A gay story: He Said My Name (A Sequel) He Said My Name
This is a sequel to Say My Name, which I (unbelievably) published in September 2017, during Trump and before COVID and from which I had, quite frankly, moved on. But, then joeoggie read it and asked “Why does it have to be?” I answered. “[O]ne of the protagonists is 18, so there was no path to an HEA.” But, that got me thinking, and I conjured such a path. Here it is. I hope you enjoy it, and I still love hearing from readers.
* * * * *
After ten years, I returned to Chicago in 2002. I had been in New York on 9/11 and, while never in harms way, had never again been comfortable in the high rise in which I worked or the high rise in which I lived. At 38, I was already an equity partner and a nationally sought after litigator for “bet the company” cases, so my firm was more than willing to accommodate my desire to relocate.
I worked whenever I was awake, so I got an apartment as close to First National Plaza as I could. I had thought about Lincoln Park, but I didn’t want to waste the time walking to the El, waiting for the El, sitting on the El, and walking from the El. To say that I was a workaholic was to paint workaholics in a bad light.
When I had thought about Lincoln Park, I had thought about Timothy, the erstwhile puppy with whom I had fallen deeply, madly, truly in the summer of 1992. It had been a careless and reckless fall, him 18, me 28, my time in Chicago limited.
I had known better, but I could not help myself. He was like a drug, and I was like an addict.
In the intervening decade, I had not been in a romantic relationship, relying for pleasure instead on a series of blow and go’s or hookups arranged through bathhouses, Craigslist, or dark rooms. I didn’t want to feel the emotional vulnerability with another that I had felt with Timothy. The end had gutted me, like a fish.
My mantra had been “good friends and casual sex.”
I had my fair share of both. I don’t mean to be vainglorious, but I am a great friend, even though I work all the time. I’m thoughtful.
I am also a good lay, even if my call comes at 11 p.m. when I’m walking from the office to my apartment. I know how to use my dick, so others are willing to be inconvenienced for it.
Although I knew I was gay, I had used my dick for a few months with Roe, the friend I made as I descended from Timothy. I had bared my soul to her, she had helped me through the abyss, one thing led to another, and we started fucking each other. Briefly, we got lost in it, to the point that she ended her engagement. But, as the year in Reno approached the end, we knew we could not continue, just as Timothy and I had known we could not continue.
I had wondered, in that intervening decade, about contacting Timothy, if for no other reason than to confirm that he had survived the cleaving, as I had. But, I couldn’t. If he was happy with someone else, then it would have gutted me again. If he was not happy with anyone else, then that, too, would have gutted me again.
Many times, I regretted that I had not been incredibly selfish, that I had not asked him to put his life on hold, to come with me to Reno and let me help him navigate the next chapters. As that magical summer was ending, I had thought about it over and over, but it seemed too parental to me. I didn’t want him to think of me as in loco parentis. I wanted him at all times to think of me as Marco, the man who fucked him and who sucked him, not the man who parented him.
Even in my regret, I thought I had made the right decision. I was thinking of him, not of me.
As I walked around Lincoln Park on Sunday, September 15, I walked past my old “Laverne and Shirley” apartment. When I did, I wondered if Timothy’s parents still lived in the Brownstone above, where he was, what he was up to. On a lark, I rang the bell and waited. As I had years before, I turned my back to the door, waiting for the rattle of the handle. It never came. No one was home.
I decided to see if Cafe Ba Ba Reeba was still open and, if so, to have a pitcher of sangria and some tapas. I rarely took a full day off of work, so I decided a day drunk was in play. It was already 3, so it was not to early to drink alone in a cafe.
Like few Chicago days, that day was perfect. The sun was out, but it was only in the lower 70s. The breeze was light, just a little kiss on the cheek.
The sidewalks were packed. Chicagoans know great days when they see them, and they take full advantage. Runners, young families, old couples, everyone was out walking, window shopping, enjoying the weather while the weather was still enjoyable.
They say patience is a virtue. I don’t know why. I think getting the fuck out of the way is a virtue. I think moving like you have someplace to be is a virtue. And, I think strolling down a crowded sidewalk and then suddenly stopping to look at this or that is a total vice. I think it’s rude and selfish.
So, that Sunday afternoon, as I was stifled from the front and bumped from the back, my patience was threadbare. I know, I know, it’s a beautiful day, stop and smell the roses. Sorry, but that’s not my style. I’m a doer and a goer, not one who can loaf or lope.
