The Beatles - 2. Chapter 2

Paul’s kiss left me dazed and confused. Did Paul like me in “that way?” Or was it simply a friendly gesture from an extroverted guy? I repeatedly touched my neck where he’d kissed me—a spot warmer than the rest of my skin. I was happily infatuated by Paul. But sad too, because I was pretty sure he was straight, and I doubted very much that my strong feelings were reciprocated.

When I got home, my mom noticed that I was more withdrawn than usual. She asked me if everything was okay. I touched my neck and replied that I was just a bit tired after the year at school. She asked if I’d chosen a major yet. Although I hadn’t given it much thought, I suddenly said, “Criminology.” I told her a friend had suggested it. That he thought my analytical personality would be suited to catching bad guys. She looked a bit surprised, because I’d always leaned toward the sciences and had talked about becoming a doctor, but she smiled and said I’d be great at that. As always, she told me I had her support.

She said, “Why do you keep touching your neck, dear?”

I shrugged and blushed.

Changing the subject, she asked, “Are you going to date that nice Sandra girl while you’re home for the summer?”

“No ma, she’s going out with Brad Thurlow now. His dad owns the local car dealership. He’s a better catch than me.”

“Oh, John, never sell yourself short. You’d be a great catch for any woman!”

That’s my mom, always my greatest fan.

The summer passed quickly. I had a good paying job in a mill. It was smelly, dirty, heavy work, and it kept me busy and tired. Generally, the time passed quickly, however, it slowed when I thought about how long it would be before I saw Paul again; the weeks ahead seemed to be a vast empty plain that needed to be crossed. On a good note, I was building some muscle from the heavy work.

I was still too young to drink legally, but one of the older guys from work invited a few of us over for “brewskies.” Not used to drinking alcohol, after about 3 beers I was pretty pissed. One of the guys there started coming on to me, but I had no interest in him. He only reminded me how much I missed Paul and how confusing that relationship was. I was suddenly overwhelmed by feelings of melancholia, longing and anger. I sought refuge in the bathroom where I sat on the side of the tub and sank into a deep well of alcohol induced self-pity. Crying until there were no tears left made me feel better. I splashed cold water on my face and prepared to rejoin my friends. I made an angry vow to myself, then and there, that if I couldn’t have Paul I would never look at another man. I would be straight!

Paul and I maintained sporadic email contact during the summer. He had a job at in the office of a feed store and seemed happy. He never mentioned he was dating anyone, but I just assumed a good looking, outgoing guy like him would have his share of interested girls.

September finally rolled around, and we agreed to meet early on the first day of classes at our favourite coffee place on campus. I got there first, nervous and excited. Would he hug me? Call me Fuckwit? Give me another kiss on the neck? I had no idea what to expect.

As it turned out he did hug me, but it was just a quick man hug. In fact, Paul seemed a bit anxious about something. We got our coffees and decided to enjoy them outside in the sun. Which, on that September morning, was still fairly low in the sky.

We made the usual small talk about our summers. He noticed that I’d buffed up a bit through the chest and shoulders. I told him that was from the heavy work at the mill, and that my hands were all calloused too.

“Let me see your hands,” he said.

I held them out and he took my left hand and cupped it in both of his. He ran his thumb over my palm, sending jolts of electricity through me! I began to get hard immediately. There was nothing in the world but his thumb running over my palm and my painfully growing erection. My face flushed. I was thrilled by his touch but horrified at my physical reaction.

“You got some good calluses there. Very butch,” he said.

My mouth was dry, “Yeah.....”

What did he mean by butch? Did he think I needed butching up? Why was I even questioning this? The rubbing went on for a while, and I was getting more excited and more freaked by the second. To calm myself I slowly began to extract my hand, seeking some sort of safety from the emotions that were boiling inside me. Instead of just letting go of my hand, he kept the thumb and middle finger of his right hand in a steady pressure. His grip slid off my palm and onto my middle finger. I continued to pull away slowly. Finally he just had the pad of my finger trapped, and he gave it an extra squeeze before finally letting go. I nearly came on the spot. Now wouldn’t that have been embarrassing?

My mind was roiling with a thousand questions. Why did he do that? Was he, again, just being his friendly, outgoing self? Or was there more to that touch? Was he coming on to me?

