GWM - 4. Chapter 4 of 18

Perry

Harry kept Perry’s note for almost a week before deciding what to do. He’d been running a print ad in the weekly paper. GWM, 32 -- conservative, creative, articulate, attractive. It was the same description he used online, and he’d nearly added the usual 6'-2", 175, brown, blue. But that wasn’t how he wanted to start.
Ads weren’t the easiest way to meet guys, since they involved getting a post office box and having mail forwarded from the newspaper. But Gordon had suggested them, admitting they didn’t completely block the sub-literate. One guy just sent Harry pictures of his dripping dick.
Harry showed them to Gordon, over lunch. “I know this guy,” Gordon joked. “That’s a particularly bad circumcision.” And he pocketed the photos.
Normally, Harry answered all reasonable letters, if only to say, “Sorry, I don’t think we have much in common.” He’d been left hanging himself, when guys who’d seemed interesting had never written back. Still, letters often beat the Internet or voice mail. Some dating sites quickly turned to porn for him, as guys sent unrequested pictures of body parts or demanded similar shots from Harry.
“I don’t even know how they get their cameras there,” he told Gordon.
“Is it worse than seeing their cell phones reflected in their bathroom mirrors? And they always use the flash to block to block their faces.”
Harry had also stopped easily giving out his phone numbers, after a guy he’d never met had turned into a stalker. Harry would open his voicemail and hear, “Twenty-seven messages,” all of them saying, “I want your ass.”
Perry was twenty-one, which was why Harry was hesitant. That seemed way too young. The guy probably just needed friends.
Perry had graduated from UMass and was working in Amherst while saving for grad. school. He lived with his parents, as he had through college, and was an only child. Harry would easily have written Perry, but the boy sent no last name or address, just his phone number at work. Worse, he’d asked Harry only to call him at lunch, when he’d be alone.
Harry finally called because he kept imagining the poor kid sitting by the phone, waiting. And Harry would haven bet that this was the first letter like this Perry had written. Not that it made their conversation easier.
“Hi, this is Harry Sussman. Is Perry there?”
“This is Perry.” The voice was strong, if anxious.
“You don’t know me,” Harry said. “But you answered my ad.”
There was no response, and for a moment, Harry thought Perry had hung up. “Perry?” he asked.
Silence. Then: “Yes?” The guy sounded stunned.
“Is there a better time to call?”
Silence. Then, weakly: “No.” Then another pause.
“Would you rather let this go?” Harry asked.
Troubled silence, with Perry trying to clear his throat. Then, no stronger: “No” and “I didn’t think you’d honestly call.”
Harry apologized for waiting. “You’re younger than I am,” he explained. “Younger than really interests me.”
Perry hesitated. “I know how old you are. It was in your ad.”
Harry had stupidly forgotten. Trying not to seem a fool, he quickly countered, “Well, if you’d given me a way to write...”
“It was in your ad,” Perry repeated.
A stand-off, with Harry unsure where to go.
“I’m sorry I bothered you,” Perry suddenly began. Then he stopped.
Harry was sure he’d hang up. “Wait,” he insisted. “It took a lot for you to write like that. I know how you feel. I’ve been through this myself. And I’m sure you had reasons for picking my ad.”
He tested the silence. The danger of Perry’s hanging up seemed to have passed, and the boy seemed to be thinking. “So if you’d like to talk,” Harry went on. “Or if you’d like to get together, for coffee or something...”
Nothing. Harry again waited. “Where could we meet?” he tried. “Where would be good for you?”
Perry had written that he’d lived in Sunderland all his life. No doubt he had too many friends in the area.
“Could I suggest something?” Harry said. “I’m an architect. I work in an office in Northampton. You could meet me here, and we could talk.”
There were echos of Nick in this, but that’s partly what it was. Minus the drooling.
“Not Northampton,” Perry insisted. “Someone would see us.”
“I look pretty normal,” Harry joked. Though if Perry had a sense of humor, it wasn’t active. “Look,” he finally said, “I live in Waldron. In an old building. Small. My neighbors keep to themselves. I’ll give you the address, and you can phone me some night when you’re free.”
“Not night,” Perry said instantly.
Harry didn’t want to know why. “Afternoon then,” he suggested. “Or weekend.”
“Saturday?”
Perry had leaped, then sounded astonished.
“This Saturday?” Harry offered, figuring the sooner this was over...
Perry hesitated. Then, defiantly said: “Yes. Saturday.” Then he whispered: “Is that all right?”
