parents the real reason because they would hate me, too, for being queer.  So I told my folks I was joining the army and left.”

“Are you old enough to join the Army?” I asked.  He looked no more than sixteen years old.

“No.  I’m seventeen.  But it’s easy to get fake ID.  They tried to talk me out of it.  I said I didn’t want to end up like my brothers.  I’ve got two older brothers.  One is in prison for dealing drugs.  The other was killed before the cops could bust him.  Mom was upset that I was leaving but dad understood.  He said he was proud of me for not being like my brothers.”  He paused before continuing.  “He wouldn’t be proud of me now if he knew what I’m doing.”

“So how long have you been on the street?” I asked.

“About three months,” he replied.  “The first week or two was the worst but then I leaned how to attract men who want what I want.  And I’m not bragging when I say I can give them some really terrific sex.”  He paused and looked at me as if to see whether the ‘really terrific sex’ comment might entice me to pay his price.

If only I had the money!

His mood changed.  He stared at the ground and asked, “Anything else you want to know about a queer whore-boy?”

“Hey!” I interrupted.  “Don’t talk about yourself that way.  You’ve obviously got courage to get out of a bad environment.  You’ve got initiative to make it on your own.  I can tell from just talking to you that you’re bright.  And believe me; I don’t condemn you for what you’re doing.”

A half-grin crossed his face as he said, “Thanks, mister.  Most people treat me like scum—even my customers.  You’re not like that.”

“I’m still curious,” I said.  “Why do you hustle sex?  Have you tried to get a regular job?”

He laughed for the first time since we met.  “Whose gonna hire a seventeen-year-old high school drop-out?” he asked with a confrontational tone.  “I’ve tried a lot of places but the only one that was half way interested was a greasy spoon café.  They wanted a dishwasher but sent me away because I didn’t have a Social Security number.  Don’t need that for what I do now.  Besides ... I don’t know why I’m telling you this but I enjoy what I do.  I like sex ... even if the customer is old or fat or drunk or stinks of cigarette smoke.”

“So you’re happy doing what you do?

He thought about that for a while and said, “Mostly.  I really do like the sex.  I can’t seem to get enough of it.  But then...”

He dropped his eyes to the ground again.  I guessed that he didn’t want to talk about the down side of his work.  However, I had him talking about his life and I still had a number of questions so I said, “But then what?”

He looked at me.  Was it my imagination or did he suddenly seem sad?

“It’s not all pleasure,” he finally said.  “I go hungry when I can’t find a customer.  Living on the street isn’t like living with a family.  And there’s the occasional odd ball who gets off on kinky stuff like spanking or making me act like a ten-year-old.  One guy even wanted to shave me to make me look like a little kid.  I grabbed my clothes and ran from that one.  Most guys just want a blow job or to fuck me.  That’s the kind of sex I like.”

I felt terribly sorry for the young man.  His problems with kinky customers didn’t affect me nearly as much as his having to live on the street.  That made me think of something.

“Do you ever spend a whole night with a customer and sleep in a real bed?”

“Twice,” he replied.  “Most guys just want a quickie and then I’m off, hoping to find another customer.”

“I don’t have money but I can offer you a bed to sleep in.  I live in the dorm.  My roommate is gone until Sunday night.  You can stay in my room for three nights.  There’s no obligation for sex.  I just want to give you three nights of comfort.  You’ll be free to come and go as you please but you’ll have a bed to sleep in ... and a hot shower if you want.  How about it?”

“You don’t want sex?” he asked in a tone of disbelief.

“I would love to have sex with you but that’s not why I made the offer.  It’s not much but I’d simply like to do you a favor.  And I would enjoy having company.”

“I’d like to, mister, but I’m supposed to meet one of my regular customers tonight.”

“Like I said, you’re free to come and go as you like.  Will you spend the night with him?”

“Nah.  All he wants is to undress me in the back of his van and jerk me off.  By that time, he’s hard.  He gives me a quick fuck, pays me, and says goodbye.”

“Okay.  Come with me to the dorm.  You can shower.  Change clothes if you like.  I’m guessing you have clothes in your gym bag.”

He looked at me for a long time without speaking.  I was about to encourage him further but he asked, “Why are you doing this?”

“I told you.  I want to do you a favor.  You’re a good kid who’s had a tough time.  Maybe I can make it easier for you ... at least for a few nights of decent sleep.”

“Okay,” he said.

I took him to my dorm room.  It was sparsely furnished but he was impressed with the books, the posters, and the clothes in the closet.  I asked if he wanted to shower and he said that would be nice.  I gave him a towel, soap, and shampoo, and then said, “The dorm is almost empty but I think I’d better go with you in case someone finds a stranger in the shower.  I’ll introduce you as my cousin who’s visiting.  What’s your name?”

“Jose Delgado.”

“Mine is Ray Simpson.  You don’t have to call me Mister any more.”

He took a very long, very hot shower and seemed to enjoy it thoroughly.  Since there was no longer any need to conceal my sexual interests, I didn’t try to be discrete.  I took full advantage of the opportunity to feast my eyes on his sleek, firm body as he dried himself.  He noticed my admiring stare, grinned, and made a conscious effort to show me his manly cock and balls.  He even turned away from me and bent over to dry his legs, showing me his firm ass and puckered hole.  His exhibition gave me an erection.  I tried to hide it but he saw it anyway and laughed, “You like what you see, Mister?”

“Yes,” I said hoarsely.  “Very much.  But call me ‘Ray.’  No more Mister.  Okay?”

“Okay, Ray,” he said as he faced me and took an unnecessary amount of time to dry his crotch.

As we walked back to my room, my promise of no sex haunted me.  I had been sincere in inviting him only for a few nights sleep in a real bed but my resolve to keep my promise was fading.  Lust was eroding my integrity.

In my room, I went to my half of the closet for some clean clothes.  Jose dug through his gym bag for his. 

When I saw that his clothes were not only dirty but threadbare and ragged. I said, “It looks like your clothes have seen better days.  I have some I don’t need.”

I pulled out a pair of chino slacks from my closet, a tee shirt, a sweat shirt, and two pair of socks from a drawer, and handed them to him.  “Take these.  To keep.  You’ll look even more handsome in them.”

He looked at me.  I was afraid I had insulted him with my offer.  “Mine are sort of dirty, aren’t they?”

“That’s understandable,” I said, trying to soften the criticism implied by my offer.

I thought I saw a tear in his eye as he looked at me and said, “Why are you being so nice to a whore-boy?”

“STOP IT!” I exclaimed.  “You’re not a whore-boy.  I’ve already told you.  You’re a young man who had the good sense to get out of a bad environment ... who has the initiative to make it on your own ... who uses the talents you can to survive.  Why am I being nice?  Because I respect you!  There’s not much I can do to help you except give you a few nights of comfort but you deserve that and more.”

He seemed startled at my emphatic tone and just stood looking at me.  Suddenly, he wrapped his arms around my waist, laid his head on my shoulder, and cried.  I returned his hug and held him tightly.  We stood there with only the towels around our waists preventing full-body, skin-on-skin contact.  Were it not for his tears and shuddering sobs, it would have been highly erotic.  But at that moment, all I felt was sympathy for a young man who no doubt had a lot of potential but was the victim of both poverty and others’ hatred of homosexuals.

When he gained a little control of his emotions, he apologized for crying.  I assured him that it was okay for a man to cry and he should not be ashamed of it.  He seemed to settle down and I led him to over to sit on the edge of my bed.  What came next took me completely by surprise.

He took off the towel from his waist and dropped it on the floor.  He took off my towel and dropped it on top of his.  He lay back down, pulling me down to lay beside him.  He crawled on top of me and began kissing me.  I wondered if it was just gratitude.  My question was answered when he ground his crotch into mine.  His motives may have included gratitude but he seemed to want sex.

I pushed his face away and said, “I promised you.  You’re not obligated to have sex with me.”

“But I want it!” he exclaimed.  “I want you.  I’ve wanted you ever since I saw you in the park.  This is not business like the others.  I like you.  I want to make you happy.  I want to be happy too.  Please don’t say no.  Let me make love to you.”

I didn’t need any more convincing.  As a frustrated homosexual, I was about to lose my virginity.  I had been propositioned by a street hustler but was in bed with a tragic and admirable young man who was demanding sex ... not for money, not entirely out of appreciation for a small favor, but (I wanted to think) because a deeper bond had been formed between us.

More than an hour later, after an experience that has persisted vividly in my memory for decades, we broke our contended embrace and got out of bed.

“Let’s get some supper,” I said.  “Then you can go to your appointment with your customer.”

“That’s all right,” he said.  “You bought me a big lunch.  You don’t have to buy me supper, too.”