I needed to get a grip, and I thought frantically of something to say. Of course I had checked out his body when we met a few minutes before, so it was naturally my turn to return the compliment on his expanding muscles. Yes he was definitely bulked up. I mentioned he looked bigger, and he said that his dad had let him use the gym at the police station, and he’d been working out steadily all summer.

“It shows,” I said. “I can see your pecs pushing against your T-shirt.” Now why the fuck did I say that? He’s really going to suspect I’m gay now. Oh God!

He looked up and caught my eyes with his, smiled a little smile, and raised his eyebrows a bit. I was getting harder by the minute. If this didn’t stop soon I’d never be able to stand up!

He started fidgeting in his seat. He looked up at the sky, he looked left, he looked right. He sighed. Finally, he took a deep breath, looked at me, “John, I’ve been doing a lot of thinking this summer. You know, you’re a really great guy. I feel comfortable around you, and you know there’s nothing I’d ever do to intentionally damage our friendship. Right?”

I nodded and waited. My analytical side thinking through a thousand and one possibilities of where this was all headed, but I remained quiet, because this was his speech. I just hoped he wasn’t going to tell me that we should “cool it” or not be friends anymore. But he did just say he didn’t want to damage our friendship. I was a confused as hell.

I held my gaze on his face, but he had a hard time meeting my eyes. He looked down and scuffed around some dirt with his feet. Definitely a delaying tactic. Whatever he wanted to say was costing him a lot.

I waited.

Finally he looked in my eyes, and I noticed that his seemed to be a little shiny. Tears? But it was probably a bit of dust or the cool breeze that was blowing.

Finally, in a very quiet voice, he began, “I want to talk about feelings, John. I...er....um. Well, I’ve thought a lot about this.... Oh God, this isn’t easy. It’s just that I feel.....I feel....well...um....I really.....”

A sudden shadow startled us. What had so suddenly blocked out the sun?

We looked up to see the silhouettes of two slim girls. Or were we seeing double? It certainly looked like the same girl twice. It was impossible to see their faces clearly, because the sun was directly behind them. The sun made their hair glow. They looked surreal.

The one on the right started a staccato kind of dialogue, “I hope we’re not disturbing you. Are you guys brothers? We’re sisters. Twins actually. Identical twins. I’m Jennifer and this is Marianne. Oh gosh, you look surprised. Well, I guess I would be too.” Finally, she seemed to run out of steam.

Paul and I sat there stunned, but Paul managed to find his manners before me, “No, we’re not brothers, just good friends. I’m Paul and this is John.”

Marianne, the quiet one on the left reached out her hand for me to shake and said in a much more subdued voice than her sister, “Nice to meet you.”

“You too,” I said as I took her small, warm hand in mine.

Then the hand shaking ritual between the four of us took place.

With our focus shifted to the girls, the tension between Paul and I retreated. As, thankfully, did my embarrassing erection.

There was a moment of silence which gave me a chance to appraise the girls. They had moved slightly, and the sun was no longer directly behind them. I could see that they were indeed slim, and pretty too. They were dressed in casual, good quality, clothes. Obviously intelligent. Good posture and graceful movement—I was guessing ballet lessons. Certainly the type of girls I wouldn’t hesitate to introduce to dear old mom, if you know what I mean.

I was fairly chuffed at myself for these thoughts. Weren’t these good, normal thoughts for a young guy to have? I mean, my boner was still deflating, but I had to admit there was a certain attractiveness to these girls....

Talkative Jennifer interrupted my reverie, “We’re in first year nursing. What are you guys taking?”

We both said “Criminology” at the same time, and I caught a look of surprise on Paul’s face, but I could tell it was a happy sort of surprise.

If he looked happy, then he hadn’t been about to tell me to piss off a few moments before. I was very curious about he intended to say....

It was obvious that the girls were trying to pick us up, but not having much experience in these matters, I left the next move to Paul.

Right on cue he asked, “So do you guys want to get together some time? See a show? Something like that?”

Jennifer, definitely the spokesman for the sisters, said, “Sure, why don’t we give you our numbers? Marianne and I live in different dorms. I mean just because we’re twins doesn’t mean we’re joined at the hip or anything. We try to give each other space.” Did she ever give Marianne a chance to speak?

