Love, Love & Kiss, Kiss

 By: Gerry Young 

Written © 2021

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

gerry_young@tickiestories.us

I was born and raised in NC, and the day after graduation from high school, I signed up for the Navy. Three months later, I was inducted, and nine months later I was kicked out of the Navy for being gay in 1959. (Was working at the Pentagon for two Captains and two Commanders.) There were two other sailors and fifty-some marines who were kicked out on the same day that I was. I was the only one who didn't get a Dishonorable Discharge because I was totally truthful from the very beginning of the inquisition errr... interrogation. All the others got Dishonorable, but I got "Under Other Than Honorable Conditions". The others had lied through their teeth for many hours each.

Sooooo ... I decided to move to Detroit for a year in order to assume state residency so that I could have a lower tuition at Wayne State University even if I could get in. I worked at Henry Ford Hospital for several months on the shipping and receiving dock, but then ... I met a very nice married man ... yeah, right on ... who was an Anesthesiologist at another hospital in Detroit, and he must have liked me, too. He learned where I wanted my life to go, and he arranged for the hospital to 'grandfather' me into being a Surgical Technician — three months of classroom training at the hospital itself, and then having a licensed technician overlooking me in live surgery. I loved it for a couple of months. But I was too young and immature to handle the stress under pressure. I quit and walked out right in the middle of the surgery. I got my job back at Henry Ford Hospital working on the dock again.

My twenty-first birthday finally arrived on a Saturday, and since a couple of gay guys (John and Arthur) in my apartment building had told me where the nearest gay bar (The Woodward) was, not five blocks from where we lived.  Sooo ... what's a horny guy to do? Yeah. I walked to the bar alone, entered, and nervously sat at the nearest bar-seat as the bartender walked toward me. "What'll ya have?" he asked.

Suddenly, my mind went blank — I couldn't remember the name of a single alcoholic drink the guys had been teaching me. Then I mentally asked myself 'What do they drink in the movies?' (Or did I say it out loud? I don't remember.) "Ah, yes," I said. "Gi'me a Martini." (Oh, I'd had a few beers at the Navy's EM Clubs, but never had the hard stuff crossed my lips. Now get your mind out of the gutter, Babe. Hard things had crossed my lips many-a-time in the latter Navy days, but never had liquor even dribbled therein.)

"Comin' right up," he said.

No carding. No questions. Nothin'. 'Strange!' I thought.

He brought it to me, but still ... nothin'. I sat there, slowly, nervously sipping the drink. Other patrons were looking at me, but no one came near enough to talk with me. They surely didn't seem as friendly as John and Arthur had led me to believe. Truthfully, I was more than a little scared being in the Woodward. I didn't know how queers, faggots, and homos (God, I hate those terms!) acted when they were all together in a bar. I stood up, and with shaky legs, hurried out the door and walked home.

However ... the next evening (Sunday), I went back to the bar, sat on the same bar-stool and the bartender came over and introduced himself as Al. He then asked for some ID to prove that I was of legal age. I told him my friends call me Chris even though I have a legal first name that is too hoity-toity for me as I showed him what he needed to see, and then he said (with every word getting a little lowder) "Oh, I see Yesterday WAs YOURr TWENTY-FIRST BIRTHDAY. WELL, WELCOME TO THE WOODWARD COCKtail Lounge." His voice was like an up and down Roller Coaster.

"Not so loud, please," I quietly begged.

"Too late now," he said as he winked at me. He grinned like one of Alice in Wonderland's Cheshire Cats.

Whoops, hollers, 'Happy Birthdays', and several bawdry yells abounded through the bar. The noise was deafening, but a few guys came over, congratulating me, patting me on my back and wishing me the best. One tipsy guy even came over, grabbed my face, and kissed me on my lips. Then he ran his tongue up one cheek, across my forehead, and down the other cheek. "Ya tase so goooood, kid," he mumbled the slur as a couple of guys pulled him away from me. Whew!

"Same as last night, Chris?" Al finally asked with a chuckle.

"Sure. Why not?"

Soon, he brought the Martini over to me, turned a little and pointed to a guy about halfway down the bar. "The drink's on him," Al said.

I looked at my "benefactor", smiled, and nodded my head with kind of a smart hand-salute. He returned the gesture.

The drink didn't burn so much as did the one the night before, so, I was about to order a second one when Al stepped up and placed a new Martini on the bar in front of me. As he turned, he pointed to another guy and told me, "This drink's on him."