“Nonsense,” I replied.  “I have to eat anyway and I’d like to have the company of a handsome young man.  Now let’s get dressed.”

He gave me a hug and a kiss and said, “Thanks, Mister ... I mean thanks, Ray.”

My clothes were a little big for his small frame but they made a world of difference in his appearance.  He was as sexy as when he was naked.  They seemed to make a difference in his attitude as well.  As we walked down the hall, out of the dorm, and down the street to a diner, he held his head high and there was a new bounce in his step.  The diner was small but it served good food in ample portions at a reasonable price.  His delight at being able to enter a restaurant without fear of being thrown out was obvious.

As we ate, he had one question after another about my life on a ranch, about my family, about my classes, and my future plans.  On the way back to the dorm, he stopped at the entrance to the subway on 116th Street.  He had to go downtown to meet his customer.  We made arrangements to meet in front of the dorm between 9:30 and 10 so I could escort him into the building.

At half past 10 I was nearly frantic worrying about Jose.  I let my imagination conjure up all kinds of problems he may have encountered: mugging, kidnapping, injury from a lustful and careless customer.  But then I saw him round the corner of a classroom building.  He saw me and ran a hundred yards with a grin that laid waste to all my worries.  He threw his arms around me and hugged me so tight it took my breath away.

Excitedly, he blurted out, “He brought a friend!  Paid me double!  I’m rich!”

“I’m happy for you, Jose.”

“That’s not the best part, Ray.  He has two or three other friends.  No more quickies in the back of his van. 

He wants me to stay in his apartment and entertain his friends when they get horny.”

“That’s quite a stroke of luck,” I said while wondering what kind of men Jose would be servicing.  Would they treat him with the respect he deserved or would they merely use him for sexual satisfaction? 

Although he would have a place to stay, I had lingering worries about his well-being.  “I hope he doesn’t expect you to service his friends for free.”

His exuberance only increased when he said, “No!  They’ll pay me.  He’ll get his sex for my room and board.  I couldn’t be happier, Ray.  I’ll be off the streets.  I won’t go hungry.  I’ll have money for clothes and stuff.  And I’ll get all the sex I want!”

“That’s wonderful,” I said.

Then, he looked at me with a serious expression and said, “He wanted me to go home with him tonight.  I told him I couldn’t until Sunday.  I want to spend more time with you.  I like you a lot, Ray.  You’ve treated me like a real person.  I’m going to miss you.  I want to give you as much happiness as you’ve given me while I can.”

That night, much of Saturday, Saturday night, and part of Sunday, Jose and I were dressed only to go out for a quick meal.  Much of the time, we were in bed where he introduced me to an astonishing array of sensual and sexual pleasures.

We both cried as we said goodbye on Sunday afternoon.  He left for a new home.  I was left with cherished memories of a spectacular few days with a young man whose future, I prayed, would bring him joy.

Chapter Two

It was two weeks before the end of the spring semester of my freshman year.  It had been a difficult for a country boy from Wyoming to adjust to the hectic life in New York City and even more difficult to manage the demands of college classes.  I had been able to get good grades but only because I spent so much time studying.

It was not as difficult for my roommate in the dorm.  He lived in the Hamptons on Long Island, had attended a private prep school, and seemed to already know much of what was taught in the freshman classes.  Our differences manifested themselves early in the school year.  He frequently and not too subtly insulted me as a “farm boy living in Indian Territory,” teased me about not having fashionable clothes, and criticized what he felt was my lack of preparation for college.  His arrogance was intolerable.  I tried to ignore his snobbery but it ate away at me until, shortly after Spring break, I lost my temper.  All the hurt that he had been heaping on me erupted.  Since that heated argument, we spoke to each other only when it was absolutely necessary.  What could have been a beneficial friendship was anything but.

I had formed no real friendships with other students, because I had to spend so much time studying.  I had a number of acquaintances but no one I could call a friend.  Loneliness and homesickness were my occasional and depressing companions.

Except for those few days during Spring Break.  I frequently recalled them—three wonderful days with a seventeen year old boy I met in Riverside Park, a homeless hustler who solicited me for sex.  Since losing my virginity that weekend, my fist was my only source of relief.  I would have liked to have seen Jose again but it was not to be.

Or so I thought.

I picked up my mail one Wednesday afternoon, the day a check for living expenses usually came from my parents.  I was surprised to find another letter in my mail box.  I was even more surprised at the return address.  It was from Jose Delgado, the young hustler who had brought so much joy to my life.  I rushed to my dorm room, confident that my asshole roommate would be in class and I could read the unexpected letter in private.

In my room, I tore open the envelope.  A handwritten letter was inside:

Dear Ray

     I hope you are well.  I’m fine.  I still live with my customer.  I service his friends and they pay me good money.  I’m not hungry any more.  I have good clothes too.

     I want you to know how much I appreciated your kindness.  You treated me like a person.  Not a queer whore boy.

     I’m OK.  But I miss you.  I get all the sex I want but it’s just business.  Not like when you and I were together.  I think about you all the time.  Even when somebody is fucking me I pretend it’s you.

     I guess school is about over and you’ll be going back to Wyoming soon.  I’d like to see you before you go.  To tell you how much I miss you.  I’d like to spend some time with you (in bed!)  No business.  No money.  Just fun.

     Please call me at 555-1212 on Friday.  Even if you don’t want to get together I would like to talk to you.  PLEASE!

Your friend,

Jose

P.S.  Robert (my customer) has gone to Texas.  He’ll be gone until Monday.  I’m here alone.  Does that give you any ideas?

I read the letter over and over.  It was too good to be true.  Jose seemed to be happy living with his customer.  Best of all, he was inviting me to visit him so we could share our bodies.  What more could I want?  How could I turn him down?

Time dragged by until Friday, the time when he wanted me to call.  At ten, right after my first class, I nearly ran to the corner of Amsterdam Avenue and 114th Street where there was a phone booth.  (Yes, a phone booth!  With a door for privacy.  At that time, cell phones were far in the future.)

My fingers trembled as I dialed the number.  I grew more nervous as the phone rang three times.  Then, a formal voice said, “Sampson residence.”

I didn’t expect that.  The voice was so formal sounding.  There was a hint of an accent, very much like Jose’s but it sounded much older than I remembered.  Perhaps it was Sampson.  Had I read the letter right?  It said Friday ... but which Friday?

“Jose?” I asked tentatively, holding my breath.

“Ray!  It’s you!  You called!”  The exuberance left no room for doubt that it was Jose as he continued in rapid-fire bursts of excitement.  “I was worried that you wouldn’t call.  I was afraid you wouldn’t want to see me again.  I miss you, Ray!  Can you come see me?”

“I miss you, too, Jose.  Are you all right?”

“I’m fine.  Really.  Except that I miss you.  Can you come visit me?  Please!”

In several minutes of conversation, he assured me that he was being treated well by his host and by all his customers.  We arranged to meet at five in front of his apartment building.  He gave me the address on Park Avenue near 48th Street.  “We’ll have dinner,” he said, “And then come back to the apartment.”  I knew what would happen then and almost sprouted a boner thinking about it.

I mentally calculated how I would have to scrimp in order to buy our dinner.  But, I quickly concluded, it would be more than worth it.

In my two remaining classes of the day, I couldn’t concentrate on what the Profs were saying.  Afterwards, I showered, put on fresh clothes, and told my asshole roommate that I would not be around until Sunday night.  Normally, I would have said nothing but I didn’t want him to report me missing when I was gone for two nights.

In my eagerness to see Jose, I arrived at the apartment building at half past four.  Jose must have also been eager because he was standing on the sidewalk waiting for me.  He saw me approaching, rushed up to me, and gave me a big hug.  It felt wonderful but I worried about what the passers-by would think.

He had filled out since I saw him a few weeks earlier.  Rather than the scrawny kid I remembered, he was a healthy looking young man and even more attractive.

“Pretty classy neighborhood,” I remarked.

“Yeah,” he gushed.  “Not bad for a kid from public housing in the Bronx.”

He led me over to Madison Avenue and pointed to an Italian restaurant.  “There it is,” he said.  “Some of the best food you ever ate.”

I shuddered to think of the menu prices as we entered but, as I had previously decided, being with Jose was worth it.  The maitre de greeted Jose warmly.  “Ah, Signore Delgado.  Good to see you again.  I have a nice table by the window.  Right this way.”

“Thanks, Donato,” Jose said.  “But is the booth in the back available?”

“Of course,” the maitre de said officiously.  “It’s still early, you can sit wherever you like.”

The booth was more of an alcove with partitions high enough to block any view except for one end of the empty bar.  A half-round table and a semi-circular bench with leather upholstery would comfortably seat six or more.  Jose slid in to the center of the bench.  I followed.

