Summer - 10. You'll Be Coming Down

The house in Alexandria, Virginia, located where the street dead-ended, was waterfront living at its best―picture-perfect rooms with magnificent views of the Potomac all over the place. District of Columbia Police Detective Thomas J. F. Kennedy and John Paul Smith, who served as the Press Attaché at the Australian Embassy in Washington, had purchased the home in 2010 and at the time, the expenditure had drained their financial reserves. But they had fallen in love with the five-bedroom, three-and-a-half-bath home with a two-car garage―even though it was much too large for the two of them. The primary attraction had been the deck fronting the river with its fabulous view of Washington, and the large docking facility it shared with the neighbors across the street.

The seawall on the property was in the process of being refurbished, so their Lagoon 42 Catamaran was docked at the Gangplank Marina across the river until repairs to the wall were completed. Before the beginning of autumn, the PP would be back home.

A dozen men were gathered around the dining room table in the house, there to celebrate Doc’s birthday, who would turn thirty-four the next day. The Elite Eight, Doc’s business partner, and the physicians’ office manager―plus their dates―enjoyed a lively evening. The food was wonderful, the drinks were plentiful, and the conversation engaging―yet it felt as if a virtual dark cloud hung over the gathering.

Towards the end of the evening, JP and Brett found themselves sitting on the dock by themselves, staring at the bridge spanning the river, with the lights of Washington reflecting off the water. “You look pensive and troubled, Jarhead. What’s on your mind?”

“Probably the same thing that’s in yours, and in most of the rest of tonight’s guests. Chip’s treating Doc as if they were just casual friends instead of a couple. Every time Doc tries to show a bit of affection, Mr. Big Shot Bank Executive finds an excuse to walk somewhere else. And it’s pissing me off big time.”

“Mate, it’s worse than you realize. I was in the pantry looking for something when Chip came into the kitchen talking into his phone. The sod thought he was alone. After hearing his first comment, I kept quiet and eavesdropped. Someone he kept calling babe must have wanted to see him, while our friend kept repeating this was a bad weekend because of Matt’s birthday. The conversation ended with a promise by Chip, to spend the Fourth of July weekend together.”

“The fucking son of a bitch! Killing the motherfucker will be a pleasure, no quick death for him though. First, we’ll cut his dick off. Then we’ll shove it up his ass.”

“Damn skippy! Don’t hold back, mate,” said the Aussie laughing. “Tell us how you really feel about him?”

When their partners joined them, they were both still laughing. César and Tommy were brought up to speed on the conversation.

“Look. guys, I know it looks bad, and it probably is,” said César. “Think about it, if we do anything and by some miracle we’ve misread things, Doc’s going to suffer almost as much as if we were right.”

“But, babe,” replied Brett. “We can’t just let Chip keep going like this. The longer it goes on, the worst it’ll be when it unravels.”

“You’re right. So we keep quiet for the time being, I’ll stop by the bank this week and try to talk to Chip, maybe I can figure it out. Either way, we approach him as a group next weekend, during Capital Pride. Agreed?”

“Agreed,” replied JP sounding somber.

“Fine with me, babe.”

“I’m in,” added Tom, running his hand over his almost non-existent hair.

Saturday was CJ’s second day of the week for cardio work; since the family had nothing planned, the teen convinced his fathers to go jogging with him in the morning. The marine took point, set a challenging pace, and led them through various roads to the Georgetown Reservoir―part of the water supply infrastructure for the District of Columbia, located approximately two miles downstream from the Maryland–D.C. boundary. This was the turnaround point, the three men returned home via Canal Road before sprinting up the Exorcist Steps. They arrived home winded and sweaty, following their run, their rapid breathing was mostly from the steep steps.

“I still can’t get used to losing my breath so easily, these damn hills are killing me!” said CJ to his dads, bent over at the waist still trying to recover.

“Easy, big guy. Papa and I have lived here for years, we’re used to the hilly terrain. You’ll get there also, give it time. Let’s go shower and grab something to eat after, I want to detail the bikes so they look really good tomorrow.”

After munching on leftovers, they spent the afternoon cleaning the motorcycles, getting them ready for their Sunday ride. Since it would be an early start, pizza and movies were the order of the day. It turned into a mini-marathon of Star Trek: The Next Generation episodes, instead of a film, with César being out-voted by his children―the Trek addicts.

