GWM - 8. Chapter 8 of 18

Matthew

“At least, I’m meeting the kind of guys I want to,” Harry told Gordon.
“This is good.”
Gordon had actually tried to get Harry to stay with Ryan. Gordon didn’t see drinking as a problem. “It’s how I added five years to my marriage.”
But just as Harry couldn’t imagine Gordon staying still long enough to please Eric, he couldn’t imagine what Ryan would be like in five years.
“Fortunately, you’re not trying to change him,” Gordon said. “That’s wise.”
Though they weren’t talking about Ryan. They’d been talking about Matthew, who looked like young Fred Astaire. But with pale, straight hair that fell to his eyes like a five-year old’s. He’d written Harry before Thanksgiving.
“And now he’s back?” Gordon asked.
Harry nodded.
“Well, good for you.”
In November, Matthew had written mainly to say, “This is a terrible time to run an ad. What were you thinking? With the holidays? And families? Expectations?”
Still, he wanted to meet Harry. He liked Harry’s ad and promised to write again after the new year.
Harry had answered carefully. Matthew’s letter was powerful -- literate, introspective, funny. He was Harry’s age, divorced, with two kids who lived with their mother. He taught history at Mt. Holyoke and seemed exactly the kind of man Harry wanted to date.
Though Harry doubted that would happen: Two months was a long time to wait. Then Harry fell in love with Ryan and completely forgot anyone else. So when Matthew’s second letter arrived in January, it was both a nice surprise and a healthy distraction. And this time, Matthew had included his phone number.
Harry called. They talked, for several hours. Marveling at their similarities, dismissing the differences. They agreed to meet, in South Hadley, that Friday evening for dinner.
It was wonderful. Again, talk was seamless. Matthew loved traveling, but since his kids now lived “on the other side of the goddamned country” most of his money went into flying them back for visits.
“I can’t understand why she moved so far away,” he said of his former wife. “She didn’t have to. Her work and all her friends are here.”
Harry had no answers. Actually, with Matthew, he preferred listening. They’d parted agreeing to meet the following week.
That time they had a quick dinner, then saw a movie with a plot involving children. Over coffee afterward, Matthew talked about his own kids, a girl and boy, ten and seven.
“Summers are great,” he said. “We go to the lake, with my mother. Everything’s slow. It makes up for my being away from them most of the year.”
“Couldn’t you move?” Harry asked.
Matthew stared at him. “This is where I live.”
For someone who craved travel, Matthew seemed to need a familiar base. Harry was less attached to places. As they walked to his car, he and Matthew considered further plans.
“Busy weekend?” Harry asked.
“Nothing special. Saturday -- errands, stuff around the house. Sunday -- I’m committed to friends.”
“I’ll run errands with you.”
“You’re nuts,” Matthew said. But he was smiling.
At the car, they shook hands. It seemed formal after their conversation, but Harry let it pass.
Saturday, he arrived at Matthew’s tiny house, near ten. The house wasn’t only small. It was uninteresting. Matthew dressed well -- the usual good wools and tweeds -- but that seemed to exhaust his sense of design. The house had originally been two plain rooms downstairs with an unfinished loft above.
“An old man died here, froze to death,” Matthew said, showing Harry around. “If I’m remembering right.”
“Recently?”
“Before we were born.” Matthew grinned, which made Harry laugh.
“The house was built in the twenties. The original owner froze when his pot bellied stove -- the only heat -- guttered in a storm. After that, there were several owners. Each added something -- moved things around. Dining room. Plumbing. Dividing the loft into bedrooms.”
Cramped bedrooms, Harry thought, ducking through the low doorways to inspect. One barely held bunk beds for Matthew’s kids, the other, a double bed and dresser.
On the dresser, under glass, were three pictures cut from magazines. Good-looking, clean-cut, college boys.
“I can dream,” Matthew said, laughing.
Harry nodded.
The house needed paint to pull the varied carpentry together. The light wasn’t bad because Matthew’s lack of concern left the well-made windows uncurtained. His spare antiques, better placed, could make the rooms look almost comforting.
I could do that, Harry thought. Then he wondered if Matthew even cared.
They spent Saturday morning chopping wood and stacking it along the garage. Matthew worked steadily. Harry needed breathers.
“Hot-water heat,” he said, puffing. “My landlord keeps me warm.”
“You don’t want a house?” Matthew asked.
Harry nodded. “I want one. I can’t afford to build it yet.”
“Got plans?”
Matthew meant elevations.
“Lots.”
“I’d like to see them.”
Harry loved talking about his favorite project -- his future house -- but he was afraid he bored everyone else. “I’d love to show them to you,” he said.