“No, slide over here next to me,” Jose said as he patted the place next to him.

When I was beside him, he said, “Thanks for coming, Ray.”  He placed his hand on my inner thigh, gave me a quick kiss on the lips.

Instinctively, I recoiled from his kiss.  In my mind that was something that a closeted gay must never do in a public place.  The consequences of being outed were too dire.  Jose, possibly offended by my rejection of his bold move, was initially confused.

“Not here,” I said.  “Not now.  Let’s save it for later when we’re alone.”

He laughed.  “It’s okay, Ray.  Everybody here knows what I am and what I do.  They may not approve of my life but I bring them a lot of business so they tolerate it ... as long as their other customers don’t see it.  I always check.  Nobody saw us.”

His remarks told me two things.  First, he had been here often with customers.  It was now clear how the maitre de knew him and gave him preferential treatment.  That solved a mystery that had puzzled me since we entered the restaurant.  Second, he had evolved from the pitiful street hustler I had met just weeks before; he was poised, confident, and comfortable with himself.  That was only a mild surprise because I knew from the beginning that he was bright and adaptable.

Before I could apologize, the waiter brought our menus.  One glance at the menu induced panic.  The price of one meal was nearly my weekly budget for food.

“I know what you’re thinking,” Jose grinned.

“Oh?”

“Yes.  You’re worried about the prices.  Don’t be.  This is my treat.  You bought me several meals.  I’m returning the favor.”

“But the meals I bought were from McDonald’s and a cheap diner,” I objected.  “This place is ... well ... extravagant!”

“Don’t think of price, Ray.  Think of value.  You bought my meals when I really needed them.  The cost of those meals doesn’t begin to equal how much I appreciated them.  I know you couldn’t afford them but you paid for them anyway.  Your generosity was priceless.”

“But...” I continued to object.  I wanted to ask if he could afford it but couldn’t decide how to ask without being condescending.

“But nothing,” he interrupted. “It’s a lot like the service I give to my customers.  They’re horny and frustrated.  I give them satisfaction.  Back when we met, I was hungry.  You fed me but the food was nothing compared to the satisfaction of being treated with kindness and respect.  In that weekend we spent together, I wasn’t a queer whore boy.  I’ll never be able to repay you for that.”

I looked at him with an increased sense of admiration.  “You’re an amazing young man, Jose.”  I glanced out at the dining room.  Seeing no one, I gave Jose a short but meaningful kiss.  He grinned appreciatively.

As I studied the menu, he said, “I know what you’re thinking.”

“Again?”

“Yes.  You’re wondering how I can afford to bring you here.”

“The thought had occurred to me,” I confessed.

“My customers pay me very well.  And they keep coming back for more.  I have very few expenses.  So don’t even look at the prices; just order what you want.”

After the best meal I had had since leaving Wyoming, Jose signed the check and we walked back to the apartment building where Jose lived.  He greeted the doorman by name and we took the elevator to the tenth floor.  The apartment could only be described as elegant: luxurious furnishings, obviously expensive art work on the walls, and a commanding view of Park Avenue below.  He led me to his large bedroom.  Against one wall was a king-sized bed with a mirrored headboard.  A love seat and armchair was in one corner.  Built-in cabinets along the length of one wall housed a large-screen TV and component music system on open shelves and who knows what behind several cabinet doors.

Before I could comment on the sumptuousness room, he embraced me in a hug with an intensity I didn’t expect.  “I’ve missed you so much,” he said.  “I only wish that ...”

“You wish what?” I asked.

“Never mind.  Let’s get naked.”

I needed no further persuasion.  Clothes dropped carelessly to the floor.  Passions elevated to fever pitch.  Penises engorged.  The bed hosted not a paying customer and a service-provider but two young men who yearned to express their feelings for each other.

Was it because I had once experienced the joy of sexual intimacy and then had to live without it?  Or had Jose’s skill improved?  Whatever the reason, the next hour was a fabulous mixture of sensual delight and physical satisfaction.

As we lay in an embrace, recuperating, Jose asked, “Are you happy, Ray?”

“I’m deliriously happy, Jose.  I can’t begin to imagine what would make me happier.  What you did ... no, the way you did it ... was simply awesome.”

Jose grinned and said, “I try to do my best with customers but that’s to keep them coming back.  With you, it’s different.  I tried to do my best with you because I wanted to make you happy.”

“I hope your customers recognize your extraordinary talent,” I said.

“They always come back for more and sometimes give me a generous tip.  I guess that means they’re pleased.”

I had to know so I asked, “Are they good to you?  Do they treat you with the respect you deserve?  Or do they just use you for their selfish pleasure?”

“They’re not mean to me if that’s what you want to know.  I don’t really know what they think of me but I can tell you that all of them are just customers to me.  I try to make them happy but it’s business.  It’s not like with you.  I want to make you happy because I like you.”

“And I like you, Jose.”

“For more than the sex?” he asked with half a grin.

“For much more,” I replied.  “You’re courageous, bright, considerate, ambitious ... I could go on and on.”

“Do I make you happy?” he asked.

I didn’t think he was fishing for more compliments.  There was a very serious tone to his voice.  There seemed to be something behind his question.  I didn’t know him well but well enough to sense that something was bothering him.

“You make me very happy,” I replied while wondering whether I dared probe into what might be troubling him.

He was quiet for several minutes before he said, “Do you think that ...”  He didn’t finish the sentence.

“Do I think what, Jose?”

He hugged me more tightly.  I felt his tears falling onto my shoulder.  I gave him a few minutes but when he remained, silent and crying, I said. “Talk to me, Jose.  Tell me what’s bothering you.”

He rose off my shoulder and sat on the edge of the bed wiping away his tears.  I rose to sit beside him and hug him.

“I’ve got it good here, Ray.  But I’m just a whore boy.  I want to make something of myself.  I want to finish high school.  Maybe go to college like you.  But most of all, I want to love somebody and be loved back.  I enjoy sex with my customers but it’s empty.  There’s no feeling.  Not like when I’m with you.  I wish ...”  He stopped talking and dropped his head to his chest.

“You wish what, Jose?”

He stiffened and seemed to be pulling away from my hug.  “I wish for the impossible!” he forcefully exclaimed.  “I wish that we could be together.  Forever!  I wish that you loved me as much as I love you.  But that’s impossible!  You’re in college.  I’m a whore boy.  You will graduate and go back to Wyoming.  I’ll be here sucking and fucking and hoping that Robert doesn’t throw me out.  I’d be out on the street again.  There!  I’ve said it!  If you want to go away and never see me again, I wouldn’t blame you.  You don’t need a queer whore boy complicating your life.”

I was stunned by his emphatic, emotional outburst.  I never suspected the depth of his affection for me.  The way he degraded himself by continuing to see himself as a whore boy disturbed me.  I admired him, I worried about him, and, yes, I cared for him but I had never considered a committed relationship.

I put my hand under his chin, raised his head, and said, “Look at me!  Let’s get a few things straight!  First of all, you’re not a whore boy.  You’re a resourceful young man who escaped from a bad environment.  Sure, you sell sex for money but you have the good sense to want something more.  Second.  I’m not going to walk out on you.  And that’s not because you’re good in bed.  It’s because you’re a somebody—a somebody with intelligence and ambition that deserves help.  And finally, I’m flattered that you love me.  But I have to be honest with you, Jose.  I haven’t even considered a committed relationship.  You’ll have to give me some time to think that through.  In the meantime, I want to be your friend.  I want to do whatever I can to help you.  I want to see you as often as I can.  And not for the sex as good as that is.  I want to be sure that you don’t get hurt.”

He looked into my eyes for a moment, then threw his arms around me, and laid his head on my shoulder.  Through his tears, he said, “That’s why I love you, Ray.  When you look at me you don’t just a see a cock and an asshole.  You see me as a somebody.”

We lay back down and cuddled for a long, quiet time.  My mind was racing.  Beyond the pure bliss of holding a handsome young man in my arms, I was overcome with his confession of love for me.  Simultaneously, I was deeply troubled by thoughts of his future.  He had the intelligence and initiative to be successful but he lacked the resources and opportunity for an education that would make it possible.  Most significantly, I was conflicted over the prospect of the committed relationship that he said he wanted.  I would welcome it but realistically knew it was highly impractical and therefore unlikely.

My torturous thoughts were interrupted when Jose whispered in my ear, “I know what you’re thinking.”

“Not again!” I exclaimed.  “This time, I’ll bet you’re wrong.”