Before they called it a night and climbed the stairs to their bedrooms, the three men discussed the day’s activities. The morning run, the joint preparation of breakfast and lunch, washing and waxing the two Harleys, and sprawling out on the couch after dinner. They agreed it had been fun to do it all together as a family. CJ also thought the time spent together with his dads gave him another chance to get closer to them.

About a hundred miles west of the Nation’s Capital, Chip and Doc had spent most of the day sightseeing. The men were back in their room at the Bed & Breakfast they were staying at, after enjoying a great meal at a small country restaurant. Conversation between them had been easy and friendly all day long—maybe a little too friendly. Chip had kept up a constant chatter about nothing at all. Anything it seemed, except the two of them―a subject he completely avoided.

Doc kept hoping he could somehow spark a change in his partner’s behavior; he tried not to start any arguments, to be cheerful, agreeable, and to bring up happy memories. His patience was wearing thin. As they climbed under the covers, he asked Chip to grab the lube from their bag and was told fucking would not happen this evening. The Argentinian’s stomach was upset and he was worried about an accident.

The salt-and-pepper-haired Latino crawled under the covers instead and proceeded to give his partner a very competent but extremely impersonal blowjob. Chip was an experienced cocksucker and Doc had last ejaculated over a week ago―the combination caused an automatic physical reaction. Five minutes of oral stimulation was all it took; Doc’s frustration exploded and he roughly pushed Chip’s head down on his cock before filling his mouth with his load. At that point Chip was simply a hole, a cumdump, no better than a whore.

There was no lovemaking after-glow, hell there was no lovemaking at all. Matt was physically satisfied but emotionally empty. Any rent boy could have done as well if not better. He didn’t say a word when Chip rolled away from him, pulled up the covers, and went to sleep. Doc remained awake for a while; he finally admitted things could not go on as they were. He accepted his suspicions were not his imagination run amok. Sometime later, after quietly sobbing into the pillow, the man who had sworn to care for others realized he could do nothing to heal his own broken heart. His eyes stung, his chest felt tight, and he felt defeated. Eventually, he dozed off.

It was 7:30 in the morning, but Brett, César, and CJ had been up for a while. They now sat on the front steps of their house, waiting for Dragon and King. All three were dressed similarly: boots, jeans, and a leather vest―instead of a jacket due to the heat. Underneath the vests, the older men wore black, Under Armour muscle shirts. CJ wore a black Thirteenth Floor t-shirt, a cigar brand rolled in Miami which his step-father smoked from time to time.

Marine Colonel Ray Edwards would be Brett’s CO after his transfer took effect on July 1st. Several weeks ago, he invited the marine and his partner to a breakfast he was hosting at the Pentagon, in advance of the Rolling Thunder Motorcycle Rally. He asked them for the names of any friends also riding―Devon and Rashid were subsequently also invited after Brett gave their names to his boss. CJ was added to their table when Colonel Edwards found out he was now living in D.C. and was riding with his fathers.

The mixed rumble of Rashid’s Triumph Street Triple 675, and Devon’s Harley-Davidson V-Rod coming closer all the time, alerted them to the arrival of their friends. The men mounted their motorcycles, which sat waiting at the entrance to the driveway; CJ was riding behind César. With a hand wave as a greeting, all four bikes rumbled down Prospect Street, on their way to the Pentagon.

The Run to the Wall would depart from the Pentagon’s parking area; the men headed to the spots assigned to the Colonel’s staff, lined up, locked their bikes, and headed towards the entrance to the famous building. Brett’s credentials, and the VIP notation next to the names on the guest list, smoothed their way in. All five gained access, once the routine security procedures were completed.

The transfer from Quantico, and assignment to his staff, had been pushed through by the Colonel against some opposition from a few of his superiors―they wanted someone older in the position. After reviewing the files of a dozen openly gay marines, the African-American full bird had based his decision on Captain Davenport’s service record, and his stable personal life. He was planning to make his new subordinate a poster boy for the post-Don’t Ask Don’t Tell Marines; no one was aware of his intentions, but things would change at breakfast. He was cranking up his plans this morning, and he looked forward to some cages being rattled; the military was not known as a bastion of tolerance and acceptance, but he was out to change that, as much as possible.