“Perfect,” Harry assured him.
Then silence again.
“Is afternoon good?” Harry went on.
Again, Perry didn’t answer.
“Morning better?”
Nothing.
“Perry?”
“Yes?”
“Why don’t you just come over for lunch? It’ll give us something to do.”
Silence. Finally: “Sure.”
“Good.”
Silence.
“Perry?”
“Yes?”
“Just wanted to make sure you were still there.”
“Yes.”
Harry dictated his address and phone number, adding lightly, “Call, if anything changes.” As he started to hang up, he fully expected something would.
“Wait,” Perry said -- urgently -- and Harry figured he’d back out right there. Instead, he asked, “Should I bring something?”
A polite kid, offering dessert? Or someone concerned about “Protection?” Harry pictured the two of them having sex. It was too weird.
“Just bring yourself,” he said. “I’ll take care of everything.”
Perry hung up so fast he might not have answered the phone. And Harry laughed, wondering what he’d begun.
“Do you want me there?” Gordon offered, when he heard about the date. “I’ll chaperone.” But Harry couldn’t shake the word “threesome.”
Saturday, he hung around the apartment all morning, in case Perry called. Noon came without a cancellation, so Harry started making lunch. Soon, there was a knock.
Perry was a surprise: Taller than Harry. Thin. Warmly good-looking, though in ways guys his own age might not see. And terrified. He thrust something into Harry’s hands, then abruptly pulled back. So they didn’t accidentally touch?
The package was cold. Harry figured “ice cream,” and headed for the kitchen. Perry closed the door, first glancing up and down the hall. If he laughed, Harry knew the kid would crash through the door like a cartoon dog.
In the kitchen, Harry finished making sandwiches while warming up soup. Perry sat at the table, and they talked, impersonally. About architecture. About Harry’s work. About what Perry hoped to do. They also talked about Harry’s family, then Perry’s. They ate their soup and sandwiches, finished their ice cream and coffee, and never once mentioned why Perry was really there. Harry figured they’d get to it when the boy felt able. Then Perry stood, ready to leave.
“It’s been good meeting you,” he said, cautiously offering his hand.
Well, at least he’s met a gay man, Harry thought. And maybe realized he wouldn’t be jumped immediately. Still, there was so much more he could learn.
“Is there somewhere you have to go?” Harry asked.
Silence. Then: “No.”
“Anything you’d like to ask?”
A long silence, with Perry looking miserable, and Harry again sorry he’d started. “Have you ever been with anyone?” he went on. “I’m not prying, just trying to help...”
Another long silence, which Harry couldn’t translate. “Stomp once for ‘yes,’” he joked.
Perry looked cornered. “Could I just go?”
“You can do anything you want,” Harry assured him. “Please don’t feel -- in any way -- that I’m pressuring you.”
As Perry took this in, Harry continued. “But I just might have some answers you need.”
Extremely long silence. Then, quietly: “Could I use the bathroom?” Harry bet he was going to throw up.
While Perry was in the john, Harry washed, dried, and put away the dishes. He re-sorted the silverware drawer, fixed a loose knob on the cabinet, oiled a hinge, and considered paying some bills. Finally, Perry returned. Shaking, but he sat at the table.
“I’ve never done anything like this,” he began.
Harry knew not to interrupt.
“I’ve never touched anyone. Not another man. I’ve seen pictures... in magazines... but I’ve never bought one. I’ve read books... I’ve been online. I’ve known for a long time that I was... interested.”
He couldn’t say “gay,” or even “homosexual.”
“Once,” he went on, “I went on a field trip with my Psychology class. To Boston. To a bar... you know the kind. But we didn’t talk to anyone. We didn’t stay. And we stuck close together.”
Harry could picture the group. Geeks in backpacks.
While Perry talked, Harry was trapped by the sink. He wanted to sit, but couldn’t even ease towards a chair, afraid Perry would bolt.
“My parents will never understand this,” Perry went on. “They’ll think I’m doing it purposely. To hurt them. And I’ve tried so hard to make them happy.”
“I’m sure you’re...”
“No,” Perry insisted. “You don’t understand. Some of my cousins are... Well, they’re not in jail or anything... But they’re not anything my family would want. Everyone uses me as the perfect example.”
He paused, and Harry waited.
“I’ve never touched another man,” Perry said again. “But I’ve wanted to. So much.”
He sat across the small room, so completely vulnerable that Harry didn’t know how he’d ever laughed. He slowly moved to Perry, helped him to his feet, and simply held the boy.
