Grayson 2

Sunday, August 7, 2011

In the names of all the gods, what have I done?

In one sense, I've done nothing. Nothing "bad" or "harmful" to anyone. I hadn't realized just how much I needed someone to hear me, to really hear me, and even to really hold me. Holy gods, how I've needed that. Despite the Question and the Response being part of our collective culture for so long, it's astonishing how rarely we use it. We are physical beings, tactile, like our non-sapient cousins and ancestors, yet we pretend that "civilization" is made, in no small part, of being "above that sort of thing." I understand the fear of being rejected, but it's extremely rare that the rejection is violent. The whole purpose of the Question is to signal a depth of emotion, a request to be taken seriously, even (as it's been said) to step outside of the world entirely, to enter into a den-like place of tactile retreat and safety. Even those who cannot return the request fully are known at least to become quiet, to clasp forepaws, to acknowledge and respect another's pain or need.

Perhaps that's the point. It makes us vulnerable to ask, and it asks vulnerability of the other. We fear that it's too much for us to ask of another, and we fear showing our weakness. That's the paradox, though, isn't it? Only the strong dare show their vulnerability; it is those who are weak who show cruelty, violence, the pretense that they don't want, much less need, others.

It's an objective display of Max's strength that he asked the Question last night. In fact, he asked it twice, making sure that I wasn't being merely polite or unthinking in my Response. Ultimately, I went to him, and we slept together. Just slept. And cuddled. I have to tell you, or me, or whoever may read this gawd-awful journal someday, it was like nothing I've known before. I've got a pretty decent body, if I do say so myself, and for a fox of my mere 42 years (who isn't Kitsune), that's saying something. But Max...

Oh gods, Max...

I've admired that bear from afar since the first day that I met him. What gay male wouldn't? The blessed ursine is evidence of the existence, perhaps even the presence, of whatever god you'd care to name. He is magnificently formed from top to toes, even though I really didn't examine him that closely. He was so kind to accept my invitation for a dinner, to listen to me talk about Robbie (even though I didn't mention any names), to help improve my mood with a movie and conversation, and when that wasn't enough, he invited me into his bed, to hold on to the way I did with my old teddy bear all those years ago.

Except that this is no teddy bear. This is a full-grown male golden bear who is over two meters tall and weighs in at 160 or so kilos of solid muscle, with the most magnificently soft pelt it has ever been my pleasure (if that's the right word) to cry into. And cry, I did. The upset of it all was part of why I went back to him after we'd first parted for the night. I hadn't even undressed for bed; I kept feeling a recycling of hurt, worry, fear, a sense of helplessness that I couldn't fully admit even to myself. So many reasons. Robbie, sure, and all of the pain from my own history, but also for a more selfish reason that is still causing horrible conflicts in me. You see, I didn't tell Max everything.

I didn't tell him that Robbie is in love with me.

When I started... well, let's go ahead and call it "counseling," since that's what it really is, whether or not I'm actually qualified to provide it. When I started counseling Robbie and his parents, it didn't take long for Robbie to tell me that he had invited me to the Independence Day party, in no small part, in order to tell me that he had feelings for me. There were other reasons for the invitation, including his mom being a fan of my work (always a great sop to throw to an artist of any stripe), and although I didn't know it until later, it was a pressure-free way to "meet the 'rents," as the yowens say these days. I had no idea how Robbie felt about me, when I arrived that day. I had found him to be an excellent student this past spring semester, and it was very pleasant to keep up the email correspondence. I hadn't thought it could be anything more than friendship, or perhaps a small crush. I didn't know how highly he thought of me, or how much he thought about me.

Robbie first told me about this during one of our recent counseling talks, and I did my best not to overreact in either direction. I knew that his emotions would be on quite the roller coaster for a while, after all that he'd been through, and I didn't want to make things any worse. He seemed disappointed with my lack of response and was cannily aware of it. He's no lackwit, that lapine, and his parents have raised him to be reasonably unafraid of being direct in his manner. He asked me flat-out what I was thinking about his admission, and I told him, as gently as I possibly could, that it was more likely than not to be something of a "My Hero" syndrome, that he was merely grateful toward me. I was flattered, of course, but I felt it important for him to know that it might not be "real," to use an overworked term.

He looked at me for a long moment, then went into the kitchen to get his dam. (By sitting outside on the back deck - the scene of the infamous unveiling of my spotted dick, at the Fourth of July party - we could speak quietly, privately, yet never be accused of being "alone together," unchaperoned. Since the issues of the recent past involved statutory rape, it was a wise precaution for both of us to take, not because of what we might do but because of what others might accuse us of doing.) I rose to my hindpaws as Amanda padded out with her kit, and he told her - fairly, without rancor - what I'd said. The doe smiled softly at me, thanked me for being gentle with Robbie, and then proceeded to tell me about the conversation that they'd had which led to the decision to invite me to the party. Me and my spotted dick. That, I realized, was a double entendre that I would never be rid of in the household... especially after that revelation.