“Good morning, welcome to the Pentagon, and thank you for joining us before the sound of thunder starts shaking these walls,” said the Colonel by way of greeting. “I would like to introduce two marines to you and then, after you eat, you’re free to be brave by hanging out with over 25,000 bikers. I’m smarter, I’m headed home as soon as this is over.” The comment was met with laughter, clucking sounds, and a shout of CHICKEN from the small crowd in the hall.

“We’ll do this by rank―may I Introduce Captain Brett Andrew Davenport, he’ll be joining my staff here at the Pentagon on July 1. The transition from his current posting at Quantico has been underway for a few weeks. Once here, Captain Davenport will coordinate our ongoing response to the repeal of DADT and also to any future developments related to same-sex unions which would affect our troops. The Captain is wearing his biker uniform today― with his partner, César Abelló, and their son, CJ, he will be part of the Run to the Wall.

Most of those present applauded, a couple of fellow Marines seating nearby reached over to shake his hand and a loud ‘Oorah!’ rang out. But the Colonel noticed several grimaces and made a mental note to keep an eye on those men.

“The next introduction will take me a little longer and I’m going to cheat and read portions of an article written about him in The Huffington Post.

When one door closes, another opens.

That popular statement couldn't be truer for former marine Alex Minsky, who lost his leg in Afghanistan and became a successful underwear model after his recovery.

In 2009, having just recently arrived in Afghanistan, a roadside bomb tore off the bottom half of the Venice Beach native's right leg, which left him in a coma for 47 days before being honorably discharged from the military.

After a bout with drinking and depression stalled the tattooed 24-year-old, who is a recipient of the Purple Heart, Minsky sobered up and started working out. It was at the gym where he met a photographer who would change the course of his life.

“I go to the gym twice a day, I’m very healthy," Minksy said. "The first photographer approached me as I was leaving the place. At first, I thought it was just another gay guy hitting on me.”

“The comment struck me as interesting when I read it and realized who Alex was, coincidentally, sitting next to today.”

“Yeah right. Coincidentally my ass,” whispered Brett to his table companions. “The old codger planned this entire thing out to the last detail.”

Mrs. Edwards couldn’t help herself, a loud guffaw escaped her mouth at the comment, making the Colonel look at his wife.

“Continuing with the article,

It wasn't until Los Angeles-based photographer Michael Stokes took a photo of a nearly nude Minsky (which subsequently got taken down by Facebook for violating their nudity rules), that his career started taking off.

Now, the Marine Corporal is trying to inspire others to never give up on their dreams even in the face of tragedy.

“Just because I don’t have a leg doesn’t mean it’s going to slow me down. I want people to look at me and not give up. Not quit.”

Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome Marine Corporal, and Purple Heart recipient, Alex Minsky.”

The standing ovation lasted for several minutes, and Corporal Minsky appeared embarrassed. César had already noticed the young veteran was very soft-spoken, and although extremely friendly, he appeared to also be somewhat shy. At one point he saw CJ and Alex both pull out their phones, turn them on, and tap away at them, while quietly speaking to each other.

“The Corporal’s experience is not typical of all our returning wounded troops, but his issues with PTSD and substance abuse are widespread. Captain Davenport will also be assisting our group in the handling of such issues and I hope he and Alex will remain in touch so we can all benefit from the corporal’s experiences, even if we can’t all become underwear models! Thank you for your service to our country, gentlemen. And thanks to all of you for attending this morning. Enjoy the remainder of the Memorial Day Weekend.”

Both guests of honor spent the next hour exchanging handshakes and pleasantries with almost everyone present at the event. César stood to the side smiling proudly while Dragon and King commented on how impressed they were by Brett’s new responsibilities. All three were in awe of Minsky; the man’s struggle to overcome his mental and physical wounds had given him the ability to adapt to new circumstances when he accidentally stumbled into the modeling gig.

The Colonel and his wife were participating in the ride as observers, not going back home as he had indicated―they joined their tablemates in the walk to the parking lot. The older couple and their guest of honor agreed to meet up with the bikers later in the afternoon at Rogo’s for a late lunch or early dinner and a couple of beers. Rogo’s was a small neighborhood bar and grill, located near the intersection of M Street and Pennsylvania Avenue; the place had been recently purchased by an old friend of their Australian buddy John Paul.