Again with the smile, the nod of my head, and the smart salute followed by the returned gesture. 'Gosh darn,' I thought to myself. 'Maybe these guys are fun and friendly.' I grinned, but after finishing that one, I stood up and left the bar and walked home.

The third night (Monday), I managed four Martinis. Each was smoother and easier to go down. I was getting more and more relaxed and comfortable with these new-found friends who, little by little, came over to chat. No one asked me to go home with him, and I was two damned scared to ask anyone (which was all of them except for Al) to go home with me, but the yearning was there, none the less.

Still, on the fourth evening (Tuesday), there I was again. At the Woodward. This time, I started Dancing. Pressing my blue jeans against leather tennis shorts or whatever. Groping packages. Laughing. Kissing. Getting drunk. Drinking. Drinking. And more drinking. It wasn't the Martinis. I had other things on my mind.

John and Arthur happened to come to the Woodward that night. I chewed'em out for not coming with me as they'd promised for my birthday. They apologized like crazy and tried to tell me the reason — sickness, death, wreck — I don't know. I can't remember. And then, all memory was gone.

I woke up Wednesday morning, a little before noon. I looked around the room and recognized that I was in my apartment. On my Murphy bed. Alone. I couldn't remember coming home. Did I walk? Did I stagger in? Did someone bring me home, I wondered. I was naked except for my tighty-whities. Someone had undressed me and put me to bed.

I slowly got up, went to the bathroom, relieved myself, took a shower, sorta combed my hair, got dressed, and walked down the hall to John and Arthur's apartment and knocked on their door.

John opened it and, on seeing me, said, "'bout time you got up."

I vaguely remembered them at the bar the night before. Timidly I asked, "Did you guys bring me home last night?"

"Yep," they answered as one voice.

Arthur had his back to me, watching a baseball game, and John turned around and went to sit on the sofa with him; both of their backs were to me.

I thanked them for what they'd done but got no verbal response. They nodded their heads but said nothing. I closed their door and returned to my apartment. I don't remember any further conversation with them, but then, too, I don't remember socializing with them at any time during the next and last few months I stayed in that apartment building. Ahh, well. C'est la vie. Win some. Lose some.

"Well, shit," I said aloud to no one except myself." Then I thought, 'Missing a whole day at work. They know I don't have a telephone. I'll just tell'em I was ... sick? Yeah. Not too far from the truth.'

Late that afternoon, goin' on evening, I walked back to the Woodward.

"Well... the new boy in Detroit has returned once again," Al said with a huge grin as I entered and sat in my favorite spot. He put his elbows on the counter, raised his hands, and rested his chin on his intertwined fingers. He looked at me and said, "How are you feeling today, buddy?"

"Feelin' like I should stop the Martinis and go with something a little milder."

"Yeah, I think so, too," he said. "You were the belle of the ball last night and..."

"What was I doing?" I interrupted, being shocked at his answer. "I don't remember much."

It was then that I looked around and realized that I was the only patron in the bar.

"I don't doubt that at all, he said. "After Arthur and John came in last night, you started trying to kiss every one, and for a while, you were on your knees nibbling on lots of crotches..."

"WHAT? Nooooo."

"Yes!" he said emphatically. "You weren't playing with flesh, but kinda chewin' on their clothes."

"Oh, God!" I said, covering my face with my hands. I was embarrassed to say the least.

"It seemed everyone was trying to see how much you'd drink. Even I was keeping count," he laughed. "Arthur and John were trying to get you outta here, but you kept trying to push them away. You really came outta your shell, Chris. You were having fun."

"Damn! Damn! Damn!" I said, then added, "You said you were keeping count ... just how many Martinis DID I have?"

"Eight."

"EIGHT?" I loudly asked, and followed it with "Fuckin' A ditty-bag!" (A Navy expression which, in this connotation implies a mild swear word, usually in disgust.)

Shit. I gotta limit my drinkin', or ... at least change my drinkin'.

AL nodded his head a few times.

"SAY! What's the name of the drink that the pirates in the Caribbean used to drink?" Yeah, I actually asked that stupid question. 'Stupid' for some folk, but not for me. What the fuck do I know?

"Rum and Coke? That the one you're thinking about?"

"Yeah. That's the one.

"Let me fix a small one just to see if you like it. No charge."

"No, Al," I said. "Fix me a regular Rum and Coke, and I'm payin' my own way from now on." Then I added, "Well ... most times, anyway." I grinned. Al gave me a cocky sideways glance.
 
"Okay," he chuckled as he went to fix the drink. "Why don't you come on down here where I make the drinks and wash the glasses?"

