him apart: the thrill of finding out his mother had kept him in her heart; the pain that she'd died and he would never see her again; the angry hurt of knowing there was still a sister who rejected him.
Alma's legacy now made perfect sense. What guilt and sorrow she must have lived with all those years, and how tragic she hadn't lived to be reunited with her son! Jay wondered if his own parents felt the same. Not at all likely, if they were still alive, and he was an only child; no brothers or sisters to reunite with.
His mother had found him sucking a friend off in the garage when he was fourteen. She'd dragged him to his room by the hair, cursing him and screaming like a banshee. The last words she ever spoke to him were "I'm going to leave this to your father."
She did. Jay remembered the sound of his steps coming up to his room; he could see him standing in the doorway. Sometimes he had nightmares about it and woke up in a cold sweat, his body aching from the blows. He'd go to the mirror to see if the livid welts still covered him. But no; it was all in his imagination.
In the middle of the night he'd taken what he'd saved up out of his allowance and climbed out the window with the idea of hitching to Boston from their small town in western Massachusetts. The cops picked him up almost immediately and drove him back home, though he showed them the welts and bruises from his father's beating. "You won't be able to make peace with them if you run away," one of them had said.
But his parents refused to have anything to do with "that filthy faggot", and the police had to take him down to the station for the night before handing him over to Child Protection in the morning. When the officer in charge of watching him went to get him something to eat, Jay slipped out the door. He hid in the alley. They passed within a few feet of him without seeing him. He made it as far as the woods, spent the whole day there, then went to the road to start hitching as soon as it was dark. He was terrified that any approaching headlights would turn out to be a police car.
A man picked him up, brought him to a motel and raped him twice—Jay's first experience with anal sex. When he woke up, the man had left. He didn't know if he'd paid for the room. If not, the motel owner would call the cops. He sneaked out, walked to the nearest town, and took a chance, using his money for bus fare to Boston. He arrived with less than ten dollars in his pocket. For the next week, he scrounged his food in dumpsters and slept in alleyways or under bridges until a street kid directed him to Marc's shelter.
Beating off with a friend and that abortive blowjob, the first he'd ever tried giving, were the only sex he'd had before the rape, and afterward even the thought of someone touching him made him physically ill. He couldn't even bear to hear people talk about sex. Until Baron. Baron had opened him up, literally and figuratively. Opened him to love.
* * * *
They'd been friends for about a month when Baron came out to him.
"I am too," Jay whispered. He still had trouble saying the words.
"That's marvelous! Now if we fall in love we won't worry that sex is the only connection between us."
He'd meant it as a joke, of course, but Jay had hedged, and from then on he drew back from any contact that seemed remotely physical. He learned later that Baron had thought his race was an issue, though nothing had stood in the way of their quickly becoming close friends. On top of that, it was only the physical connection Jay avoided; their emotional attachment was growing stronger by the day.
Jay had fallen in love and suspected Baron had, too, or was at least well on the way to falling in love with him. It was his own fault, because of the distance he kept putting between them, that Baron was avoiding the L word. Jay wanted to get closer to him… very close, all the way close… but he was afraid. He couldn't help himself.
Then one evening it had started raining
Alma's legacy now made perfect sense. What guilt and sorrow she must have lived with all those years, and how tragic she hadn't lived to be reunited with her son! Jay wondered if his own parents felt the same. Not at all likely, if they were still alive, and he was an only child; no brothers or sisters to reunite with.
His mother had found him sucking a friend off in the garage when he was fourteen. She'd dragged him to his room by the hair, cursing him and screaming like a banshee. The last words she ever spoke to him were "I'm going to leave this to your father."
She did. Jay remembered the sound of his steps coming up to his room; he could see him standing in the doorway. Sometimes he had nightmares about it and woke up in a cold sweat, his body aching from the blows. He'd go to the mirror to see if the livid welts still covered him. But no; it was all in his imagination.
In the middle of the night he'd taken what he'd saved up out of his allowance and climbed out the window with the idea of hitching to Boston from their small town in western Massachusetts. The cops picked him up almost immediately and drove him back home, though he showed them the welts and bruises from his father's beating. "You won't be able to make peace with them if you run away," one of them had said.
But his parents refused to have anything to do with "that filthy faggot", and the police had to take him down to the station for the night before handing him over to Child Protection in the morning. When the officer in charge of watching him went to get him something to eat, Jay slipped out the door. He hid in the alley. They passed within a few feet of him without seeing him. He made it as far as the woods, spent the whole day there, then went to the road to start hitching as soon as it was dark. He was terrified that any approaching headlights would turn out to be a police car.
A man picked him up, brought him to a motel and raped him twice—Jay's first experience with anal sex. When he woke up, the man had left. He didn't know if he'd paid for the room. If not, the motel owner would call the cops. He sneaked out, walked to the nearest town, and took a chance, using his money for bus fare to Boston. He arrived with less than ten dollars in his pocket. For the next week, he scrounged his food in dumpsters and slept in alleyways or under bridges until a street kid directed him to Marc's shelter.
Beating off with a friend and that abortive blowjob, the first he'd ever tried giving, were the only sex he'd had before the rape, and afterward even the thought of someone touching him made him physically ill. He couldn't even bear to hear people talk about sex. Until Baron. Baron had opened him up, literally and figuratively. Opened him to love.
* * * *
They'd been friends for about a month when Baron came out to him.
"I am too," Jay whispered. He still had trouble saying the words.
"That's marvelous! Now if we fall in love we won't worry that sex is the only connection between us."
He'd meant it as a joke, of course, but Jay had hedged, and from then on he drew back from any contact that seemed remotely physical. He learned later that Baron had thought his race was an issue, though nothing had stood in the way of their quickly becoming close friends. On top of that, it was only the physical connection Jay avoided; their emotional attachment was growing stronger by the day.
Jay had fallen in love and suspected Baron had, too, or was at least well on the way to falling in love with him. It was his own fault, because of the distance he kept putting between them, that Baron was avoiding the L word. Jay wanted to get closer to him… very close, all the way close… but he was afraid. He couldn't help himself.
Then one evening it had started raining
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