The Rolling Thunder Motorcycle Rally, also known as the Run to the Wall, was an annual event held on the Sunday of Memorial Day Weekend. Started in 1987 by two Marine and two Army veterans, the rally sought to bring attention to the issue of prisoners of war and missing in action servicemen. The ride left the Pentagon parking lot at noon when all motorcycle engines roared to life simultaneously with the sound of thunder. It then proceeded across the Memorial Bridge over the Potomac River and ended at the Vietnam Veterans Memorial.

Brett and CJ were checking out the motorcycles all around them while César, Dragon, and King stood by their bikes.

“Dude, check it out,” commented Brett, nudging CJ and indicating a guy with a nod of his head. The middle-aged man, with salt and pepper hair, was in the process of peeling off a long-sleeved black t-shirt. “He should have known better than to wear that type of shirt in this weather.”

“Wow! Check out those wings tattooed on his back, Papa, let’s go talk to him.”

Before taking a step in the direction of the well-built older guy, the boy noticed a slightly heavy-set, bearded biker a couple of rows further away shove a younger guy hard enough to knock him to the ground. CJ immediately walked over.

“Hey, bud, you ok?” CJ asked the teen, extending his hand to help the young man stand.

“Yeah, thanks. I’ll be fine.”

“What was that all about?

“The guy heard me on my phone saying ‘I love you’ to my boyfriend and I guess I used his name. He said something about how fags weren't allowed here. Sorry if my being gay also bothers you. I wanted to ride to honor the memory of my father, a marine who died in Afghanistan. I’d prefer not to cause trouble, so I’ll just go home.” There was a hitch in his voice and sadness and disappointment were noticeable when CJ looked at his face. His eyes appeared moist and he seemed to be fighting a losing battle to hold back the tears threatening to start rolling down his face.

“I’m CJ, what’s your name?”

“It’s Elliot, thanks for the help, dude―guess I’ll head out now.”

“Sure, if that’s what you want. But I think the guy who pushed you wants to apologize.”

“What?”

“Come on let’s go talk to him. Trust me.” CJ threw an arm around the startled Elliot and gave him his best smile.

As the two young men started walking towards the biker, CJ noticed Dragon a few feet away following him. This was not the first time today he had felt Uncle Devon paying close attention to what he did or said. It had been the same last weekend during brunch and while sailing on the PP. When he saw the big man motion to his fathers to join him the boy realized the extra attention from the social worker was probably instigated by his dads. He felt good that all these men cared so much about him and how the recent events were affecting him.

“Excuse me, sir? HI, my name is CJ.”

“Yeah, what do you want? And what’s the fruit doing still here? I thought I told him we don’t allow his kind at this event.”

“Really? And what kind would that be? Someone like Elliot, who’s here to honor the memory of his dad, a marine killed in the line of duty in Afghanistan?”

“I don’t care why he’s here, he should go back to wherever he came from and not bother real men and women.”

“Okay, so he’s not allowed to show his respect because he’s gay? Is that the kind not allowed?”

“Yeah, you got that right!”

The increasingly loud voices attracted the attention of others nearby and a small group gathered around the biker and the youngster confronting him.

“No matter what your opinion of gay people may be, you owe my friend here an apology. There was no need for you to push him and since this is a free country, I think he has the same right to participate you and I do.” CJ was trying to stay relaxed, but the anger boiling inside him kept rising with every comment the older man made. It wouldn’t take much more for him to explode.

“Guess you’re another one of those fudge packers.”

“Good guess, asshole. You know what? I’ve had it with you.” That last comment was the spark needed to ignite the boy, and CJ was in full pissed-off mood. After what his step-father had put him through, he was not going to hide who he was, and he was not going to allow anyone to walk all over him for being himself. He was not in the mood for any bullshit from homophobes. “Yeah, I am gay. I’m proud of it and disgusted by homophobic, bigoted losers like you. You’re a fucking bully. And you’re a fucking coward. You don’t have the guts to pick on someone your own size. This time you picked on the wrong guy, asshole. You will apologize, or you’ll be coming down a couple of pegs when I’m done with you.”

“Why you little shit, I’m going to kick your fucking queer ass…”