I walked to mid-bar, sat on another stool and mumbled aloud, "I can't believe it'. Saturday — one Martini. Sunday — two Martinis. Monday — four. And Tuesday — eight!  Shit. I chuckled, "Doubling each night. Wow. I sure ain't gonna try for sixteen.

Al laughed. "I don't think anyone has tried that much. Here, try this; I think you'll like it." He set the glass on the bar.

I took a sip ... and did like it ... and I said so, and thanked him, not only for the suggestion but also for his kindness and friendliness.

 Almost A Year Later

The passing of my twenty-first birthday had come and gone. I settled down, drank less, and took a greater interest in my job on the dock at Henry Ford Hospital.

Time seemed to fly by and seldom was I without a trick either at my place or his. But late one night when I didn't have a visitor, I was carrying out some trash to the dumpster behind the apartment building. I was only wearing flip-flops and short-shorts; nothing else. Then I noticed the light over the door was burned out, and I stepped out into the darkness and turned toward the trash container. Suddenly a paper bag was forced over my head and face. I was grabbed by two guys — one on either side of me — and thrown face-down onto the gravel. I was screamin' my fool head off in the bag, and was struggling as hard as I could, but three against one was no match for me.

A third guy used a knife or something sharp and cut off my shorts. I was stark naked. He spread my legs apart and shoved into me. He was insatiable. The pain was horrendous. The other two were egging him on. I was screaming, crying, and begging him to stop. Along with the pain, I could feel the throbbing of his cock, and I just wanted to die.

He pulled out and a second guy replaced him. I thought the first guy was way big, but this one was much larger it seemed. I don't know for sure, but it hurt like hell; I wanted to die.

Even through the paper bag, I could tell by their verbiage and body odor that they were black. I'd been raised in the South and knew their lingo.  

Author's Note: A few years later when I was teaching young black Haitian men how to deal Baccarat for the new casino in Port au Prince (1974), I told them that many white folks were offended by the body odor of the black race but that I was not offended by it. "As a matter of fact," I said, "I rather like it." One of the students piped up with "I'm the same way, Monsieur; most of the white guys smell rotten …oh, not you, Monsieur, but most of the white men. But the white chickies … ou-la-la! Très bon! The class erupted in laughter and some of the guys stood up and humped the air in front of them. Even I had to laugh.

I'm sure you know the reputation that black dicks have! Big, long, and weirdly beautiful (I'd seen monsters like that in the communal showers in the Navy. Oh, how I'd envied them then.), but I sure as hell didn't think about that at the moment. They called me every filthy slur in the book, again and again and again, and they referred to my ass hole as a 'pussy'. It was degrading.

The second guy pumped harder and faster than the first one had, and after what seemed to be an eternity, I could feel the throbbing and spurting inside my gut. Believe me! He didn't pull out gently.

Then the third one lifted my hips and plowed into me with no mercy — full force, full length. It felt like he was much thicker and longer than either of the other two. I screamed and then I passed out. I never heard them use their names, and I never saw them. And since forensic DNA analysis was first used in 1984, that wasn't available for identification at the time of my rapes. They got off Scott-free.

I don't know how long I was out, but when I regained consciousness, I knew something was wrong. I knew I had to get help. Slowly, very slowly, I did get up and felt stuff dripping from my ass. I'd never had so much pain in all my life. But eventually — covering my genitals as best as I could with the ruined short-shorts — I eventually made it up to my second-floor apartment. I didn't have a telephone (as I've already said) — and cell phones weren't even heard of in those days — so, I cleaned myself up as best I could. Cum, shit, and blood. I slipped on an old pair of jeans and a t-shirt. Then I walked downstairs and across the street to the hospital ER directly across from where I lived.

Most of the staff knew me and I was totally embarrassed, saying that I'd been raped by three black guys. They put me on a gurney and moved me to a cubical. Soon, a doctor came by, examined me, and had me then taken immediately to surgery. I was in a hospital bed for ten days. The hospital gave me an extended week off from work.

When I went back to work, the other three dock-hands tolerated me there (I guessed they'd heard the rumors about me), and I could hear their snickering behind my back. But Spencer, the dock manager, reminded me of my grandfather; he was always understanding and kind to me, and I learned that he was a Mormon which surprised me for some reason. But I began to love him in the same way I loved my grandfather. I wouldn't doubt that Spence had a gay relative or two in his own Mormon family by the way he treated me. He was wonderful.