I softly apologized to Robbie, since clearly this was not a case of mere "My Hero" syndrome. (He added, "That doesn't make you any less heroic.") I turned to Amanda and asked what she thought about Robbie having such feelings toward me. In her tactful yet direct manner, she said that I was a fine male, that I was Robbie's best choice so far and that, if I treated her kit badly, she'd kick my vulpine balls to Mars. She then grinned at me and hugged me. Pulling back from the embrace, she put a forepaw to my cheek. "Bradford's lucky that you're gay, because I'd fall for you myself, and also not just for being 'My Hero.' Robbie is lucky to know you. And Grayson," she said, "in whatever way you and Robbie decide you want to know each other, you're already part of the family." She kissed my cheek and went back inside the house, leaving me and Robbie to talk further.

Not that I could say much. I didn't know what to say. It was awkward for a bit. Robbie then thanked me for holding him that night, and for being there the next morning. "As if I weren't sure how much I loved you before," he said. He started to list things about me that he found appealing and special, and then enumerated points from that night which supported his opinions further. He'd had his clothes torn off of him, and I didn't make the slightest attempt to take advantage. He all but crushed me in his needful grip, and all I did in return was to grip him just as tightly, press him against me, hold him and pet his headfur, and let him cry on me until he had no more tears left for one night. He told me how good it felt to be in my arms, how much it meant to him to be able to count on me to talk to, and how he was still weighing his feelings, just to be sure that the "My Hero" thing didn't enter into it.

"Grayson," he said - and I knew I was in trouble the moment I realized how good it felt for him to use my name like that - "that's one more thing that makes me feel love for you, but it's not why I feel love for you."

That's the most adult thing I've ever heard come from the lips of a 16-year old.

I asked him for a little time to absorb all that, and he told me that I had just over 11 months, because when he turned 17, on July 15, 2012 - age of consent in Common Law - he was going to stalk me until I succumbed to his fatal charms. He was perhaps 87% joking, but I wagered it wouldn't take all that much for him to make me succumb. The young buck is already very good-looking; by the time he's reached that age, he'll be somewhere in the neighborhood of irresistible, given the way he's filling out. (No, I'm not referring to his trousers, nor to what lay within them; he was furclad that night, but I took no notice of particulars. A fox is as curious as a cat, but I'm neither cat nor cad.)

I've seen his parents alone once more since then, and the three of us spoke - gently - about Robbie's feelings toward me, and I tried my best to as honest with them as possible without openly admitting that, to a fur of my general age and experience, I was ready to pounce the poor kit without another moment of hesitation. I promised to talk to Robbie about the necessity of his and my needing to be seen with as many witnesses as might be necessary to ensure that we were never thought to be "alone together." What I didn't tell to Amanda and Bradford was my fear that Donnell might somehow get wind of it and try to blackmail us, rescinding his confession and demanding a trial, where he might try to have me prosecuted for statutory rape, and where he would drag Robbie through the courts to relive that night, no doubt with the smarmiest attorney he could find to ensure a complete dragging through the mud. I'd cut my own tail off before I'd let that happen. I would not risk Robbie being hurt like that.

Being hurt like I'd been hurt.

Perhaps it's why I'd been able to forgive Max so easily: He didn't read the rest of the book, the part that I'd not written, may never write. Patrick had raped my soul, made worse by the fact that I had been physically raped some years before. The entire time that I was with the weasel, I never let myself see the similarities, the connections, the emotions that he brought up in me that I couldn't fight. I was in love with him, gods help me, and it made me blind to the ways that he was hurting me. Viscerally, I must have harkened to that horrible time before, but my mind could not link the two. Patrick never raped my body; having experienced the physicality years before, and the emotional trauma in its wake, I convinced myself that those distant warning bells I heard were simply the ragged remnants of my attack. I wasn't aware, for a very long time, that it was happening all over again.

I've seen Robbie twice since his revelation to me, and I've come to realize that part of what was worrying me was that I was indeed concerned about his hurting as I'd been hurt. To hear the story of what happened outside the aquatic center not all that long ago was like reliving my own rape. Donnell had nearly raped Robbie on the Fourth, but he'd actually succeeded once before. My talks with the kit were mostly about the psychological necessity of being able to remember without reliving the event - a standard for almost any major traumatic event, and something that I could speak knowledgeably about. I had told Robbie, Amanda, and Brad that I'd "had some experience with rape counseling." They didn't need to know which side of the therapist's couch I'd been on.