After a lunch as spare as Matthew’s furniture -- thin tuna sandwiches and canned tomato soup -- they cleaned the chimney. “It needs to be rebuilt,” Matthew admitted. “I had a chimney fire last winter. Got it out without damage. But not before the fire department came.”
“Would it cost much?”
“Not if I had it.”
They laughed. It seemed all they could do.
Harry wanted to see Matthew and his kids in a safer house, not just something nicer. The one he’d designed for himself was small, though it looked larger. Harry didn’t use much space. Still, he’d never thought about having a kids around.
By late afternoon, they’d done the errands, finishing with the supermarket, the gas station, and the hardware store. Matthew admired an expensive oak desk as they passed an antique shop. Harry had the crystal on his watch replaced.
Dinner again was simple. Harry suggested a restaurant, but Matthew wouldn’t go out. They ate listening to Garrison Keillor.
“I never miss his show,” Matthew said.
Harry laughed. “You have that bachelor farmer feel.”
Matthew seemed pleased.
“Though I’d have thought you’d be out,” Harry went on. “On a Saturday night.”
Matthew shook his head. “You’re the first guy I’ve seen for.. well... years. I’ve got friends, of course -- married friends. And a gal I hang out with.” He grinned. “She wants to marry me, or so other people tell me. She loves my kids. But who wouldn’t?”
Harry had only seen their photos, on the kitchen wall. They were cute photos.
“I won’t sleep with her,” Matthew went on. “I’m not about to get married again.”
“Could you live with a guy?”
“Live with, yeah. Love?” He seem unsure. And Harry chose not to add his own thoughts.
“How come you haven’t dated?” he asked instead.
Matthew hesitated. “Why?”
“Just trying to figure my odds.”
But Matthew was serious. “The last time didn’t work out so well.”
Harry waited for him to go on.
“It’s been three-and-a-half years,” Matthew finally said. “I never did anything with guys till my divorce. Then I probably slept with thirty men in a week.” He seemed to mean it, then laughed. “At least, it felt that way.”
“Where?”
“A gay cruise. I was terrified to go on it. Paid cash. Booked my cabin under another name. I couldn’t afford a private cabin, but I had to get one. I just had to touch another man before it killed me.”
Harry laughed. “It’s like being a teenager. You need to catch up.”
“You, too?”
Harry laughed. “Oh, yeah.”
“How old were you, the first time?”
Matthew didn’t know what he was asking, and Harry didn’t know what to say. “Thirty-two,” he finally admitted.
It took Matthew a moment. “Isn’t that’s what you are now?”
“For another few months. I’m slow.”
And they laughed together. Then Matthew said, “And I thought I was bad.”
Harry only grinned.
“Anyway, sleeping around was terrible,” Matthew said. “I’m glad I took the cruise. It gave me answers. And maybe I never would’ve done anything after that, if I hadn’t met Ray.”
“Here?” Harry asked. He’d gotten a letter from a “Ray.” This could be spooky.
“No, I hadn’t moved here yet. Ray was another grad. student... we were finishing our dissertations. I don’t know how long it took to admit we were interested. He’d been seeing other guys, but kept it quiet -- you’d never know he was gay. We shared an office. He went away weekends.”
“You don’t have to tell me this,” Harry said.
“No problem... really.” Matthew hesitated, seeming to reconsider. Then he shook his head and went on. “I was sharing a house with four other guys -- grad. students. It wasn’t the kind of place you could work, so I mostly wrote in my office. One weekend, it snowed so hard Ray couldn’t take off. He worked with me. Friday. Saturday. Sunday. Late into the evening.”
He stopped, and Harry wasn’t sure he’d continue.
“We did it on the office floor,” he finally allowed. “A tiny office. Walls not even up to the ceiling. Divided from an old classroom.”
He hesitated again.
“We serviced each other, orally, then he got more adventuresome. It was the first time I let anyone put anything in me. We used mashed banana for lubricant.”
He laughed, which let Harry laugh, too.
“I’ve never told anyone that,” Matthew confided. “Don’t know why I’m telling you.”
Harry reassured him he was safe.
“After that,” Matthew finished, “well, it was hard getting any work done in the office. We had sex a lot.”
“You finished your degree,” Harry pointed out.
“Barely.”
“What happened to Ray?”
Matthew hesitated, as though distancing himself. He sighed. “He kind of used me. We took jobs in different states... though we didn’t need to. We could’ve stayed together.
He paused again.
“Ray never seemed comfortable with me... though I could’ve stayed with him forever. He’s great-looking... the kind of guy no one would ever question your being with. They’d only be jealous.”
For a moment, he was silent.
“I see him at conferences. I’ve called... stupidly offering to get together. It’s clear he’s not interested.”
Matthew stopped there. He almost had to stop. He picked up the empty dinner plates and carried them to the sink. When he didn’t come back, Harry followed.