But life doesn't stand still. I was getting bored, staying at home every night. I started going to stage theatres, movie theatres, concerts in the parks and museums. I didn't go to the Woodward for about a month after the hospital stay.

Then I remembered seeing another bar a few doors down from the Woodward.  

So ... I walked past the Woodward and into that other bar. It was filled with girls ... women, really. I ordered a Rum and Coke, looked around, and didn't see another guy anywhere. I took a seat on a bar-stool. There was a beautiful movie-star-blonde rather curvaceous girl sitting next to me. She looked at me. I smiled at her, and before she could say anything, a huge heavyset buxom woman shoved herself between us and motioned with her thumb over her right shoulder to the gal behind her, glared at me and coarsely growled at me and said, "She's mine!"  I held up both hands in defense and said, "Sorry. I think I just walked into the wrong bar.

She didn't say another word, but she picked up my drink, handed it to me, pointed at my mouth then pointed at the door. I drank it as fast as I could, paid and tipped the cute little female bartender, shrugged my shoulders, and left. That broad said, "You don't belong here." Wow. I'd never heard of a lesbian — except for the ancient practices on the Aisle of Lesbos, and didn't even know Lesbians existed today. How dumb I was. 

I hurried out the door and hightailed it to the Woodward. I ordered my Rum and Coke and then told Al about what happened to me at the all-girl bar down the street. He laughed like a fool and said he was sorry about not telling me about the Lesbian bar.

As some of the usual guys came in, I started having fun again. I did tell Al and a few of my friends about the rapes. A couple of the guys offered to 'kiss it and make it all better", but I nixed it with a laugh: "Thank you very much but ... no thank you."

I guess it was several weeks (or maybe even months) later when someone mentioned the Diplomat, another gay bar that was actually a female-impersonation stage bar.  I'd never seen one of those places, either. I was so innocent and pure; sure I was; right on. Shit. I got the address of the drag-bar from one of the guys. It was closer to home than the Woodward, so I left about 8:30 PM to get there before the show started at 9:00 PM.

Getting nearer to the Diplomat, I saw it was on a rather sleazy dark street, and then, the memory of the rape hit me kinda hard. Even though I was at the corner of West Grand Boulevard — the street that the hospital and my apartment were on — I could already see the Diplomat sign and marquee less than a block away. Carefully, with eyes darting hither and yon, I ventured into the bar (or 'club' as the patrons preferred to call it). The $3.00 entry fee covered seeing the show, but not the drinks. 'Reasonable', I thought, 'if the show were to be any good'.

I sat at a little table by myself until Ed, a frequent patrons of the Woodward, came in the door. I recognized him and asked him to join me. He sat down. We ordered our drinks and he said, "I heard you were coming over here, and I didn't want you to be by yourself.

"That's sweet of you, Ed. Thanks." We'd tricked a few times and I'd found him to be congenial. We both preferred oral and to cuddle and snuggle and smooch. He wasn't a hunk, but he was very nice; I felt safe with him. We ordered drinks again before the lights dimmed and the stage was lit. The dancers and pantomimers were absolutely fantastic, in my eyes at least.

Ed came home with me and spent the night. It was delightful in every way.  And I knew he would be a great lover for someone someday, but not me. No. I wasn't ready to settle down yet; I felt that life had just begun for me. Little did I know!

The holidays came and went. I still went to the Woodward, but eventually realized that I was spending more and more time at the Diplomat.

About four weeks before my twenty-second birthday — on a Friday night — I talked to Rudy, the manager of the Diplomat, and told him I'd like to audition for the show — I wanted to audition in order to become a female-impersonator, and I knew I could wiggle my butt-cheeks damn fast and alternately, better than anyone in the show. He actually giggled at me.

"I wanna be on that stage, and I wanna be the best one up there. I know I can do it!" I said.

"Come in around noon, tomorrow, and I'll audition you. All of you," he said with a stone face ... "with nothing but a jock-strap and a bra." And then he giggled again. It was more a guffaw.

"Well," I said, "I've got a jock-strap, but could I borrow somebody's bra?"

"That can be arranged."

"Okay," I said, "I've still got to work for bread until you hire me, so, can I just come in..."

He cut me off. "You think you're good enough for me to hire you tomorrow?"

"I'm hoping, Rudy," I said. "I'll even give you a blow-job if that would help get me hired."

"Everybody says that."

I took a deep breath. Soberly I asked, "Has anyone told you about my being raped by three guys some months ago?"

"Oh, God, no!" he said.