He chuckled and said, “We’ll see!  You’re thinking about me.  And my future.  That’s why I love you, Ray.  You care about other people.  Well, don’t worry.  I’ll be fine.  I can look out for myself.  You’re also thinking about us.  You’re wondering how you can tell me that we can’t be together forever.  I already know that.  So don’t let it bother you.  I’m sorry I said anything.”

“You’re only half right,” I said as if I had won the bet.  “You’re right that I worry about you but you’re wrong about my not wanting to be with you.  The simple truth is that I can’t think of a better person to spend my life with.  I’m not going to walk out on you because it would hurt me as much as you.”

He kissed me and said, “I don’t want you to leave but I’ll understand if you do.”

Much later that evening, we shared a highly erotic and satisfying sexual experience before turning out the light to go to sleep.  Jose was nestled tightly against me when he fell asleep.  I couldn’t sleep for a long time trying desperately to resolve my concerns for the young man and sort out the depth of my feelings for him.

The next morning we showered—together and with the inevitable sex play—and ate breakfast in the nude.  During breakfast, I hatched a plan that just might be possible.

“Jose, I’ve done a lot of thinking since last night.  I’ve come to the conclusion that I care for you more than I realized.  I’ve respected you from the day we met.  I’ve wanted to help you and felt frustrated that I couldn’t do more.  That much I’ve known all along.  Now, it’s different.  I really care for you, Jose.  I don’t know if it’s love because I’ve never been in love and I don’t know what that’s like.  But I was serious when I told you that I can’t think of a better person to spend my life with.”

He grinned.  “Even though I’m a whore boy?”

I pounded the table with my fist and shouted, “STOP IT!  RIGHT NOW!  You’re not a whore boy!  You’ve got to stop thinking of yourself that way!”

My flare-up seemed to frighten him.  Very meekly he said, “I was joking, Ray.  I’m sorry.”

“Okay,” I said more calmly.  “But it’s not true and it’s a bad joke.”

I leaned over and kissed him by way of apologizing for my outburst.  Then I continued with my fanciful plan.  “We both know it will be difficult but I have a few ideas and I want to know what you think of them.”

“I’m listening,” he replied.

“First, let’s talk about your education.  You can get your high school diploma.  There’s something called a GED.  You study and take a test given by the state.  If you pass the test, you have your diploma.”

“Gee, I’m not sure I can do that.  My grades were good but I missed most of my senior year in high school.”

“That’s the second part of my plan,” I said.  “I can help you study over the summer so you’ll be prepared for the test next fall.”

He looked confused.  “But you’ll be in Wyoming and I’ll be here.  I don’t see how you can help me.”

“That’s the tricky part of my plan,” I replied.  “Suppose you were in Wyoming with me.  I really don’t know if that’s possible but there may be a way.  First of all, you’ll have to buy a bus ticket.  My parents will send me money for my bus ticket but it won’t be enough for both of us.  Do you think you can buy your own ticket to come with me?”

“Maybe.  How much does it cost?”

“About a hundred dollars,” I replied.  [Author’s note:  Remember, this happened in the mid-1960’s when Greyhound busses were common and the fare was a fraction of air fare.]

“Easy!” he exclaimed.  His excitement was visibly increasing at the thought of spending the summer with me in Wyoming.

“Settle down,” I cautioned.  “There’s one more problem to solve.  I have to clear it with my parents but here’s my plan.  I’ll tell them that you will work on the ranch in exchange for room and board.  There’s a lot of work that has to be done and maybe—just maybe—they’ll welcome the help.  It’s hard work, Jose, not at all like what you have here.  You’ll get dirty, you’ll get tired, you’ll probably have a lot of sore muscles and blisters at first, but if you’re willing to try it, it means we can spend the summer together and you can get ready for the GED test.”

He looked at me for several moments, possibly trying to digest the opportunity.  Finally, he grinned and exclaimed, “YES!  I’ll do it!”

He jumped up off his chair, threw his arms around me, and said, “I’d do anything to be with you, Ray.”

“Hold on!” I warned.  “There are still two problems to solve.  First, my parents have to agree.  I’m not sure they will.”

His grin faded to what looked to me like an expression of disappointment.  I suddenly regretted raising his hopes and then crushing them.  “There’s no guarantee, Jose, but I’ll try my best to convince them.”

“Okay,” he said morosely and then asked, “What’s the second problem?”

“That’s a problem I want you to solve,” I said.  “If my parents agree, I want you to tell your parents where you’re going.  I want you to write to them often to let them know you’re all right.  Have you contacted your parents since you left home?”

He saddened and admitted, “No.  I lied to them about going in the army.  I just can’t tell them what I’ve really been doing.  They would be upset and ashamed of me.  As ashamed as I am.”

I understood his dilemma.  Perhaps expecting him to contact his parents with the truth was too much to ask of him.  “Let me think a minute,” I said.

I didn’t want to demand that he do something he wouldn’t or couldn’t do.  But I was bothered that his parents had lost one son, another was in prison, and they couldn’t help but be worried over their third son.  After wrestling with the problem, I said, “It seems to me that you have three choices, Jose.  And the choice has to be yours to make.  First option: you could not contact your parents.  They are no doubt wondering and worrying about you.  That’s got to be very hard on them.  Second option: you can contact them and tell them the truth—that you lied about the army and have been selling sex to customers.  You know best how they would feel about that but I suspect they would be very disappointed.  Third option: you can contact them and assure them that you’re all right.  That would be a relief to them but you’ll have to make up a story to explain why you haven’t contacted them for several months.  I don’t like the idea of lying to your parents again but it might be justified.  It would ease the hurt they must feel about not hearing from you.”

Jose sat staring at his empty plate while he weighed his options.  Then, tears came to his eyes as he said, “I really do love my mom and dad.  I miss them a lot.  I’d like to see them again and tell them I’m all right.  But how can I do that?  They’d want to know about the army.  They’d want to know what I’m doing.  I can’t tell them that; I just can’t do it.”

“Then that leaves the third option,” I said.  “Call them.  Better yet, visit them.  Tell them you love them and miss them.  Make up some story about why you haven’t contacted them.”

“What kind of story?” he asked.

“I don’t know.  Maybe ... this is just an idea ... you could say that the army rejected you because of your age or something.  Then you got a job ... let’s say on a fishing boat.  You’ve been out on the boat and just got back.”

“I don’t like that option either, Ray.  It’s telling another lie.  They would ask why I didn’t call before going out on the boat.  And if they ever found out what I’ve been doing, the lie about it would only make things worse.”

“Okay,” I said.  “So far, you have three bad options.  Let’s take some time to think about it.”

Jose nodded in agreement but his expression revealed how perplexed he was.  We cleared the table and washed the dishes in silence.  When that task was done, he said, “Can we go back to bed?  Not for sex.  I just want you to hold me.”

“And I want to hold you, Jose.”

We cuddled for a long time in bed, hugging each other.  Jose, no doubt, was struggling with his sincere desire to see his parents, my insistence that he do so, and what to say about his prolonged absence.  Meanwhile, I was hoping that his decision, whatever it might be, would be the right one.

Finally, Jose said, “I know what I have to do, Ray.  But I might need your help.  I’m going to go home to visit my parents.  I’m going to tell them that the army rejected me, that I couldn’t find a job, and what I’ve been doing.  I’m going to apologize and hope that they forgive me.”

“Are you sure that’s what you want?” I asked.

“Yes.  I hate having to do it but they deserve the truth.  Besides, if my wish comes true and we live together, the truth about being queer will come out.”

“Okay,” I replied.  “But don’t say anything to them about going to Wyoming.  Not until I talk to my parents.”

Later that day, I phoned my parents.  They were surprised that I wanted to bring a friend home for the summer.  I didn’t say anything about how we met or our real relationship.  That should be said in person after I got home.  They were not enthusiastic but were agreeable to having some extra help around the ranch.

When I told Jose the good news, he exploded in a fit of delirious delight that I couldn’t have imagined.  He said that he had a regular Tuesday night customer but on Wednesday he would visit his parents.

“Are you still sure you want to tell them the truth?” I asked.

“Yes,” he replied with no hesitation.

“You said you might need my help.  What do you want from me?”

“After I tell my parents about me—if they don’t throw me out—I’d like them to meet you.  I know they’ll like you.  I just know it!  They’ll feel better about my going to Wyoming if they know you are looking out for me.  Will you do it?”

“That’s a good idea,” I said.  “I’d like the chance to tell them what a wonderful person you are and they should be proud of you.”

We spent the remainder of the weekend enjoying each other’s company and, of course, lavishing affection on each other in bed.  Sunday afternoon came all too quickly and I had to return to campus.  It was a tearful parting for both of us.