Perry’s hands never left his sides. He wouldn’t relax. Harry gently rubbed the boy’s back, stroked his hair. He traced Perry’s spine to his belt, lightly tickled his sides. Perry barely seemed to breathe, but Harry could feel his heart overworking. A half-dozen times, Perry started to speak, then quit.
So Harry kissed him.
“Don’t. Don’t. Please. It’s too. Too. Damn.”
And Harry realized the boy was coming.
Humiliated. Red. Perry froze till the long spasms stopped. When he finally seemed ready to leave, Harry held him tightly. Perry tried to twist free.
“You can’t be embarrassed,” Harry said. “There’s nothing’s wrong. You’re fine.”
Perry broke loose.
“You’ve been alone all your life,” Harry told him. “You can’t work this out by yourself.”
Silence. Perry was clearly ready to go.
“At least, clean up,” Harry suggested. “You can’t leave like that.”
Perry glanced at his pants. The dark fabric seemed unstained.
“Well, maybe you can,” Harry admitted, smiling.
But Perry just stood there, tense, and Harry wanted to hug him again.
“I... I... My...” The boy couldn’t even start a sentence.
Harry moved to him, held him again, without resistance. “You make too much of this,” he said. “It’s not that important.”
Though what could Perry compare it to?
“Come on,” Harry said, easing Perry toward the bathroom. “Let’s clean you up.”
Harry knew what he intended, though wasn’t sure how far he’d get. He turned on the shower, then slowly undressed Perry. There were shields within shields: A cotton turtle-neck, a T-shirt under that. A reluctant belt buckle and button-fly jeans. Boxer shorts over a jock, and running shoes with knots. When Perry finally stood naked, his hands were clasped desperately in front of him.
Harry slipped Perry under the water, then pulled off his own clothes and tried to sneak into the shower before the boy panicked. He delicately sponged Perry, staying in all the “safe” places -- if Perry had any of those. When Harry finally touched what most needed cleaning, Perry instantly came again. Harry laughed, then could only ask, “You have twenty years of this stuff stored?”
Perry was again red.
“Sorry,” Harry insisted. “But it’s all right. This is a great place to make a mess.” Empathy was turning him into a dying comic.
Perry tried to smile. So Harry kissed him again. The boy’s mouth was solid. Harry could mainly rub his lips against Perry’s.
When they’d used up more water than the local reservoir probably held, Harry led Perry from the shower. He dried him, without help, then steered him to bed.
For a long time, they just lay there. Listening to Bach. Watching shadows move on the walls. When Harry offered conversation, he got no replies. Finally, he started making love.
It was tough going. Perry seemed to feel this was something being done to him, against all laws. After his release, TV reporters would praise his bravery. But what kept Harry going was every time he stopped, Perry seemed horribly disappointed.
Finally, the boy began to respond. The start of a kiss. A tentative touch. When he definitely reached for Harry, Harry wanted to shout. Instead, he only lay on his back, arms unthreatening.
Perry sat beside him. He gently prodded Harry, clearly alien ground. He played with Harry’s hair, stroked his face.
“I don’t want to be... I won’t be... I can’t...” Perry searched for the words, then finally settled on “I can’t be violated.” He said it very seriously, then went on: “I know I’m supposed to want that. But I never have.”
“It’s okay,” Harry told him. “Some guys don’t like that.”
“Why?”
“It’s a choice. You’re allowed them. In some states.”
Perry didn’t laugh. Sex seemed too solemn to mix with jokes. “You have a nice body,” he said instead.
“So do you,” Harry said. “You’re a nice guy.”
“You don’t know anything about me,” Perry shot.
It wasn’t completely true, but Harry let it go. He studied Perry’s body. The boy was thin. Pale. He nearly blended with the sheets. His hair was muddy brown and was awkwardly cut. There was a scattering more of it on his chest, a circle around his cock, but almost nothing on his arms and legs. His cock was big, and always hard, but it seemed to bend away from Harry, as though shy. Harry didn’t have to ask if Perry had ever been with a girl.
Instead, he asked, “What’s the worst thing you’ve ever done?”
Perry tensed, just when it seemed the pressure had eased off.
“Besides this,” Harry added, smiling.
Silence.
“You don’t have to tell me,” Harry went on. “Taking your clothes off doesn’t give me rights.”
Silence.
“I just meant, that the worst thing you’ve ever done, probably wasn’t very bad.”
For a time, Perry said nothing. Then, he said: “I cut myself sometimes. I shouldn’t. I know that. But sometimes I do, as punishment.”