"In the hospital for ten days after reconstruction surgery." I wasn't laughing then.

"Shit," he said, and then asked, "Can I kiss it and make it all better?"

"Everybody asks that," I sorta copied him, but then gave him a long slow wink and a slower smile."

For a moment, he frowned and cocked his head to one side, squinted his eyes and then seriously asked, "How about an oral threesome with Johnny (his partner) and me?" His tongue eked out and moistened his lips.

I just looked at Rudy for a minute. Then I said, "You and Johnny ... no fucking me. I'm not ready ... and I don't know if I'll ever be ready for that ... because of what I've been through. But what you just suggested sounds pretty nice. I think that can be arranged.

"I understand, Chris. We can wait," he said affectionately.

"Thanks," I said. "So ... " returning to earlier, "Having still to work, can I just come in on Saturdays and Sundays to rehearse the numbers you want me to do?"

"Sure. I can arrange that. How's 11 AM for you tomorrow? Remember ... you don't get paid for these first rehearsals, but on second thought, I think I'll pay you some token per hour. Not much, but something under the table. By the way, what's your waist size?" 

"I think it's about a twenty-eight; why?" 

"Oh my God! The audience will love ya! You'll be a star overnight. Whew."

"Super. I'll be here, rip-rarin' and ready to go," I grinned. "See ya then ... Boss."

I headed toward the door.

"You're pretty sure of yourself, aren't you, Chris?"

I stopped and removed my hand from the doorknob. I thought for a moment, then turned and said, "I'm about ninety-nine percent sure, Rudy. True, you can always kick me out if you want to, but I don't think you will. I'm gonna give ya a hundred and ten percent, I swear. I promise ya. (Famous last words.)

The Love Of My Life

Four weeks later on a Sunday, my twenty-second birthday arrived, and where did I celebrate it? At the Woodward, of course. Al had made sure that most of the clients knew that I would be turning twenty-two.

When I entered, it seemed everyone exploded into the Happy Birthday song. There must have been thirty guys there, the majority of whom I knew, or at least recognized. I'm not bragging, but I'd been to bed with most of them. (This was about twenty years before the A.I.D.S. epidemic hit or was publicly made aware of.)

I only had two drinks and then left to go to the Diplomat to watch the show again. I was always learning something from watching the drag queens.

Monday came along and that evening I was back at the Woodward. Nearly everybody knew my name. I was bouncing around, talking to different people, having fun, and drinking my first and second Rum and Coke. I usually stayed at the front and middle part of the bar, but I had to pee. The restroom was at the rear of the bar, right next to the back door to the parking lot, but when I was walking past the piano bar (also close to the restroom and back door), someone called out, "Not leaving, are you, Chris?" 

Now let me tell you … when an unknown person calls out my name, I immediately want to meet them and get to know them … for whatever reason. 

I stopped dead still, and turned to see him. Those steely-blue eyes! That gorgeous smile! That slightly-thinning blond hair! And that baritone voice! Oh my God! My chest was pounding. My knees were shaking. I grabbed the back-end of the Baby Grand Piano to keep from falling. 

"No," I replied, "I gotta go take a leak, but don't leave. I'll be right back." 

I could barely move and I was sure I couldn't walk a straight line to the head (Navy talk for the restroom). My hands were shaking and I'm also sure I got some piss on my pants. 

I had never reacted to anyone like I was reacting then. Finished, I washed my sweaty hands and headed toward the stranger, but the truthful thing was that the faster I tried to go, the slower I seemed to get. Eventually I was standing next to him behind the piano. I reached to shake his hand. He took it and I'd never felt a connection like that with anyone and my chest was beating like never before; I released his hand and threw myself at him putting my arms around him, and squeezed as tightly as I could. Oh, he felt so good! And then I kissed him for what seemed like an eternity. I knew instantly that that's where I belonged. 

The wolf-whistles resounded and spread through the crowd. I broke from the kiss and backed away a little, looking around and saw Al grinning like a Cheshire cat. He was holding up the A-OK hand sign with his thumb and index finger and he was nodding his hand as if to say Right on! (As I was writing this [fifty-nine years later] I'd just realized something I'd never thought of before — I bet you anything that Al set us up for our meeting so many years ago. Thank you, Al. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. And thank you again, wherever you are now. God Bless. And I'll never forget you. Love, Love & Kiss, Kiss) 

"I'm Bob," my man said. 

'My man?' I thought to myself. 'My man' I sure hope so. 

"I'm very glad to meet you, Bob, but how do you know my name?" 