By that time, I was almost ready to acknowledge that I loved Jose but I was reluctant to admit it to myself.  There were very serious practical considerations: my schooling, my dependence on my parents for financial support, his finding a job and possibly a place to live in the fall, and the unfavorable odds of two young homosexuals forming a lasting bond.  Surpassing those severe problems, however, was the magnitude of making an emotional commitment.  I cared for Jose.  I wanted very much to help him.  But how much of my attachment was due to the fact that he had been my first and only sexual partner?  Was I letting my sensual needs trump my reasoning?

For the next week, I tried to keep busy preparing for final exams but thoughts of Jose frequently intruded into my concentration.  He had decided not to tell Robert Sampson that he was moving out and leaving for Wyoming until just before we left.  Rightly, I think, he was afraid his host would feel betrayed and evict him on the spot.  He regretted the deception until I reminded him that even though the old man had provided a place to live, his only interest was in selfish sexual gratification.

Just after supper on Friday night, I was studying for my last final exam on Monday when I heard a knock on my dorm room door.  My asshole roommate opened the door and I heard Jose say, “Is Ray here?”

“Who wants to know?” he said sarcastically.

Before Jose could answer, I pushed past my roommate and said, “Let’s go somewhere.”  Glaring at my roommate, I said, “I need some fresh air.”

We walked around campus for almost an hour during which time Jose told me of his visit to his parents.  They were, of course, delighted to see him.  When he worked up courage to tell them the lie about being rejected by the army and the truth about what he had been doing, they were shocked.  His mother cried; his father turned coldly silent.  Jose then broke the news that he was going to Wyoming for the summer to work on a ranch with a friend.  Naturally, they wanted to know who the friend was and Jose explained how we met and that I had treated him with respect and kindness.  Upon questioning from his father, Jose admitted that he loved me and that we had had sex.  During nearly two hours of discussion, his parents calmed down.  They disapproved of what he had been doing but finally agreed that working on a ranch was far better than selling sex.  But they definitely wanted to meet me.

“Can you come and meet my parents?” Jose asked.

“Of course,” I said.  “When?”

“Tonight?” he asked.  “I know you have to study but it would mean a lot to me and my parents if you could spare the time.”

“Let me change clothes and we’ll be on our way,” I said. 

We took the subway to the South Bronx.  We couldn’t talk much on the way because the train was crowded.  When walking from the station to his apartment building Jose grew visibly nervous.  For that matter, so was I.  The neighborhood had seen its best days but seemed to me to be a borderline slum.  Adults, teens, and children on the street eyed us suspiciously as we passed.  I was increasingly happy that I was helping Jose out of his unfortunate environment.

We reached his apartment building.  The elevator was out of service, which Jose said was common, so we climbed five flights of stairs.  Empty beer cans and whiskey bottles littered the stairway.  The smell of pot and urine was noxious.  Little wonder that Jose felt compelled to escape that environment.

Jose inserted a key and opened the door to apartment 514.  I was struck by how tidy the apartment was although the furniture was sparse and showed its age.  His mother came out of the kitchen to meet us and promptly gave her son a long, motherly hug while his father rose from an easy chair.  Jose introduced me to his parents.  His mother exuded a warm, welcoming manner but I sensed hostility and suspicion from his father.

For more than an hour, I was the target of a barrage of questions.  Yes, I knew all about Jose’s recent sexual activities but I respected his courage, initiative, resilience, and ambition.  I emphasized how proud they should be of his character and intelligence.  I answered in detail all their questions about my family, living on a ranch, and the work Jose would be doing.  I inserted in that explanation my insistence that Jose write frequently so they would know he was all right.  They asked about my future plans.  I had to be honest and reply that I was majoring in business management but that may change but I would probably return to Wyoming permanently after college.

Then came a question that I half-expected and was not fully ready to answer.  His father gave me a steely look and said, “Jose says he is marica.”  (Jose interrupted to explain that meant homosexual.)  “He says you are marica too.  He says you have ... you have been in bed together.  He says he loves you like a man loves a woman.  I want to know, do you love him like a husband and wife love each other?”

I had given that question a lot of thought over the previous week and had come to no firm conclusion.  I had trouble separating out two factors.  One, I wanted to help a young man with potential to rise above his background of poverty.  How did that affect my affection for him?  I wasn’t sure.  Two, he had given me the intimacy that I had craved for so long.  Was my appreciation masquerading as love?  I wasn’t sure.  Did I really love him?  I wasn’t sure.  But I was sure that I could give only one answer to his father that would assure Jose’s future.

“Yes, sir.  I love your son.  I give you my word that I will never hurt him or let anyone else hurt him.  I promise you that I will do everything I can to make him happy.  And successful.  I want to share my life with him.”

Jose’s father continued looking at me intensely as though he were assessing my sincerity.  I was uncomfortable, worrying that my answer didn’t satisfy him.  But then he said, with no change of expression, “I don’t like what you do together.  But I like you.”  Turning to Jose, he said something in Spanish, which made Jose grin and give his father a hug.

“Papa says he gives his blessing to my going to Wyoming.  He also says that I must never lie to him again and must write a letter at least once a week.”

His father rose from his chair and spoke to Jose, again in Spanish.  Jose replied, “Si, papa.  Te quiero.”  My conversation with Jose’s parents apparently was a success.

Jose turned to me and said, “I will stay here at home until we leave for Wyoming.  I’ll collect my things from Robert’s apartment tomorrow and tell him I’m leaving.  Now, I’ll walk you back to the subway station so you can get back to studying.”

“That’s okay,” I replied.  “I know the way.”

“No,” he objected.  “It’s dark.  It’s not safe for you.  I’ll go with you to the station.”

I appreciated his concern for my safety but was not aware of his other motive until we left the apartment.  In the privacy of the stairwell, he threw his arms around me, gave me a breath-robbing hug and a passionate kiss.  “Thank you, Ray.  I knew my parents would like you.  But I love you!”

I returned to my dorm room thinking of all the ironies of the past few months: a “cowboy kid” attending an Ivy League school; a frustrated virgin homosexual finding joy and satisfaction with a hustler; a young man from an impoverished background showing signs of independence, initiative, and intelligence; parents who loved their son in spite of his “deviant” behavior; and, most of all, my rapid transformation from a frustrated virgin to someone who was on the brink of making a commitment to a life partner.

There are many unexpected twists and turns in life.

Chapter Three

I met Jose at the Greyhound bus station on a balmy day in early June, the day after the last final exam of my freshman year in college.  My mood was a mixture of relief that the arduous school year was over, excitement about returning home to Wyoming, and anxiety over how Jose would adapt to a summer that was quite the opposite of New York City, the only environment he had known in his seventeen years of life.  His mood contrasted with mine; it was pure, uninhibited enthusiasm.  Not only did he look forward eagerly to the adventure but he had achieved—at least for the summer, I had often reminded him—his wish of being with me.

I had no doubt that he was sincere when he said he loved me.  I suspected, however, that his feelings were due only to the fact that I had been kind and respectful toward him and he hungered for that after running away from home where his parents were his only source of unconditional love.  He had known privation as a street hustler.  He had tired of being kept as what is now called a “boy-toy” for a lascivious old man and his equally selfish friends.  Was he grasping for and clinging to the only thing in his life that offered a way out and up?  Would the love he professed for me fade as he matured and found not only life’s opportunities but other, more desirable companions?

I was also conflicted over my own feelings toward him.  I was sure that I cared for him enough to help lift him out of his tragic background.  I respected his character and ambition.  I was also grateful to him for giving me intense sexual satisfaction, a need that had gnawed at me for years.  But was that enough to justify the emotional leap to acknowledging that I loved him?

Perhaps, I hoped, my doubts would be confirmed or shattered by the end of summer.

The bus was crowded until we got to Chicago so we had little chance to talk about what was on our minds.  Instead, we chatted about safer topics: the scenery (He thoroughly enjoyed the window seat.) and what to expect when we arrived at my parents’ ranch: a very modest house surrounded by acres of land; ceaseless and exhausting work; but plenty of fresh air.

The bus west from Chicago was only sparsely filled.  We sat in the back, gratefully isolated from the other passengers up front, where we could cuddle, kiss, and talk more freely.

Night had fallen and the driver turned off the interior lights to allow the passengers to sleep.  But sleep was not foremost in Jose’s mind.

“By the way,” he whispered in my ear.  “I’m legal now.”

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“Today’s my birthday.  I’m eighteen.  You don’t have to worry about having sex with a minor any more.”

“I wish I had known, Jose.  I’d have bought you a birthday present.”

“You have,” he said and kissed me.  “This trip.  Nothing could be better than spending the summer with you.”

“Still,” I replied.  “We ought to celebrate your coming of age.  How’s this?”  I gave him a very long, very passionate kiss.