I was frustrated. Just as I was about to lose it, I looked to the right, and I was stopped dead in my tracks, the way I’d have complained about if it had been someone else stopping for seemingly no reason in the middle of a busy sidewalk. There, hanging in the window, was the exact painting I had hanging on the wall opposite my bed. Timothy had given me the painting and then painted it again, the eyes I had mistaken for rage staring at me, his note popping into my head to remind me that it was lust, not rage, that they were his eyes, not the subject’s, and that his eyes were staring at me.
I almost cried as I stared. I got more frustrated as people bumped into me, not caring that I was having a moment, caring only about what I had only cared about only moments before, that I was blocking the sidewalk, seemingly oblivious. “Goddamit,” I thought to myself, as I made my way to the entry of what seemed to be a small gallery.
As I stood in the protected entry, I was lost in time, a decade younger, opening a crate, missing a note, finding it later, too late, perhaps. I was looking at paintings from a decade before, on second floor walls, stacked against each other on the floor.
But, I wasn’t. These paintings had a hint of those paintings, but they were more mature, had a stronger viewpoint, betrayed a more sophisticated eye.
I tried the door. It was locked. I shook my head, as I needed to clear it, as if I was a toddler waking up.
“Open Sunday, 7-11 p.m.,” the sign on the door read. I looked at my watch. It was 4.
I finished my walk to Cafe Ba Ba Reeba. I ordered my pitcher and my tapas. I drank and ate. As I did, I checked my watch like I had checked the clock so many years ago, waiting for his footsteps. Tick tick tick.
I got tipsy and then a little drunk. At 7, I made my way back to the gallery. To my surprise, it was teeming with people.
I didn’t see Timothy anywhere, but I could tell from the signage that this was his show, if not his gallery. I was in a daze, both from the sangria and because of the verisimilitude of time travel, the feeling that I was again 28, only this time with the knowledge of Timothy, not the surprise of him.
I scanned the room furtively. This was about him, so he had to be here, to explain his work, to charm people into paying for his work, to goad and tempt the egos of those who paid for such work.
I did not see him, which frustrated me in my drunkenness more than it should have.
When I was about to give up, I felt a hand on my right shoulder, and I knew it was his. My body had never reacted to another hand as it had reacted to his, and I was immediately jangled.
“Well,” I heard whispered in my left ear, the way he had whispered “you will” oh so long ago, “look who it is…. Marco, Marco, Marco.”
“Michael, Michael, Michael,” I thought, but didn’t say. Because, in that moment in time, I was a mute. I couldn’t have manufactured a word if my life depended on it.
I turned to look at him, and his smile swept me away, like a tsunami sweeps away a village. It was the same smile, the same dimples, the same blond hair (only a little sandier), and the same lively blue yes (only a little warier). Tears filled my eyes and then ran down my cheeks. I was still mute.
He pulled me into him, his arms around me, his chin on the top of my head. “Michael, Micheal, Michael,” I finally whispered into his chest, my arms around his waist, trying to pull him through me, like an apparition passing through the living.
“It really is you,” he said, pulling back and taking me in. “I saw you from across the room, and I was certain I was seeing a ghost.”
“I’m not a ghost,” I said. “It’s me, flesh and blood.”
“I’m glad,” he said. “I see too many ghosts these days…. Step back, let me have a proper look.” I did.
I was not what I once was. I worked too much, so my muscles had loosened, and I had gained a softness around my middle that I hated, but not enough to do anything about it.
“You look great,” he lied. “Time has been good to you,” he lied again.
I gave him a proper look. Time had actually been good to him. Except for the wariness in his eyes, the puppy had become a proper dog, fit and trim and just as beautiful as portended ten years before.
“Look,” he said, “I’m ‘on duty’,” using air quotes as he spoke. “Can you stay until after the show? Please. We have to catch up. I feel like I’m in Oz.”
“I have to be at work early,” I said. I liked being at my desk by 7.
“You have to do no such thing,” he answered. “You choose to be at work early. Tonight, you should choose to catch up with me.”
I had told him no only once, the night he cooked for me. And, even then, it was not for very long.
“Alright,” I said. “I’ll be back at 11. That’s late for me, so need a disco nap in the meantime.”
“Promise?” he asked.
“Promise,” I answered.