"Silly boy. Seems like everone here at the Woodward knows your name. I've heard them talking with you. You're quite the popular guy, Chris." He smiled and I felt my knees about to giveway again, so I grabbed Bob and hugged him again. "Can I buy you a drink?" he asked. 

"No, not right now," I said. "I was about to walk back to my apartment, change into white pants and white shirt and go dancing under black-light at another bar, a drag bar … no shows on Mondays. Say! Do you have a car?" Secretly, I was planning to keep him for the night. God! I already felt like I loved him. If only … if only he could love me, too. 

He nodded his head. "Yes. Out back in the parking lot." 

"Could you take me home? I'll change my clothes, and we can walk to the Diplomat — the drag bar. It's only about three blocks from my apartment. We don't have to stay long if you don't want to. Please. It'll be fun." 

He chuckled. "All right, if you really want to." 

"I do." Suddenly I envisioned both of us walking down an aisle of a church, but I knew that same-sex marriages weren't legal at the time. Wow. I'd never even considered the thought, before. But Bob caught it and showed a shit-eating grin. I just had to laugh at his expression. He was adorable, and I was falling head-over-heels for him. 

Bob put his arms around my shoulders and in a loud voice called out, "See you later, Al." I just raised my hand and gave him a nelly little wave with all four fingers individually waving for about a second or two. 

Once near home, I suggested to Bob to park in the Henry Ford Hospital parking lot nearest West Grand Boulevard. I didn't trust the traffic on the street and the apartment complex didn't have its own parking area. 

After changing my clothes, we walked to the Diplomat and when we stepped inside, Boy! Did my white pants and shirt ever stand out under the blacklight. Several guys hollered out, "Hi, Chris." "Hi, Chris." "Hi, Chris." It sounded like a diminishing echo in the Grand Canyon. 

We ordered our drinks, took a couple of sips each, and then I had to egg Bob on in order to get him to get up and dance with me. It took a song or two before  he finally conceded. Finally, I got him on the dance floor and hugged him. We took baby steps in and around circles. He really wasn't a dancer and I wasn't much better, but I absolutely loved the closeness we had … several kisses, strong hugs, chest to chest, and crotch to crotch. And then I realized my erection was toying with his stiffy, through our clothes, of course. 

"Let's get out of here and go back to your place," he solemnly begged, "if you don't mind." 

I finger waved 'Goodnight' to a couple of my friends and started home. 

"I'm not really a dancer, you must have discovered. I just wanted to be with you, Chris." 

"That's all right; I understand, Bob. And I'm sorry I twisted your arm as I did." 

We walked back to my apartment, mostly in silence. On the way, I pointed out the Historic Fischer Theatre which had been built in 1884 on West Grand Boulevard. I also told him that I'd seen each and every one of Diahann Carroll's performances in Richard Rodgers' No Strings at the Fischer Theatre in 1962 when I was only twenty-one. If memory serves me correctly, I think there were nine performances. It's a bitch growing old, let me tell you. The show premiered in Detroit, and from the January grand opening engagement in Detroit, it went to Toronto, Cleveland, and New Haven, and opened in New York at the 54^th Street Theatre on March 15, 1962. Oh, how I loved Miss Carroll and No Strings. 

Then I told Bob that after the second performance, I'd decided to see every one of her performances. 

NOTE: I went back the next night and when the ticket-taker saw me, he asked, "Haven't I seen you here the last two nights? 

"Probably," I replied. 

"Why? You part of the cast or crew or something?" 

"No. I just love the show, and I've loved the few theatrical shows I've seen," I said. "And, I want to see all the performances while No Strings is here." 

"Damn," he said. "I can't believe it. All the shows?" he asked, while scratching his head." A moment later he said, "Heh! Stand over there (he pointed) and I'm gonna make a phone call." 

"Did I do something wrong?" I questioned. 

"Oh, no. I'm just gonna try something." 

I nodded my head and frowned. 

A few minutes later, he tapped on the window and motioned for me to come back. "Okay, now. I talked to Jim, the Assistant-Director, and told him everything you'd told me, and guess what he said." 

I shrugged my shoulders and shook my head. "No joke?" I asked. 

"No joke," he replied. "I got permission for you to go backstage and watch the show from there, that is, if you want to. That way, you won't be taking a seat from a paying customer. We're completely booked tonight. 

I jumped for joy and even blew him a kiss. He laughed at that. 

"Now go around the corner," he said, "and knock on the first door. Jim's waiting for you. 