It wasn’t what Harry expected. He’d seen no cuts, and the boy’s skin was almost unflawed. Still, he knew not to ask. “You just need to be with someone,” he said. “The rest will go away.”
“No, it won’t. My parents will kill me.”
“I doubt that.”
“They’ll hate me. They’ll never talk to me again.”
“Then don’t tell them. Or tell them when you’re ready. Or never.”
It wasn’t what Harry believed, but what he thought Perry needed to hear.
“Can I do that?” the boy asked.
“You can do anything you want... I told you.”
“In some states,” Perry added.
Harry laughed, and Perry smiled, slightly. “You have a real nice body,” Perry repeated.
Then, ever so gently, he began to suck.
He did it like a student: sucked, then looked at Harry for approval. Sucked, then looked again. “You like that?” Harry finally asked. “Or is it something you feel you have to do?”
Silence.
“I want to,” Perry admitted. “Don’t I do it right?”
“You’re fine,” Harry said. And in truth, he was. Perry was so tentative, so careful, that he accidentally kept Harry right on the edge of orgasm.
“This is fun,” Perry finally announced, but Harry didn’t tell him how much.
So Perry sucked, and Harry just closed his eyes. Eventually, Perry lay on top of Harry, rubbing their cocks together. “This is wonderful,” he said. “I can’t believe it.”
Harry smiled. They kissed. Perry seemed almost calm. But he was a little slow.
So Harry led him, and Perry quickly learned. There were some things he didn’t like, and some he refused to do. Others, he tried, but was terrible.
He didn’t hit those long spasms again for a long time, and Harry carefully held off his own. When Perry came again – the third time since lunch -- he was still on top of Harry.
The boy’s eyes were tightly closed, his lower lip caught between his teeth. He didn’t seem to breathe, but didn’t seem to care. And after he came, he seemed almost happy.
Then he made Harry come. Awkwardly. Unexpectedly. But with nothing to regret.
Later, they showered. It was almost dinnertime, and Harry figured Perry would want to leave. “Your parents expecting you?” he asked.
Perry took it as an invitation: “I can get out of it.”
Harry had plans of his own, but they could change. “Call your folks,” he said, then left the room to make that conversation easier.
They spent the evening in bed. Eating pizza. Talking. Having sex. If Perry never completely relaxed, he was far from the guy who’d stumbled into Harry’s apartment shortly after noon. Though when he finally had to leave, he seemed afraid.
“I can’t go home,” he insisted.
“Why not?” Harry asked.
Silence.
“Your parents won’t know,” Harry assured him. “They’ll look up from whatever they’re doing and see the same guy who went out this morning.”
Silence.
“I’m not sure,” Perry said.
“They won’t know. Honest. Until you tell them.”
“I won’t. Ever.”
“You may want to someday.”
Perry shook his head. “No.” Then silence.
“Nothing’s changed. Really,” Harry insisted. “You’re the same guy they love. Maybe a little calmer...”
Perry couldn’t smile. “What did your family say?” he asked instead. Which caught Harry.
“They don’t know,” he had to admit.
Perry didn’t seem surprised. “Will you tell them?”
Harry had to think. “When it’s important,” he replied. “When I finally have someone they can meet.”
Perry considered. “That makes sense.”
“Most of my friends already know,” Harry went on. “The women were fine, though a couple of the guys got strange. One -- a guy I’ve known since high school -- a psychologist -- said, ‘Well, don’t ever come to me for counseling.’ He never thought I might not need it.”
Perry still didn’t smile.
“You’ll be fine,” Harry told him. Then he held Perry again. “Call me if you want. You’re always welcome to stop by.”
Perry nodded, though Harry didn’t expect to see him again. They kissed, then Perry slipped down the stairs.
Harry moved to the front balcony and watched Perry come onto the street. After his beat-up car left the town square and headed home, Harry stayed, studying the empty gazebo. If Kurt suddenly appeared, they could spend the night together. But Kurt didn’t, and Harry thought of calling Gordon. Instead, he just went to bed.
On Tuesday, a letter came.
“You were right,” it said. “My parents can’t tell. I can’t. I look in the mirror, and it’s only me.”
Harry could see Perry at the mirror.
“I can’t see you again though. I’m not ready. I hope you don’t mind.”
Harry didn’t.
“But thanks for everything. Really.”
It was signed, “P.”
Harry laughed, crumpling the note. Then he smoothed it out, read it again.
Bon Voyage, Perry. Bon Voyage.