Both of them dug out a pen and paper and wrote their numbers down. Jennifer gave her number to Paul, and Marianne gave her number to me. I guess there was some sort of unspoken, mutual agreement between the four of us. Marianne and I, who were more quiet and reserved, would pair up and Jennifer and Paul, who were definitely more outgoing, would pair up.

With business out of the way, Jennifer said, “Well, we better get going, we’ve got a class in a few minutes. Wouldn’t want to be late on our first day! Bye!” And she set off with Marianne in her wake.

Paul looked at me, smiled and shook his head from side to side, “Well, I guess we’ve just met George and Ringo!”

“Looks like it...What were you going to tell me earlier?”

“Oh nothing. Not important now.”

“Okay....”

We started dating the girls, and one thing led to another. Our relationships slowly headed in a more serious direction. I was happy enough. Marianne was someone I could be proud of, and I discovered that sex with her, although not earth shattering, was satisfying. Sometimes I thought about Paul when I was having sex with Marianne, but it didn’t worry me. It was my little secret, and nobody needed to know. I was just grateful that I could indeed “fit” into the straight world and that a normal life with a home, career and children was in my future.

Apparently the same thing was happening between Paul and Jennifer.

Sadly, as our relationships with the girls grew, Paul and I drifted apart. This was partly because the girls didn’t like double dating. Also, Paul and Jennifer like sports and dancing; Marianne and I preferred movies and art galleries.

And we were busy with school. One of my courses that year was an introduction to emergency services. Part of the course requirement was that we take “ride-alongs” with police, ambulance and fire services.

I enjoyed my shift with the police, but I didn’t think I was assertive enough to be a cop. They saw things in black and white. Good and Bad. I saw too many shades of grey. Maybe Paul’s more assertive manner was better suited to that field.

Ambulance was another disappointment. It was certainly interesting, but too intense for my taste.

Now fire—that was another story entirely! The guys I met on “D” shift at the fire hall were welcoming. And it didn’t take me long to realize that they were a close team, very much into covering each others’ backs. I was paired up with a guy named Smith, who was an arson investigator. He took me out on an inspection of a suspicious warehouse fire. I followed as he prowled the ruined building pointing out fire damage, and where it had started and the “hot spots” from accelerant used. I was hooked. I knew unequivocally that my future lay in that field, and that my analytical skills would serve me well.

For the next three years I focussed my studies on becoming a fireman and learning all I could about investigating fires.

Three years passed quickly. We graduated from college. Paul and I married the girls. He got a job with the city’s police force. I got a job with a suburban fire department. The girls got jobs in nearby hospitals.

Paul did well with the police force. After serving as a patrolman he was promoted to the homicide squad.

I worked as a regular fireman at first, then an opening came up for an arson inspector, and I jumped at it. Turns out I have an uncanny ability to “sense” the cause of a fire. Of course, being analytical, as Paul pointed out, I’m very careful and document my findings thoroughly. I’m confident in court and can honestly say that I’ve contributed to the conviction of more than a few arsonists. Most arsons are insurance frauds, but every once in a while one will be an attempt to cover up a murder. Some arsons are crimes of passion or spite. It’s a fascinating field.

Paul and Jennifer bought a condo in the city. Marianne and I bought a three bedroom rancher in the suburbs. They bought a BMW and a Miata. We bought a Ford F-150 and a Jetta.

Everyone was on shift work. It was difficult to get the four of us together. The girls talked on the phone several times each week, but I Paul and I rarely talked. We saw each other at the occasional family get-together. We’d sit and have a beer and shoot the shit about work, but Paul seemed distant, and I guess I kept a protective wall around myself too. I was a little depressed about this turn of events. I still wanted to be close to Paul. I just didn’t know how to cross the divide growing between us.

Both couples had babies not too far apart. Paul and Jennifer had a little boy they named Ryan John. Marianne and I had a little girl we named Rebecca.

At nearly 30 years old I had a good life: A job I loved, a wife that I was proud of, and a daughter who was the apple of my eye. I missed being close to Paul, but otherwise I was content.

Little did I know that my comfortable little world was about to come crashing down around my ears....