"Thank you, thank you, thank you," I yelled and dashed around the corner and ran to the first door. I knocked five times. 

After about a full minute of nothing, I knocked again and the door opened. A nice looking middle-aged man was standing there. 

"Jim?" 

"That's me," he answered. "You the boy that Floyd said you'd been to the first two performances and that you want to see all the other performances of No Strings?

What's your name by the way?" 

"Chris, Sir, and yes, I'm the one that … uhh … Floyd was talking about to you." 

He grabbed an old wooden chair and told me to walk beside him as he headed toward the front of the right side wings. "Please, drop the 'Sir'. I'm old enough now and don't want to sound any older." 

"Gotcha, Si… uh…" I said and repeated. "Gotcha." 

He thanked me and said, "But still, I do appreciate the courtesy, son. You must have good genes." I smiled toward him and shrugged. We reached the very front of the right wing area, and he put the chair down. He looked at me sternly and said, "The curtain will go up in (he looked at his watch) seven minutes. You won't be in anyone's way but you'll be able to watch the backdrops fly up and down and all the goings-on backstage; not many people get to see that. And you'll be able to watch the entire show. And … I have to emphasize that you're not to touch anything at all; do you understand me? 

"Uhh … Yep," I answered him a second or two later, thinking about what I'd say as a response." 

He knew what I'd done … wondering how I would answer without using my ingrained 'Sir'. 

"I may not see you at all during the show until intermission or even after the show is finished, but don't run away. Some of the cast and crew and I are going out for a bite to eat. Would you like to join us, kid?" 

First, he calls me 'boy', then he calls me 'son', and now he calls me 'kid'? I like this guy. Strict but also fun. Yeah. 

"I'd love to join y'all, Jim, but I don't have a car, and…" 

"I'll get you back home. We'll probably go to White Tower." 

"The one not far from here?" I asked. 

"Yeah, just about two blocks away," he thumbed. "Thataway, cowboy." 

'Another name. What's he up to?' I wondered.   

Soon, Bob and I were in my apartment. We sat on the sofa and started making out. His kisses were divine. I unbuttoned his shirt; he unbuttoned mine. Our hands were gently roaming each other's body. I went for his zipper but he stopped me and said that he preferred a lot of foreplay. It was all right with me. Maybe he'd stay the night, the month, the years. I was already falling madly in love with him. We took several breaks and just talked, learning more about each other. 

I never kept beer or liquor or liqueur in the apartment but I did have soft drinks, milk, water and juices on hand. He preferred water, believe it or not. That, too, was fine with me. At least I could absorb more of his pheromones. Yeah, I knew that word from my short stay at other hospital whose name I can't remember. 

We talked about a lot of things that night. I learned that he worked as a bank examiner for the State of Michigan and traveled all over the State. He was married and had two sons, aged six and four, but had already started divorce proceedings which, incidentally, made me very happy. 

I told him that I'd been raised basically by my grandparents, my mother having more interest in men than in me. I told him the details of my being kicked out of the Navy. I told him that never had I ever had any inkling to have sex with a girl or woman, but I loved their beauty from afar. And so many other things we shared that night. 

As it grew longer, I knew that I was falling more and more in love with him. I stretched out on the sofa and lay my head in his lap (closer to his crotch, of course; a subtle hint, yeah.) The hours flew by and I eventually said to him, "I love you, Bob. And I think I'm falling in love with you." 

"Prove it," he said. 

'How do I prove it?' I wondered. And then an idea hit. 

I stood up and stepped between his feet, kneeled down spreading his legs apart, unbuckled his belt, lowered his zipper and eased his cock out. As I began to slide my lips down that beautiful love-tube, he put his hands on my head and … wouldn't you know it? … he looked at his watch. Suddenly, he jumped up, yanking his member from my mouth, and said, "Oh, my God!" It's after 2:45 (AM) and I'm supposed to be at Al's apartment." 

"Al's apartment?" I asked, dumbfoundedly, with jaw hanging down. "You have sex with that humongous eleven inch monster of his?" I asked. 

"Hell no," he laughed. "I just stay with him when I'm working in the Detroit area. "We're just friends. Believe me. That's all. Period. I've known him for a long time. There's no way I could take that thing. I've seen him naked in the shower, but, shit!... 

I've seen it, too," I interrupted, "but all I could get in my mouth was the head of his cock. I tried, but I could barely do even that!" 

"I gotta get going, Chris. Al's probably asleep by now but I'll need a shower and clean clothes before going to work tomorrow … err … this morning … uhh … today … whatever!" 