I hugged him, took a cab back to my apartment, showered, and napped on the sofa. My alarm jarred me at 10:30. I thought it was morning and time to shower, shave, and put on my suit. When I looked at the clock, I was confused at the time, as I did not immediately remember that I had promised to meet Timothy at the gallery.
I rinsed the sleep off of me, tugged on my nicest jeans and a long sleeved tee, put a little product in my hair, and gargled a cup of Listerine before swallowing it. After a final look in the mirror, I was in an elevator and then a cab and then an entryway and then an almost empty gallery.
“I’m back here,” I heard Timothy bellow, from the office in the back.
As I walked toward it, he emerged from it, his smile wide, his stride elegant, and his hand out for mine. “Come,” he said, taking my hand and pulling me along. “We’ll lights out, lock up, and then walk back to mine.”
As we walked, he insisted on holding my hand, his much larger hand engulfing mine.
“So,” he said. “Tell me, Michael, how did you find yourself in my gallery tonight, just over ten years since you last laid eyes on me?” I told him the story, leaving out the pitcher of sangria.
The walk back to his was familiar and suddenly the familiarity dawned on me. “You still live in the Brownstone?” I asked, wondering if he still lived with his parents.
“I live in your old apartment. I’ll tell you why when we get there. It’s a long story. In the meantime, catch me up with you.”
“There’s not a lot to catch up on,” I said, before explaining as we walked about my brief dalliance with Roe, my disinterest in relationships, my obsession with work, my return to Chicago, and the serendipity of my stroll through my old stomping grounds in Lincoln Park.
I finished just as we reached the stairs to the basement apartment. I followed Timothy as he unlocked the door and entered the apartment, turning on soft lights.
“I actually walked by here today. On a lark, I rang the doorbell. No one answered.”
“No one ever does,” he said, pouring two very large glasses of red wine and nodding toward the deep, thick sofa.
I sat down at one end, and he sat at the other. “I can’t believe you’re actually here,” he said. “I seriously thought I’d never see you again, that you’d just be a memory that I periodically wondered about.”
“I thought the same,” I said. “But, here we are, in the same apartment, a decade later.”
He put his glass down and leaned over and gently kissed me. “It’s really you,” he said, sitting back, and reclaiming his glass.
“Your turn,” I said. “Tell me your story of the past decade…. Catch me up.”
“It’s not a good story,” he said. “After college, I went to the Royal College of Art in London. While I was in London, I did not behave well. I went through men recklessly and relentlessly. After school, I moved to Brooklyn and started painting. My mom got sick. Pancreatic cancer. I moved back upstairs and helped my dad care for her. She died. My dad was lost. He died less than a year later, literally from a broken heart. So, now it’s just me.”
“Oh my God, Timothy, I’m so sorry.”
“Yeah, it is what it is. Like I said, I see too many ghosts these days. That’s why I live down here. The Brownstone is riddled with them.”
As we continued to talk, our hands intertwined across the back of the couch.
He obviously had more to tell than I did. He filled me in on his art career, which was flourishing. The gallery was his own, and he was very known locally, especially among that set that appreciated art. He was looking to become known nationally and, after that, back in London where he had gone to school.
“There are a lot of ghosts in London,” he said. “Including my younger self.”
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“I’ll save that for later,” he said, getting up to refill our glasses, even though it was now past one.
“Do you want to stay?” he asked, handing my glass back to me.
Well, that was forward, I thought. Then, I remembered how he had been back then, when he had been so forward as a teen.
“Timothy,” I said. “I want to tell you something. I wish I had taken you to Reno with me. I wish I had been selfish and not worried about what that move would do to you and your future. It’s still the greatest regret of my life.”
“It shouldn’t be,” he said. “I was 18. I was on the verge of my bitchy, petulant phase. I’d have driven you crazy, making mountains out of molehills every day, so much drama. I know. I lived through it. It was awful, and I was the one doing it. We’d have ended up hating each other. It’s good that we avoided that. Now, we’re here, and neither hates the other, we just have good memories to look back on.”
I was feeling romantic. “And,” I said, raising my glass to his, “good memories to make.”
“Maybe,” he said, clinking his glass to mine.
“Maybe?” I asked.
“More to come,” he said, taking a very large drink.
“If there’s more to come,” I said, “then let it come. I felt like today was a lightning bolt. I stumbled upon you. Then, you touched me, and that same fire lit when you did. Then, you whispered in my ear, and my entire body tingled. And, now, here we are, in our old space, a chance to finish what we started.”