He hadn’t touched Matthew yet, other than to shake hands or bump into him as they walked. At the sink, he stood behind Matthew and gently began to massage his shoulders.
Matthew leaned against Harry ever-so-slightly, still working at the sink. He washed the dishes, scrubbed the pots, set them all in the rack to dry, then sorted silverware. Then he turned.
“Please don’t seduce me,” he said quietly, staring into Harry’s eyes. “Please.”
It wasn’t what Harry’d expected.
Matthew moved into the front room and turned on the TV. After a moment, Harry followed him. Matthew added logs to the stove. “There’s a good movie on,” he said, mounting his exercise bike. So Harry sat on the couch.
“I had a guy in here last week,” Matthew went on. “To get an estimate on the chimney.”
He peddled hard. On the street, Harry figured, he’d probably be doing twenty miles an hour. Harry only rode on the street.
“Good-looking guy,” Matthew continued. “A bit rough maybe. Wearing a wedding ring. But he had an earring on, too. What do you think that means?”
Harry considered. This wasn’t what he’d planned to discuss. On the TV, the movie -- a classic black-and-white thriller -- began.
“It probably means he wants to wear an earring,” Harry said.
He sounded flip, but he felt that way. Matthew didn’t seem to notice, and – trying to get comfortable -- Harry put his feet up on the shaky coffee table.
“I can’t imagine having my ear pierced,” Matthew said, unconcerned. “It’s such a public statement. What would everyone think?”
Matthew was pounding the bike. Harry said, “He probably didn’t think.” He was trying not to sound insulting. “Other people... other guys... just do things without working them out... Maybe not the way we sometimes do.”
Harry didn’t really mean the “we.” He didn’t believe this about himself. He thought, if he wanted an earring, he’d simply get one. But he was trying to get closer to Matthew. And he was still working through the rejection at the sink.
Matthew seemed to consider what Harry said, and Harry suddenly realized why Matthew had asked not to be seduced. He wasn’t being mature -- taking time to explore their friendship and really getting to know Harry before they risked something they might regret. He didn’t want to be seduced in the same way he managed to live in his unappealing house: he just didn’t care.
Harry did. The more Matthew pumped his bike -- sweeping back his bangs every few seconds only to have them fall straight again -- the more Matthew questioned, analyzed, overused his mind the way only a college teacher might, the more Harry was attracted.
They talked about the chimney guy and his earring for maybe a half-hour, then about men’s jewelry in general. Somewhere in there, Harry stretched out on the couch and tried to ignore the movie. That let him face Matthew as they talked about clothes and workouts and budgets. When Matthew finished his maybe hour-long ride, he went into the kitchen.
Harry waited, expecting Matthew to return, quickly, maybe slugging Gatorade. But nothing happened. Finally, Harry went after him.
Matthew was taking a shower in the tiny bathroom off the kitchen. The door was open and as Harry reached it, Matthew stepped from the tub.
He grinned, facing Harry. Completely unself-conscious. “Dry my back?” he asked, passing Harry a towel.
Exactly who was doing the seducing?
Harry took the towel. Matthew smelled terrific. He looked terrific. Blond curls on his chest. Legs tight from all that riding. As Harry rubbed him down, Matthew carefully examined his face in the still-fogged mirror. “Think I should grow a beard?” he asked.
Harry was happy to study Matthew’s face. “You look fine,” he said. Without understatement.
“I’m afraid it’ll come in grey... my cousin’s did. I wish I knew what my father would’ve looked like, at my age.”
He hadn’t mentioned his father before. “Couldn’t you tell?” Harry asked.
Matthew laughed. “He was dead at twenty-two. Never even knew he had a son.”
Harry didn’t want to ask. But it seemed expected.
“He was killed in an army accident,” Matthew explained. He’d taken the towel from Harry and was drying his chest. “Freak thing. Plane went down in training, and no one knew why.”
Harry debated a difficult question. “He never knew?” he finally asked. “Or people on the ground...”
It stopped Matthew. “I hope he didn’t know... hope the damned plane just blew up.” He resumed drying himself as if Harry weren’t there. “I hate to fly,” he went on. “I hate my kids flying, too. I’m sure half the reason my goddamned ex moved all the way to California was she was sure I’d never let the kids come back.”
He tossed the towel on the shower rod, then -- still naked -- returned to inspecting his face. Harry could only watch.
“What do you think?” Matthew asked again. “A beard?”
Harry laughed.
“I’d look that bad?”
“That’s not what I’m thinking.”
Matthew seemed confused.
“I admire your ease,” Harry finally explained. “I couldn’t stand, comfortably naked, in front of someone I barely knew.”
“I do it all the time at the gym.”
“I don’t,” Harry said. Then, carefully: “And guys at the gym probably don’t want to touch you.”