My most recent talk with Robbie (I don't want to call it my "last," because I don't ever want there to be a "last") happened yesterday, about lunchtime. I'd considered letting him read the unfinished draft of Another Lonely Knight, and I decided against it... at least for now. I don't think it would sway him to want me either more or less, but I'm not at all sure what he'd think about reading my being savaged so brutally on all fronts. He might feel sympathetic. He might hurt worse. He might also decide that I'd not turned out so bad for all that terrible wear, and it might encourage him to help get through it himself. He's strong, that one, and not just physically strong. For now, I've elected to keep it from him.

Max, of course, has read it. I knew he was friend enough to listen to me, to let me unburden myself upon him, and he'd know what this help has been costing me. He is an excellent friend, and he showed it well, through listening, through offering a cuddle on the couch with a great movie (that look on Jack Weston's face...! Oh my furry tail...!), and offering a room and breakfast... above and beyond the call. But as I sat there in his guest room, looking at nothing at all and knowing that I needed more, I wrestled desperately with myself, with my feelings, with my cache of horribly still-perfect memories that, for so long, made me daily less than what I was. My original idea was to go in to tell him about Robbie, about how I was warring with my feelings about the buck, and how I was still fighting my own battles against my own past horrors while helping him. My original idea was to have Max talk me out of wanting Robbie, to be sensible, to look for something else, someone else, maybe even Max himself.

But that was the point, don't you see? That sweet, loving bear would never have told me not to feel what I was feeling. He would not turn me away when I needed him, and he would not turn me from Robbie just because that's probably the easiest way out. I must have realized that, somewhere in my fevered brain, and it locked up my ability to say anything at all about it. Max understood, without my saying a word; he asked the Question, pulled me into his embrace, and just held me, while I broke down like a teenaged female whose prom date had cancelled only the day before the event. He held me so close, closer in spirit than anyone I'd known before, and in so doing, he unintentionally made the hurt deeper... but that is what finally brought out my tears, and the crying helped more than I could say. I've been carrying this alone for so long, and Max gave me the time and space to let the emotions out, if not the words.

What I can't get over, even beyond the magnificence of his large heart, is how I reacted to him viscerally. Had I not been so completely in my cups, I'd have pounced him right then and there. His body is a temple at which I would have worshiped in any way he wished. His beautiful golden fur, so soft, covering muscles so hard. His arms enveloped me completely, and he wrapped himself around me like a blanket. And his scent... by every god known and several dozen yet to be found, the gentle whiffs of him that reached my sensitive nostrils were intoxicating beyond description. I wanted to bury my nose against him in all of his most private places and make myself drunk upon him, an inebriation that I could wish joyously to last a lifetime.

Lest any would-be reader think that I am a complete slave to my olfactory senses and an over-stimulated limbic system, let me remind you of the recursive nature of the scent of a lover. Pheromones can stimulate a sexual response, but that dies out quickly, unless the scent is linked with someone for whom you have developed deeper emotions, which may in fact have started because of the sniff you got of him, which made you want to know more about him, which... are you getting the idea here? I was already fond of Max for what he'd done, so my emotional connection had already been made by the time he unintentionally let me snuffle up both barrels, just from having my head pressed to his bare bear chest.

And before you ask, my Unknown Reader, yes, I caught a whiff of Robbie that July Fourth night. I smelled the funk of his attacker, but as he pressed against me, the buck's own scent came through to me. A lot of it was the flop-sweat of feral fear, but linked with it was something vaguely pheromonal as well. It wasn't sexual, because nothing about that evening was about sex, either with Donnell or with me. It was, however, somehow... well, "needful" is a good word, and don't ever let anyone tell you that it's a bad word, for any reason. Love, desire, want, need, craving, wishing, seeking, passion... it's all bound together more tightly than the Gordian knot, and rightly so. Needing isn't the same as loving, but who could truly feel love without needing as well? Who can truly live without needing love (apart from emo poseurs who think it stylish to disdain everything)?

My subsequent talks with Robbie have confirmed his feelings toward me, so it's not like there's any question. I still haven't worked out my feelings toward him, in part because I want to separate my affection for him from an old fur's natural penchant for wanting to recapture youth vicariously. The other part, I have to admit, is wondering if I can wait another year before finding out whether or not we could actually become lovers. I freely admit that I'm a randy old sod, but I'd like to think that I'm not entirely without some restraint!

So there we have it. A middle-aged fox who has been alone for so long that he talks to himself out loud in his home and writes down whole monologues in this journal, and who now finds himself... oh, by everything holy and a few things not, don't make me start singing "Torn Between Two Lovers"! I hated that song from Day One. And besides, neither is a lover, and I don't know what will happen with either of them. Or both. Or...?