“Michael,” he said. “Like I said, I didn’t behave in London. I’m damaged goods…. I’m positive… HIV positive.”
I felt like I had been punched in the gut. His diagnosis, his mom, his dad, how much could one person bear? My eyes filled with tears, out of empathy, not sympathy.
When he started to talk, I held up my hand. “I don’t ever want to hear you say that again,” I said. “You are not damaged goods. When your mom got cancer, she was not damaged goods. No one with an illness is damages good. Especially not you.”
I started to bawl as I made my way over to him, kissing his face through my tears. “My dear, sweet boy,” I said. “You’re perfect.” Kiss, kiss, kiss. “You’re not damaged…. ”
He, too, was crying. “When I found out,” he said. “All I could remember is that you told me to be careful. And then I wasn’t. And then this….”
I kissed him like I had never kissed him. I kissed him like Elliott kissed Lucas in SKAM France.
We stripped as we kissed. We time travelled as we stripped. Naked, he was 18, and I was 28, and the intervening decade was gone, like a vapor.
I laid him down on the bed and re-acquainted myself with his body, discovering new chest hair, a new nipple ring, and a shaved pubic area.
“Hold on,” he said, when I went to take him in my mouth. He rolled to his side, got a condom, and rolled it on.
“I don’t think that’s necessary,” I said.
“Better safe than sorry,” he answered.
“We can use it tonight,” I answered. “But, we’re going to go to a clinic together, and we’ll get the real skinny on the dos and don’ts, not the bullshit the government peddles.”
I took him into my mouth. He was bigger than I remembered. I hated that I could not taste him. He had always tasted delicious, like Spring smells.
I also hated that I could feel him come, but not taste his cum. For me, there was no reason to suck a dick, if you were not going to swallow the gift. It was like baking a cake, but then refusing to eat it.
After we had disposed of the condom and cleaned him up, I again re-acquainted myself with his body. Only this time, I bypassed his dick, spent a ridiculous amount of time on his balls, then pushed his knees up and ate his ass like I was as desperate as I was.
I didn’t remember putting the condom on, but in my haze of pleasure I found myself protected and inside of him, sweat dripping off of me as I drove into him over and over.
“Oh, Marco,” he called out.
“Oh, Michael,” I answered.
I awoke in the middle of the night, naked, Timothy’s head on my shoulder, his left hand holding on my dick and balls. I didn’t remember cumming or pulling out or cleaning myself. I must have blacked out when I came.
When I next awoke, it was well into morning. I checked my watch. It was 9:30. I momentarily panicked and then, noticing Timothy starting to stir, didn’t give a shit.
I snuck into the kitchen, called my secretary, and told her I wouldn’t be in that day or likely the next. It was the most daring thing I had done professionally in a long time.
I slid back into bed. “Do you have to go to work?” he asked.
“No,” I said.
“Really?”
“No. I left you once. I don’t want to leave you again.”
Timothy side eyed me. “That was total garbage,” he said, laughing.
“I know,” I said. “It sounded better in my head than in my mouth.”
“Speaking of ‘in my mouth’,” he said, slipping between my legs and taking me into his.
He may have misbehaved in London, but he also learned a lot. He sucked my dick like it had never been sucked before. I don’t know how long he was down there, but it seemed like forever. It was like I was in an elevator. Up to sixth floor, then back down. Up to the seventh floor, then back down. Up to the eighth floor, then back down. Up to the ninth, so close to the top floor, then back down. Then out altogether, his tongue and mouth on my balls and then on my ass and then back to my balls. Then, back in, me begging him to hit ten because I couldn’t take it anymore.
“Oh my God, Michael,” I begged and pleaded. “You have to let me finish. I can’t take it anymore.”
I looked down, and he was looking right into my eyes, like he used to when I talked to him. He smiled around my erection and took me all the way in, working my with his throat until my body bucked and I blasted the biggest load I could right into his gullet.
“Oh my God,” I said, when he was finished and back up next to me, his head on my shoulder, his hand again on my (now very sensitive) dick and balls. “That was incredible.”
“Thank you,” he said, turning his head and kissing me, his juicy red lips as delicious as they always were.
“Are you sure you’re okay, you know, with my status?” he asked.