"Then why don't you bring your stuff over here tomorrow and spend the rest of the week with me? I know you need to get home to your soon-to-be-divorced wife and your boys. I'd never keep you away from them. I never had a dad; I know what it would be like, for them," I added. 

"I'll talk to Al about it," he said, "if you really want me to stay." 

"Yes." 

He leaned down and gave me a quick kiss. And then he was gone. 

I was still on my knees with mouth agape. After some time, I think I fell asleep, knees still on the floor and chest and face on the sofa cushion where Bob had been sitting for those wonderful hours we'd spent talking and kissing and talking and touching each other, and smelling his scent; and I think that sent me into dreamland.  

Let me just add this: Six weeks later, Bob and I moved to Hollywood, California, and he got a job as Vise-President at a bank in Beverly Hills. Here, I have to say, that there were so many 'Bob's at the bank, that the management came up with the idea of changing their names. So, there was a Bobby, a Bob-o, a Robert, a Robby, and my Bob became Rob. I really liked the name Rob, and from then on, that's what I (and all our friends) called him. 

During our fifty-seven years together … yes, fifty-seven years … we never hit or struck each other in anger — not once; not a single time — and for fifty-six of those years we slept in different bedrooms; we both agreed to it. You see, he was a toss-and-turner whereas I lay all night in only one position — my ankles crossed, and my arms folded over my chest, sorta like a mummified pharaoh. Go ahead and laugh; everybody does when I tell them. Oh, yes, we had plenty of love play in our long young-time together, or should I have said "sex-time" together? As we entered our 50s and 60s and more years, there was less and less sex and more and more just cuddles and gentle massages. It was still wonderful being in his arms. 

And from the beginning of our relationship, if and when we'd had a heated argument about something, we'd never go to our separate bedrooms to sleep without first saying "I'm sorry, honey, and I still love you. Sleep well." 

Rob passed away two years ago, at the age of ninety-one from cancer throughout his body for the last year, the year that I would turn eighty-one. He was only at the Verdy Valley Care Center for his last six days. It's a gorgeous place and part of the beautiful Verdy Valley Medical Center in Cottonwood, Arizona. We had Hospice Care three tines a week for his last six months. I wanted to keep him at home so that I could be his 24/7 caretaker.  

It became harder and harder each passing week. But one morning he asked, "Chris, you think it's time for me to go to Verdy Valley?" I just looked at him, silently, for a couple of minutes, and tears began running down my cheeks. I wanted to die right then. I didn't want to live without him, but I knew that I couldn't help him any more. With very little movement, I just slightly nodded my head, and then began bawling aloud. He reached out with both arms and I carefully let my chest barely touch his chest. I put my hands on the bed, on either side of him so that I didn't put any pressure on his pained body. 

After a bit, he told me to call 9-1-1. It was the hardest thing I'd ever had to do. An ambulance came and they took him to Verdy Valley to die peacefully. I was there every day to sit near him, even though, with all the Morphine they gave him, he was asleep most of the time.  

After the third day, I started taking my laptop with me to read stories on the internet. If he stirred, I was right there with him, standing beside him. Those moments were lovingly tender, trying to hold back the tears. 

The last day, I was getting tired of sitting, and got up, put my laptop down, and stretched. It was then that I heard not in my ears but inside my head, I heard him say, "Come give me a goodbye kiss." I walked over to his right bedside, put my left hand on the top of his head and my right hand on his chest; I could still feel his heartbeat. I leaned over and gave him a long kiss on his forehead, and when I withdrew from the kiss; I felt his last heartbeat.  

Then I quietly cried for a few minutes. Then I walked out into the hallway, looked for a nurse, saw one about four rooms away, and waved her toward me and pointed toward Rob's room. She got another nurse to follow her. I closed my eyes and let my head and chin drop onto my chest and started bawling like a baby. The first nurse hurried toward me and threw her arms around me and hugged me, trying to soothe and comfort me. She knew that Rob had gone. 

After a bit, the three of us went into the room and I watched as they verified the death. Then I watched them clean and wash him and prepare him for the Doctor to come in and check everything they had just finished. 

After everything had been done and finished at Valley View, I drove home thinking, 'Why couldn't we both have been killed in a car or airplane crash at the same time?' 

'Because it's not your time, Chris,' I heard in my head. 'You've more to do.' 

I still love ya, Rob, and I just hope and pray that we'll be together soon. 

Love, Love
&
Kiss, Kiss

Posted 09/03/2021