Matthew studied Harry. He grinned.
“You’re really that interested?” he said.
“Who wouldn’t be?”
Matthew considered, then shrugged and simply moved past Harry. Passing uncurtained windows, still undressed, he went upstairs.
Harry followed.
In his bedroom, Matthew pulled on clean sweat pants and a flannel shirt. “It’s so cold up here, sometimes I sleep on the couch.”
Harry looked at the floor. There were no vents, so heat only came up the stairs. Was this something he should mention? Matthew sat on the bed, pulling on heavy socks, then moccasins. Harry stared at the dresser, thinking the only guys allowed to stay naked in that room were under glass.
Matthew went downstairs, seeming to assume that Harry would follow. But for a moment, Harry studied the pictures
Even at twenty, he hadn’t looked that good. But at that age, he hadn’t cared. He wasn’t competing.
He followed Matthew down to the living room. Matthew was on the couch. Harry took the rocker.
“Can’t see the TV,” Matthew warned.
“We’ve missed half the movie...”
“I know it by heart. Don’t you? My favorite part’s coming.”
Harry moved to the couch. Matthew leaned against him. “This part’s classic,” he said.
This part could make me crazy, Harry wanted to say, feeling Matthew’s warmth.
They watched. The movie was amazing, if familiar.
“What do you want?” Harry finally asked, as “The End” scrolled on the screen.
Matthew looked at him.
“From another guy,” Harry went on.
Matthew shrugged.
“You think about everything else,” Harry said. “Why not that?”
Matthew simply shrugged again.
“What about the guys on the dresser?”
“They’re fantasies,” Matthew said, laughing.
“I know that. But what if you could meet them...”
“I can’t. I couldn’t. I mean, I do... I see guys like that every day. College kids. Guys far better looking because they’re here... they’re real.” He laughed. “I watch them strutting around. Showing off for the girls. Faking their cool. And the girls fake right back. And all the time, I just want to take the pants off any one of those boys... show him what love is really about.” He laughed again. “It’s a good thing I have any kind of discipline.”
Harry laughed as well. But it eased none of his tension. “If a guy was really interested...” he started.
“It would never happen,” Matthew cut him off. “Though if one really were, I wouldn’t be. Hell, they’re only kids.”
Harry regrouped. “What if Ray turned up again? Or what if he were here for a conference and called?”
“That’d be great,” Matthew said, grinning as widely as Harry had seen.
“How different is he from me?”
It was the clincher, but Matthew didn’t seem to make the connection. In the stove, the fire flared, and another movie flickered on the TV.
Harry put his hand on Matthew’s.
Matthew didn’t move.
Harry moved his hand to Matthew’s chest.
Matthew seemed to watch Harry, almost curious.
Harry kissed Matthew.
Matthew kissed him back, though when they finally broke, Matthew said, “I asked you not to do that.”
Harry laughed. “You’re crazy.”
He stood, laughed again, then went for his coat.
“Maybe you can live this way,” he said. “But I can’t.” Still, he couldn’t take his eyes from Matthew’s.
“You’re the most interesting guy I’ve met recently,” Harry went on, taking a chance. “I thought we could take this slowly. Get used to each other. Really build something. But I don’t think you even care.”
He waited for an answer. Matthew said nothing. That was amazing, for a man who could do thirty minutes on an earring.
Harry buttoned his coat. Matthew just stared. “‘Bye,” Harry said, but Matthew followed him to the door. Then Harry figured, “What the fuck?” and he kissed Matthew. In seconds, they were on the floor.
They never quite made love. There was hand lotion. Harry worked Matthew’s pants down to his knees. There was a rug. For over an hour, while a movie glimmered silently, Harry used all the skill Eric had taught him.
Matthew seemed fascinated. He responded easily. And when he finally came -- arched, silent, eyes closed, almost unbreathing -- Harry wondered where he was, or who he thought he might be with.
As Matthew watched, Harry brought himself off, a bit faster than he might have preferred. But he was afraid of losing Matthew’s attention. Then Harry went for a towel.
When he came back, Matthew -- still without his pants up -- was standing in front of the wood stove. In the half light, bangs falling over his eyes, flannel shirt flopping loose, he looked like an eight-year old.
“Let’s do that again,” Harry heard him say. But it was an illusion. Actually, Matthew said, “I’m glad we didn’t really do anything. That means we can still be friends.”
Then he pulled up his pants.
Harry fought for words. None came. “Call me Monday,” Matthew said lightly, passing Harry his coat. “There’s a movie we’ve got to see.”
Harry stared at Matthew. Matthew turned away. If he stayed another minute, Harry knew he’d cry.
He let himself out. Quickly.
Matthew waved, through the fogging storm door. He could have been under glass.