Even the wordsmythe can run out of words...

Sunday, August 14, 2011

Okay, I didn't say I'd run out of words permanently.

Truth told, the more I think, the more words I want to use. I'm never sure if that's some kind of deflection, or if that's just because I've always been a writer and lecturer. George Carlin once said, "Words are my work, they're my play, they're my passion." Couldn't have said it better myself, and I wouldn't dare to try. (It's been three years now, George. We all still miss you.)

I've spoken further with Robbie, and my emotions regarding him are still confused. I ended up telling his sire and dam how I was feeling, and how nervous I was about exploring the relationship, listing several worries on my part. Amanda eschewed the worry about age and reaffirmed that I was the best choice that her kit had made in his albeit short life. How am I supposed to live up to that assessment? I even expressed my concerns about his being underage for another year. Imagine my immense surprise when she said, in broad hints, that what outsiders didn't see, they couldn't comment upon. The dam was giving me carte blanche. I have no idea why she trusts me so much. You know what they say about setting a fox loose in the rabbit house... (Okay, so I'm paraphrasing.)

I wasn't at all sure that I should drop that hint to Robbie; he might likely have suggested adjourning our talk to his room, and I don't dare think what might happen after that. (I might want to think it, mind you, but I wouldn't actually dare to.) I did ask him what he thought about the year-long delay. The kit first gave me a cheeky answer ("You think I'm worth the wait?"), but then he really did give it serious consideration. He told me that he wasn't really sure either, because he was so tactile (his exact word), and he wasn't sure if he could last that long either, and if we were to be in a relationship, he wanted to be faithful to me.

I hate that word.

It's not that I'm a wanton, despite the reputation that foxes (and rabbits?) have. It's just that the word carries so much emotional baggage. So do a lot of words surrounding love, I suppose; I talked about that last week. But "being faithful" isn't about love; it's about a promise, usually assumed, that you love no one else the way that you love your mate-significant-other-lover-whatever. It implies exclusivity that is, at its root, a form of possession based upon fear. "If you don't love me enough to forsake all others, then you don't love me enough to be my mate-spouse-etc-etc." What that means is, "I'm afraid that you won't love me enough to put up with my foibles and crotchets, that I might not fascinate you sufficiently, that I'm not enough for you, so I'd better set my hooks, bait my trap, and grab you in a noose before you can think properly, and then you're stuck with me, and I can do what I like without worrying about losing you, because it'll cost you dearly if you do."

That's not love; that's raw terror, inadequacy, greed, and a few dozen other monikers that fear goes by. Fear, not hate, is the opposite of love. And I explained that to Robbie as carefully and as tenderly as I could. He seemed a little confused, not because he's stupid (we've already established beyond any credible doubt that the buck is extremely bright), but because he's not been exposed to such an idea before. I was born more than a year past the 1967 "Summer of Love," which only proves that love was still going on after all that time. (After all, 1969 was another "Summer of Love." Perhaps there wasn't one in 1968 because it was a Presidential election year, and look who we elected...) A full year before that, the concept of teaching love as polyamory was presented quite well by Robert H. Rimmer in his book The Harrad Experiment. Some condemned it as pornography, others as "liberal thinking" that will "undermine the institution of marriage" blah-de-blah-blah. Some condemned it simply as poor writing, but I think that was more sour grapes than anything else. Like all writers (myself included), Rimmer's style may not be to everyone's taste.

I asked Amanda and Bradford if they had read the book. They'd heard that there was a movie, or perhaps two movies, made from the book, and starring a very young Don Johnson. I implored them never to poison their eyes with those grotesque wastes of celluloid and asked if they had time to read the book. I want to give a copy to Robbie, but not without their consent and our discussion about it first. I went online that night and ordered four copies. I thought sire and dam might each want a copy to read in their own time. I found an edition with the least revealing cover (in more ways than one), so that simply having it in the office wouldn't set off any alarms. If they consent to it, I will give Robbie his own copy. We'll see what they have to say.

In the meantime, I've only asked Robbie to think about the ideas that I presented to him about being "faithful" and ask himself how he feels about it. I told him also that he could (and should!) talk to his parents about it. I reasoned that I am, after all, part of the family already, so there need be no secrets. Private matters, perhaps, but no secrets.

I also took one huge chance. There on the back deck, where we might be seen by nosy neighbors, I... hugged him. Yes, I did; I admit it, and I'm proud of it! Take that, you wicked public opinion you! I hugged the kit, in full view of anyone who cared to be putting his muzzle where it didn't belong!

Actually, the huge chance I took was what I whispered into his soft gray lop ear. "Robbie," I told him, "whatever we decide to do, know this: I love you. And that won't ever change."

Then I left quickly before I could do something that might actually get us into trouble.