He snuggled into me even more tightly.  A few miles further on, he said, “I know what you’re thinking.”

“You seem to always know what I’m thinking.  What’s your guess this time?”

He didn’t answer right away.  Instead, he unfastened my belt and began to unzip my fly.

“Not here!  Not now!” I protested.

He smiled at me.  “It’s dark.  Nobody can see us.  Am I right?  Is this what you were thinking about? 

“Well ... almost,” I conceded as he reached down into my boxers to fondle me.

My resistance and better judgment completely failed me.  I lifted my hips, an invitation to pull down my pants so he had unobstructed access.  With my pants down around my ankles, he skillfully applied his talent for the next several miles

I muffled my groans of ecstasy, and, after a brief recovery, kissed him.

“That wasn’t fair!” I whispered.  “It’s your birthday but you gave me a present.”

“Well now,” he said and chuckled.  “What can we do to make it fair?”

I took the hint and gave him his present.  We both enjoyed it—Jose for the crescendo of stimulation and the exploding conclusion—me for making him happy and, to be honest, the thrill of doing it in the back of a moving bus.

“Thanks,” he said.  “I really needed that.  I’ve been saving it all up for you.”

We snuggled together blissfully for the remainder of the night.  Sleeping on a bus is neither comfortable nor restful but with Jose’s arm around my waist and his head on my shoulder, I was more than contented.

We awakened when the bus made a 30-minute stop for breakfast and a bathroom break.  Jose and I argued about who would buy breakfast.  I was astonished when he said, “Ray, my customers paid me well and I didn’t have anything to spend it on.  I have several hundred dollars.  That’s probably more than you have.”

Reluctantly, I yielded to his insistence on buying breakfast.

When we got off the bus in Cheyenne, my parents were waiting to meet us.  They had insisted on driving the four hours down highway 87 from their ranch near Casper because it would have been a six hour layover in Cheyenne.  My parents gave me a hug and warmly welcomed Jose to Wyoming as I knew they would. 

On the long ride home, both Jose and I were peppered with questions.  A few of the questions were land mines; if I answered fully and honestly, I would be revealing the true nature of my relationship with Jose.  Fortunately, I was able to give partial answers and lead the conversation in other directions.  Jose was quick to follow my lead when asked about school, his home life and parents, and what he had been doing since high school.  I admired the way he avoided many details by giving a short answer and then changing the subject.

When we arrived home, it was late.  My mom offered to fix us a meal but I said, “If you don’t mind, it was a long trip and we’d like to go to bed.”

“I understand, dear,” she said.  Turning to Jose, she said, “We only have two bedrooms.  I hope you don’t mind sleeping with Ray.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he replied.  “Ray explained that to me.  I’m sure we’ll be comfortable.”

I almost laughed because, for a change, I knew what Jose was thinking.

Jose and I took our luggage to my room.  It was upstairs in what was once the attic but had been remodeled into a bedroom when I outgrew my crib.  Its location assured a degree of privacy that I appreciated while growing up and even more so now.  It was spacious—larger than my parents’ bedroom—but the sloped walls limited the usable floor space.  We wasted no time unpacking and got into bed naked for some serious love-making.

After breakfast the next day, Jose and I spent all morning and most of the afternoon helping my dad clean out the stalls in the barn (“I never warned you about shoveling shit all summer,” I joked with Jose who only laughed.) and repairing the sagging barn door.  Dad was typically silent for most of the time except to tell us what had to be done and how to do it ... and to ask Jose some questions from time to time.  The questions were, on the surface, a friendly interest in his life in the “big city,” his background, and his interests.  However, a few questions made us both nervous because they might have required Jose to admit to being a hustler.  I thought he handled the questions admirably.

It was our custom to shower off the day’s grime before supper.  Dad, for no particular reason except custom was always the first to shower.   Although I wanted to shower with Jose, I thought it best to suggest that he take the second shower and I would shower after him.

While Jose was in the shower, my dad took me aside and said, “That friend of yours is a good worker, especially for a city boy.  Tell me again how you met.”

Knowing my dad, I suspected there would be many more questions.  “It was during Spring break.  I went down to the park to read.  Jose happened by, we struck up a conversation.”

“So how is it that you became friends?” my dad asked.

The line of questioning seemed to be zeroing in on things I was not ready to disclose.  “I took a liking to him.  He’s bright, personable, ambitious ... he’s not like the typical New Yorker.  He’s authentic ... not like the self-centered, snobby students at school.  I just like talking to him.”

“Is that why you invited him here for the summer?”

“That’s part of it.  But, if you haven’t guessed already, he comes from a miserable background.  His parents love him but he’s lived in poverty, surrounded by drugs and crime.  He had the courage to get out of that environment.  I think he needs help, dad.  I thought spending the summer here would be good for him.”

My dad looked at me for a few moments, making me slightly uncomfortable about what the next question would be.

“And what will he do in the fall when you go back to school?”

“I don’t know yet.  Get a job.  And a place to live.  One thing’s for sure.  I’m going to help him over the summer studying for the GED exam so he can get his high school diploma.”

“I’m proud of you, son.  Helping a young man who deserves help is something more people should be doing.”

It seemed I had successfully satisfied my dad’s curiosity and averted having to divulge more than I wanted to.  “Can I ask a favor, dad?”

“Sure.”

“Could you and mom not pry into his background?  Right now, I think he’s embarrassed and ashamed of where he comes from.  When he gets over that, I’m sure he would be willing to talk about it.”

“Deal!” he said moments before Jose returned from the shower.

A week later, Jose and I were sitting on the steps of the front porch watching the sun set over the Laramie Mountain Range.  Mom and dad had gone in to Casper shopping.

“So what do you think of the Wild West?” I asked.

Jose didn’t answer for a few minutes.  I wondered whether he was deciding how to tell me he didn’t like it.  The work was hard.  As I predicted, he had suffered from sore muscles and blisters.  He may be missing New York City’s constant array of sights and sounds.

“I like it, Ray.  It’s completely different than New York.  And different than what I expected.  But I like it here.  I like your parents.  They’ve been wonderful to me.  It’s no wonder that you’re so kind and accepting of a ...”  His voice trailed off.

“Of a what?” I asked.

“You told me never to call myself that again.”

“Because you aren’t!” I said emphatically.  “You did what you had to do.  Besides, that’s all behind you now.  We have to think of the future.”

“Sure,” he said.  His mood changed suddenly.  He had been enthusiastic about my parent’s treatment of him but his expression turned sullen.  “You have a future.  You’ll finish college and get a job.  When summer’s over, I’ll go back to being a ... to being what I was.”

“Not if you don’t want to, Jose.  Not if you choose to be part of my future.”

He looked at me with a mixture of confusion and astonishment.  “What do you mean?” he asked.

“Remember when you said you loved me?  I said then that I couldn’t think of anybody I’d rather share my life with.  But I also said I needed time to think about committing to a permanent relationship.  Well, I’ve had time to think about it.  I’ve finally realized that I love you and I want to be with you for as long as you’ll have me.”

He looked at me as if in disbelief.  His eyes began to water.  He grabbed me in a hug, laid his head on my shoulder, and cried.  I hugged him back.  That moment of togetherness was heavenly.  Yes, I had helped a boy at a tough time in his life but that paled in comparison to the fulfillment I felt in having a courageous, bright, and caring young man to love and to return that love.  I had made the emotional leap.  I could no longer deny my love for him.  I wanted nothing so much as to be with him, to show my love and accept his, and to dedicate my life to making him—no, both of us as partners—happy.

“Oh, Ray,” he blubbered through his tears.  “I’m the happiest I’ve ever been in my life.  I’m probably the happiest person on earth.”

“It won’t be easy,” I cautioned.  “I have to finish college.  When we go back to New York in the fall, you have to get your GED ... a job ... and a place to live.  Then, when I graduate ... wait ... I’d better ask you.  How do you feel about living in Wyoming?”

“I love it here,” he gushed.  “But I love you more.  I’d live anywhere to be with you.”

“That brings up another issue,” I said.  “My preference is to live somewhere near Casper.  I don’t want to be a rancher like my dad but there are a lot of places in town where I could work.  If we live around here—and that may not happen because we can’t predict the future—it’s inevitable that my parents will find out about us.  It’s better that we tell them.  Your parents already know but we have to decide when and how to tell my parents.”

“I suppose so,” he replied.  “I’m just afraid they’ll hate me when they find out.  For corrupting you, I mean.”

“I don’t think so,” I said without full confidence because they may express their disappointment by focusing their anger on Jose.  He didn’t need that.  I didn’t want that.  Trying to inject an optimistic tone, I continued, “They are not particularly religious so that should not be a big problem.  They’ll be surprised and maybe disappointed but, given time, I think—I hope—they’ll accept it.”