Honestly, I hadn’t known that I would be. I had always wondered how, if that day came, I would react. I knew how I should, but I hadn’t honestly known how I would.
With Timothy, I didn’t even think about it. My reaction had been instinctive. He had an illness, nothing more and nothing else.
I wanted him to know how okay I was. “I’m so okay,” I said. “That I want you to fuck me.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
He had never fucked me, but he had assured me he had fucked others.
He worked me open and then wrapped himself. I had bottomed a lot in my life, but I was not really a fan of it. It was something I could do, but not something I wanted to do. I just never got out of it what others seemed to get out of it.
At least, until it was Timothy topping me. “Holy shit,” I said, once he had fully penetrated me and started working his hips a little.
“It’s good, right?” he asked.
“It is,” I answered. “It really is.”
“It’s about to get better,” he bragged.
And it did. I don’t know how, but he in no time had me sweating and tingling and begging “Fuck me, Michael, fuck me….”
It was like nuclear fusion was occurring in the area behind my balls. My whole body started to twitch as I felt that ball of energy move up, through my shaft, and out of my meatus.
“Oh Marco,” Timothy intoned, as he watched my orgasm and then met it with one of his own.
When he started to pull out, I pleaded, “No. Please, just stay there.”
“I can’t,” he said. “We can’t let it leak inside of you.”
I whimpered when he pulled out. I felt empty.
The rest of that day and the next day went on like that, a merry go round of sex, sleep, and sustenance. We were in love. We had been since that fateful summer. It had gone dormant, but dormancy is not absence.
I returned to work on Wednesday. We moved into the Brownstone on Saturday. We talked about staying in the basement apartment, as it held such good memories. But, in the end, we decided we needed and wanted more space.
Timothy insisted that we have a spiritualist cleanse the Brownstone before we moved in. I thought it was a crock, but it wasn’t my Brownstone. So, she crystalled and saged and did whatever else spiritualists do to cleanse.
“I’m not an excorcist,” she said, when Timothy asked her about ghosts. “Plus, some ghosts are good. They protect us when we’re asleep.”
I don’t know that I believed in ghosts. But, I kind of liked the idea of being protected when I slept.
Timothy also insisted that we christen the Browstone as soon we could. So, I sucked Timohty’s wrapped dick while he sat on a box marked “kitchen” (we still hadn’t gotten to that clinic). When he was finished, he sucked mine while I sat on the same box and, goddammit, he put me back on that elevator, teasing me until I blasted through the roof like Willy Wonka and Charlie.
Later, after we had unpacked (there wasn’t much) and eaten, we went to make love for the first time in our new bedroom. “I like to ride,” Timothy had said, wrapping me and then sliding down, his knees on the mattress, his hands on my shoulders.
Boy, did he. He bounced and bounced, flipped around and bounced some more, then topped it off by raising his hips and riding me like James Manziel would ride Ethan Manor. I was amazed by his physicality and stamina. I again woke up not realizing that I had cum or pulled out or cleaned myself.
I told Timothy about my memory lapse, and he started to laugh. “Jesus, Michael,” he said. “You were yelling Michael and I was yelling Marco and then you bucked into me and I could feel your dick swelling and emptying and you said ‘Holy shit” and went dead still. I came, too, just from you fucking me.”
“I wasn’t fucking you,” I said. “I was making love to you.”
“You can believe what you want,” he said. “But I know what fucking is when I’m in it, and that was fucking. Pure, base, carnal, fucking.”
He was right. For the second time, he had let me fuck him senseless, only I was the one senseless.
* * * * *
We have been in the Brownstone for ten years. I no longer lawyer. It was too consuming, and it left too little time for Timothy, Knute (the retriever I named, after Knute Rockne), Vincent (the retriever he named, after Vincent Van Gogh), and — a few years later — Ella (our daughter) and Louie (our son).
Timothy’s bequest meant that neither of us needed to work (oh, to be in the lucky sperm club), but he continued to paint, and I managed the gallery, his showings, and his career. He is known in national art circles, but not yet a household name. He will be, though. I’m sure of it, especially when I look in the eyes of the painting I opened 20 years ago, which is in our bedroom and still has his note to me taped to it and now also has my note back taped to it.
Until then, he successfully manages his illness, we successfully manage our family, and I marvel at the idea that I stumbled into a happy, full life that day I was wandering around Lincoln Park and wondered whether Cafe Ba Ba Reeba was still open.