“You would risk hurting them?  For me?”

“I love my parents dearly, Jose, but I love you more.  In a different way, of course.”

“When do you think we ought to tell them?” he asked.

“I don’t know.  Let’s both think about that for a while.”

Within a few weeks, Jose had been introduced to nearly every chore that a ranch requires.  He worked hard and learned quickly, which impressed my dad.  We were both tired at the end of the day but always had time to express our love when we went to bed.  Gradually, he came to be treated almost as a member of the family.  That meant that dad would speak sharply to him (as he did to me) whenever he did something wrong or dangerous.  That bothered Jose at first but I convinced him that it meant he had been accepted and reminded him that my parents often treated him kindly.

The ultimate vote of confidence came in early August.  My dad asked me if, with Jose’s help, we could take care of the ranch over the weekend.  He wanted to take mom to visit her sister in Cheyenne, leaving Friday night and returning Monday night.  It had been over a year since they visited my aunt, he explained, and they needed a little vacation.  Of course, I agreed.  There wasn’t that much to do beyond routine chores that could be finished well before noon.  Jose and I would have plenty of private time, which we had been able to enjoy only in brief periods—at bedtime and occasionally when we were working alone away from the house and barn.

When my parents drove down the lane toward the highway on their way to Cheyenne, Jose grinned at me and said, “I know what you’re thinking.”

“You always seem to know what I’m thinking,” I said, faking irritation.

“You’re thinking about all the sex we can have while we’re here alone.”

“That’s only part of it, Jose.  It isn’t just sex any more.  Sure, we’ll have lots of sex but it’s different now.  It’s a way of expressing our love for each other.  The love part of the equation is what really matters.”

It was a glorious weekend.  We hugged and kissed whenever we wanted.  We showered together.  We had sex anywhere in the house, the barn, or outdoors in the shade of a tree whenever the mood struck us.  We went skinny-dipping in a small tributary of the North Platt River that ran through a corner of the ranch.  We worked hard in the morning but mostly to finish the chores so we could play together the rest of the day.

I was always sure to spend an hour or two each day helping Jose prepare for his GED exam using the books and notes I had used in high school.  He was a quick learner and soon became confident that he could pass the exam for his diploma.  I no longer had to remind him to write to his parents; he had so much to tell them and he wanted them to know how happy he was.

It was during that weekend that I became more convinced the Jose and I belonged together.  But the problem of returning to New York was looming ahead of us.  I would return to college but Jose’s immediate future was uncertain.

As we cuddled together one night in bed, I said, “Jose, I’ve been thinking.”

“I know what you’re thinking,” he said and laughed.  “Not really.  I’m joking.”

“In a few weeks, we’ll have to go back to New York.  I have a few ideas and I want to know what you think about them.  First, I’ll be living in the dorm.  I suggest that you move back in with your parents while you look for a job.”

“You want me to go back to the South Bronx?” he objected.

“Temporarily.  When you have your diploma and if you get a Social Security number, I think there are lots of places that will hire you.  On weekends, we can look for an apartment.  All we need is a clean one-bedroom apartment or studio apartment.  Close to campus.”

“We?” he interrupted with a puzzled look.

“Yes, we.  That brings me to the next part of my plan.  I’m committed to living in the dorm for at least the first semester.  But if we find the right apartment and share the rent, it would cost no more than the dorm.”

His expression brightened considerably.  “Then we can live together?  As a couple?  Really?”

“Yes, really.  Can you put up with that?”

Rather than answering my question, he smothered me with a kiss that was almost violent.

“There’s one more wrinkle in my plan, Jose.  I’ll have to explain to my parents why I’m moving in with you.  That probably means telling them the truth about us.”

“Oh,” he said as his expression turned sour.  “How do you think they’ll take it?”

“I’m not sure,” I said honestly.  “I’m still trying to figure that out.  But one thing I am sure of.  They like you.  They like you a lot.  Both mom and dad have told me how much they admire you.”

“How do you want to tell them?  And when?” he asked.

“The ‘how’ I don’t know yet.  The ‘when’ seems pretty obvious.  It’s not the sort of thing you tell your parents in a letter or on the phone.  It has to be done in person.  That means we tell them before we go back to New York.”

“There’s that ‘we’ again,” he said.  “You want me there when you tell them?”

“Only if you’re willing,” I said.  “But I’d really like you to be there.”

“Okay,” he said.  “But will you do the talking?”

“Most of it.  They may have questions for you and you should feel free to say anything you want.”

Although I knew we had to break the news to my parents, I dreaded it.  When August turned into September, I realized the time was growing short.  I had given a lot of thought to how to tell my parents but none of the options were appealing.

On a Friday evening, just ten days before Jose and I would be returning to New York, we were finishing supper when my dad said, “Jose, you and Ray will be leaving soon and I want to tell you something before you go.  It’s been a real pleasure having you here.  I really appreciate all the work you’ve done on the ranch.  You’re a fine young man and I understand why Ray likes you.”

My mom quickly added, “I couldn’t agree more.  This summer has been like having a second son in the house.  I hope you’ll be able to come visit us again.”

Both Jose and I were pleased with the expression of admiration and friendship.  It seemed like a golden moment—the perfect opportunity to reveal the truth about my relationship with Jose.  “Mom.  Dad.” I began, “I’m glad you see what a terrific person Jose is.  And I—that is, we—have something to tell you.  We’re more than just friends.  There’s no easy way to say this so I’ll come right to the point.  We love each other.  We want to spend the rest of our lives together.  As a couple.  And before you ask, that means that we are homosexual.  We love each other just as deeply as you two love each other.  We can only ask that you understand that our love for each other is genuine.”

I paused to study my parents’ reaction.  Their expressions gave little clue as to how they felt.  There was no hint of a smile or, for that matter, any evidence of displeasure; it was just a blank stare.  Was it confusion?  Disbelief?  I hungered for some kind of reaction but there was none.

I glanced over at Jose.  He had been caught off guard.  He knew that we would be coming out to my parents but I had not told him that this would be the time.  I regretted that but it seemed the right time to say what I did.  I thought I saw fear in his eyes.  And why wouldn’t he be afraid?  In addition to my triggering a potentially explosive situation, my parents’ reaction might jeopardize our relationship.

My stomach was churning and my hands were shaking as I awaited some clue about their reaction.  It was a long, uncomfortable, and fearful moment before dad said, “Are you telling me that you two are queer?”

I was somewhat relieved that his tone was not confrontational; it was quizzical.  “That’s the common term but yes, we’re homosexual.  And we’re in love.”

Dad stared at me for a few more awkward moments.  I had no idea what he was thinking but I feared the worst.  Would he think his only son being queer would challenge his concept of masculinity?  Finally, he said, “How can you be sure, son?  You’re a young man.  Your hormones are in overdrive.  It may be just a stage you’re going through.”

“No, dad.  I’ve known for years that I’m attracted to men.  Girls don’t interest me; they never have.  I’ve kept it a secret thinking that maybe it was just a passing phase but my feelings have only grown stronger.  It’s not a phase or a sickness or a sin.  It’s who I am, dad.  When I got to know Jose, I admired him from the start.  The more I leaned about him—his courage, integrity, and ambition, the more I was sure that he was the one I wanted to share my life with.”

“Well,” he said, now turning aggressive.  “I never would have guessed.  You’ve lied to me.”

“No, dad.  I haven’t lied to you.  Everything I’ve ever said to you is the truth.  Except when I was a little boy and wanted to keep out of trouble.  I’ve kept a secret from you, yes, but I haven’t lied.  And I’m not lying to you now.  I love Jose.  He loves me.  We plan to spend our lives together.”

Dad turned to mom and said, “Did you know about this?”

“No,” she said.  “But I guess I’m less surprised than you are.  Mothers sense things that fathers don’t.  Call it intuition ... call it a hunch ... I can’t explain it but I sensed a bond between Ray and Jose.  Until this minute, I thought they were just very good friends.  I never suspected they were more than that.”

For the next fifteen minutes, using what I had read in the public library over the years, I tried to convince my parents (mostly my dad) that homosexuality was far more common then he thought, that it wasn’t a choice I made, and that it wasn’t something that can be ‘cured.’  I concluded by emphasizing that our decision to live together was based on our love for each other.

I don’t think he was fully convinced.  He took the conversation in a new direction.  “What about your education?  Your mother and I had hopes for you.  You’re too intelligent to be a rancher like me.  You have promise.  You can’t give up on your education and making something of yourself.”

“I don’t plan to give up my education.  And believe me, I know what you have sacrificed to make it possible.  What you’ve taught me about independence, hard work, and responsibility enabled me to win the scholarship.  I love you for what you’ve given me.  I’ll always love you for it.  I just hope you can understand that I am what I am.  If I’ve disappointed you or hurt you, I’m truly sorry but I had to be honest with you.”

A few more awkward moments of silence passed.  I was glad my dad hadn’t exploded in rage and my mom hadn’t collapsed in tears.  But I knew the discussion was not over.

Finally, dad said in a surprisingly calm voice, “Go out to the barn.  Both of you.  Change the oil in the tractor.  Take your time.  Your mother and I need to talk.”

His request (command?) was completely unexpected.  It brought an abrupt end to a conversation with no clear resolution.  I rose from my chair.  Jose followed my lead.  “Whatever you decide to do to me,” I said, “I want you to know that I love you both and always will.”

Jose and I left the kitchen and walked wordlessly to the barn.  Not knowing what my parents would decide to do felt like hanging by a thread above a dark pit.  We sat on a bale of straw in the barn.

“I know what you’re thinking,” Jose said to break the silence.

“Of course you do,” I said with too much sarcasm.

“You’re thinking of all the bad things that can happen.  Losing the love of your parents.  Having to drop out of school.  Not being able to see me ever again.  Well, STOP IT!  Think about what just happened.  Your parents didn’t get angry with you.  That means they love you even after what you told them.  You can finish college even if it means working and going to school part time.  Most important, we have each other.”

“If only it were that easy,” I said.

“Listen, Ray.  With your help, I was able to put that queer whore boy behind me and become a somebody.  With my help, you can be an even better somebody.  We help each other because we love each other.  Sure, we will have problems but together we can solve them.”

His encouragement didn’t erase my anxiety but it did remind me of how lucky I was to have his love.  I kissed him and said, “Thanks, my love.  Shall we get to work?”

We changed the oil in the tractor while speculating to each other what my parents might decide and exploring our options for what they might do.  We finished the oil change and sat down, continuing to guess what would happen to us and lay plans for any outcome of my parents’ discussion.

It seemed like forever before we heard dad call from the house to come inside.  Expecting the worst, hoping for the best, and nearly incapacitated with nerves, we joined my parents in the living room.  My mom smiled at us.  That was a good sign.  My dad looked at us sternly.  That was not good.

“Your mother and I have tried to take in what you told us,” my dad began seriously.  “Obviously, it was a surprise.  I might even say a bit of a shock.  We’ve talked it over and come to a few conclusions.  First of all, we disapprove of your living together.  Not because we think it’s sinful but because you’re going to face a lot of problems.  You’ll suffer a lot of hurt from other people.  No parent wants to see their son hurt or unhappy.”

I was relieved that they didn’t think a homosexual relationship was disgusting.  But I was still afraid of what else my dad would say.

“Second, we love you.  Your decision to live with Jose doesn’t change that.  And finally, we have some questions.”

My dad was like that.  He didn’t have a lot of formal education but he was very wise.  He always sought out as much information as he could before making an important decision.

“You’ve told us that you want to live together and that you want to finish college.  How can you do both?”

I explained our plan.  I would live in the dorm for one semester.  Jose would get a job.  Together we would find an apartment.  In January, I would move into the apartment until I graduated.  Then we would move to Wyoming.

“Hmmm,” my dad said.  “Sounds like you’ve thought things through.  Can you afford rent, food, and school expenses?”

His question implied that he would no longer pay for my education.  That was one of the things Jose and I had discussed in the barn.  “We’ve thought about that,” I replied.  “Half the rent on an apartment would be less than the cost of a dorm room.  If you don’t want to help me through school, I would understand.  In that case, I would also get a job and finish school part-time.  It would take longer to get my degree.  But I would be with the man I love.”

Dad’s expression changed slightly into a frown.  Bad sign!  He looked at Jose and said, “You’ve been very quiet, young man.  Do you have anything to say?”

The question caught Jose off guard but only momentarily.  “Yes, sir,” he replied.  “You may doubt how much we love each other.  I don’t blame you for that but I do love your son.  He’s thoughtful, considerate, and wise.  No just smart; he’s wise.  Since I’ve been here, I found out why he’s that way.  It’s because you taught him about honesty, hard work, and helping other people.  You have every reason to be proud of him.  And to love him.  The same reasons I have for loving him.  I only hope I can make him as happy as he has made me.  I would do anything to be with him.  I’ll work two jobs if I have to so he can finish school.”

That last part about working two jobs took me by surprise.  We had not talked about that and I would have objected if we had.  However, it seemed to impress my dad.  A smile crossed his face for the first time since supper.

Dad looked over at mom.  She nodded.  I had no idea what that meant until dad said, “I don’t have much education but there are two things I know.  I know ranching and I know people.  I’m convinced that you two have a very strong affection for each other.  I also think you’re a fine young man, Jose.  Neither me nor my wife will stand in your way.  We don’t like the idea of your living together as a couple because of the hatred and insults you will suffer through.  But I’m sure you’ve thought that through also.  You’ve made a big decision.  You’re not little boys anymore.  You have to make your own decisions and live with the consequences.”

“Thanks, mom, dad, for understanding.  I love you both.”

Jose turned to me and asked with a silly grin, “Is it okay if I love your mom and dad, too?”

I had to laugh.  Then everyone laughed.  It seemed to be the perfect tension reliever.  I felt like hugging and kissing my lover but didn’t want to embarrass him or offend my parents.

“There’s one more thing, son,” my dad said.  “You must not drop out of school.  I don’t want you going to school part-time, either.  We will continue to pay your school expenses.  Even when you’re in an apartment and not the dorm.  But you have to promise me one thing.  Keep your grades up!”

Love was a constant in my family as I grew up but expressing that love with hugs and kisses was extremely rare.  In spite of that, I walked over to mom and gave her a long hug that she returned.  Then I hugged my dad (who didn’t return the hug) and said, “Thanks for being the most wonderful parents on earth.  I love you both.”

Mom surprised us all when she said, “Jose!  Don’t we get a hug from you, too?”

Jose blushed (the first time I had seen him do that), hesitated, but gave my mom and dad a quick hug.

“It’s been quite an evening,” my dad said.  “It’s late.  Morning will come early.”  He stood and walked down the hallway to the bedroom.  Mom got up and started clearing the table.

“Let us do that, mom,” I said.

She looked at us for a moment and said, “You know how your father is.  He may not say that he loves you but he does.  All he wants is for you to be happy.  It took some convincing but I think he realizes that you’ll be happy with Jose.”  Then, turning to Jose, she added, “You’re a wonderful young man, Jose.  If we didn’t admire you so much, things might have been quite different tonight.  We’ve always wanted the best for Ray and I think he’s found it in you.”  Then, seeming to act on impulse, she hugged Jose and said, “Welcome to the family.”

Jose was in tears.  I was close to it.  Mom turned and walked down the hall.  I suspect she was also close to tears.  When she was out of sight and the bedroom door closed, I hugged and kissed my life-partner.

“I know what you’re thinking,” I said.

“Hey!  That’s my line,” Jose objected.

“You’re thinking the same thing I am.  You’re thinking how wonderful my parents are.  You’re also thinking of the lifetime we can spend together, loving each other.”

“You’re right,” Jose grinned.  “Pretty good for an amateur mind-reader.”

We celebrated our good fortune that night with a long, meaningful coupling in bed.  Our union had been accepted by Jose’s parents and mine.  Our future was still uncertain but one thing we could count on: our complete dedication to each other and our resolve to withstand any misfortunes that we may face.

For the next few days before returning to New York, my parents treated Jose with even more admiration and affection.  Life was good!  Until the tearful goodbye at the bus station.  Even my dad, whom I couldn’t remember ever showing more than a modicum of emotion, hugged us and wished us well.

EPILOGUE

As I look back more than forty years to my chance encounter with a street hustler, to losing my virginity and my heart to a courageous young man, to the triumph of parental love over insidious prejudice, and to decades of contented partnership with Jose, I often wonder why I have been so lucky.

Jose went beyond his GED to earn a degree from the University of Wyoming in Laramie where we settled after my graduation.  Jose spent a career in Human Resources at an oil company while I worked for a regional bank and rose to an executive position.  We’re retired now.  While our love-making is far less frequent than in our youth, our love has only deepened and strengthened. 

Only our closest and most trusted friends know of our true relationship although I’m sure there are suspicions and rumors among our acquaintances.

I may have helped a destitute youth escape from poverty and life as a hustler but, in my mind, he has given me far more—companionship, constant encouragement and inspiration, and an appreciation of the power and rewards of genuine love. 

Posted: 09/07/12