Murder of a Moral Man - 1. Chapter 1

Sam Anderson: Proposal Accepted, Service Declined

My fiancé Robby and I prove the old adage that opposites attract. I dislike confrontation. Robby never shies away from it. This difference usually works to the advantage of our relationship. At our best, we complement each other. He encourages me to be more assertive, and I check his impulsiveness. There are times, though, when restraining Robby is like trying to put out a three-alarm fire by pissing on it.

The morning we walked into the Chateau du Gateau, all I wanted was to order a wedding cake. I’d proposed to Robby only a couple of nights before because he’d looked so irresistible as he slurped a strand of spaghetti into his mouth and dribbled meat sauce down his chin. The moment encapsulated all that I love about him: lack of self-consciousness, vulnerability, charm, beauty, and sensuality. A man who can make messy eating appear graceful is a keeper.

We’d agreed on a small wedding celebration. We don’t have a lot of money, for one thing. Robby is a graduate student, with a tiny stipend for teaching freshman composition. I’m a first-year high school teacher on a probationary contract.

A second reason, which I didn’t mention to Robby, was fear for my job. I teach in a town where boring, bureaucratic school board meetings have recently morphed into loud, confrontational, and sometimes violent scenes. I also live in a state where schools have fired gay and lesbian teachers for simply sharing a photograph of themselves with their spouses. I’m not ashamed of who I am, and I’m not closeted. Nevertheless, I try to keep my personal life private and my head down.

Unlike some of my colleagues, I don’t have a rainbow flag in my classroom. That doesn’t mean gay students haven’t turned to me for advice anyway. I help them as much as I can, within the limits of my role as a teacher. I offer them what I would any student. If my own experiences make me particularly empathetic, I’m happy. I’ll risk my job to guide and support a student in crisis. I won’t risk it to display a flag—particularly when, for the first time in my life, I worry my sexual orientation could provoke attacks on my livelihood or even my life. A small wedding without publicity seemed the politic choice.

Robby and I decided to have a quiet civil ceremony, followed by a small reception for family and our closest friends. The cake was to be our splurge. A beautiful cake was something we could share with friends and take pictures of to remember the day. The rest of our limited funds we decided were better spent on a honeymoon.

Having decided to marry, we wanted an early date. The beginning of summer, when both of us were free from our responsibilities for a while, was the ideal time. We still had a few months to make the arrangements. Robby pointed out that we would need to get right on ordering the cake. Good bakeries are often booked solid many months in advance. He also said,

“I don’t know how the pandemic might affect this, but lots of people have put events on hold these past two years. With restrictions lightening up, we should get in ahead of the crowd. I’ll look online and see what’s near us.”

Robby spent about five minutes looking before he chose the Chateau du Gateau as the first bakery for us to visit. I choose products and services after asking opinions of people I know and reading dozens of reviews. Robby bases his choices on less tangible reasons. The pretentious name, which I found off-putting, appealed to his sense of humor. I stifled my objections, remembering my own impulse had led to our engagement. Perhaps we weren’t so different after all. What do a few one-star reviews matter? We could always try another bakery if C du G didn’t impress us.

Robby made an appointment for Saturday morning. The two of us drove into the center of the city to the Cobblestone District. It was an older neighborhood that had undergone recent gentrification. Depending on one’s taste, it was either old and quaint or simply old.

We had no trouble finding the business. A parking space was available right in front of the store. I parallel parked, got out, and fed the parking meter enough change to cover an hour. Then the two of us walked through the door.

A teenage boy, who was the only employee in evidence, stood behind a glass display case filled with cakes, cupcakes, and pastries. He looked no older than fourteen. He was small for his age—perhaps five foot, three. He had a slight build, clear skin, and brown hair, which spilled over his forehead so that his eyes peeked out from a ragged fringe. The eyes were hazel. He was an attractive boy, though not especially handsome. With his pointed chin and overly large ears, he looked a bit elfin.

Robby introduced himself to the boy and said,

“I have an appointment with Mr. Keys to discuss ordering a wedding cake. This is my fiancé, Sam Anderson.”

The boy’s smile of professional welcome grew anxious. He turned his head and yelled, “Dad, there’s customers to see you!”

Keys emerged, clad in chef’s whites. His smile mirrored the boy’s professional smile. He came around the display case, hand stretched out.

“I’m Tom Keys. I presume one of you gentlemen is Mr. Wishart?”

My first impression of Keys evoked a line from Shakespeare’s Julius Caesar: “Yond Cassius has a lean and hungry look.” His thinness made him appear taller than he was. In actuality, he was only slightly above medium height. He had a weathered face with sunken cheeks. His small eyes were of indeterminant color. They were hidden under bushy eyebrows in desperate need of pruning. The hair on his head, in contrast, was sparse and grey. I found a second literary reference came to mind. He had a Uriah Heep quality.

Robby shook Keys’ hand and introduced me. Keys continued to smile, but I felt the temperature of the room drop several degrees.

He barely brushed my outstretched hand before saying, “Let’s step over to the consultation area, please.”

One side of his shop was devoted to wedding cake displays. I saw five or six tiered cakes, some with pillars. All of them were conventional—not a hint of originality. Beyond the cake display was a card table. He’d covered it with a white cloth and arranged three folding chairs about it. I guessed correctly this sad seating arrangement was the consultation area.

As I pulled out a chair, I heard the bell attached to the door herald the arrival of several more customers, who arrived in a bunch. My stomach clutched. I felt humiliation was imminent, and the last thing I wanted was spectators.

After we were seated, Keys said, “I’m sorry, but I hadn’t realized you were a same-sex couple when I spoke to Mr. Wishart on the phone. If I’d known, I wouldn’t have made an appointment. I’m a Christian, and as such, I believe marriage is between one man and one woman. I can’t participate in a wedding between two men. I’m sorry you wasted your time coming down here this morning.”

I started to rise, but Robby remained seated. I reluctantly settled back in my chair. The tips of Robby’s ears were red. I recognized the flush spreading over his face and neck as a danger sign. I put a restraining hand on his arm in the hope it would calm him.

“Let’s go,” I said. “There are other bakeries.”

Robby brushed my hand off. He glared at Keys’ smug, sanctimonious expression. “You’re refusing to serve us because we’re gay?”

Keys shook his head. “No, sir. I’m happy to sell you any of our products, with one exception: I cannot make a wedding cake for you. A wedding cake is an artistic, highly individualized endeavor. If I used my gifts to bake you a cake, I would offend God. I would be helping you violate God’s law.”

Robby finally stood. “We’ll see you in court then.”

I tugged at Robby’s elbow. I was now desperate to get out of this hateful place. One glance at Keys told me Robby’s threat hadn’t intimidated him. He stood and stepped around his table, pointing towards the door, speaking in a carrying voice.

“Sue me if you like, but you won’t win. The First Amendment protects both my religious freedom and my right to free speech. My wedding cakes are speech. I suggest you leave my place of business now. You’re in the wrong place. I’m tired of you people trying to shove your agenda down the throats of Christians!”

Robby’s entire face was now purple with anger. He shook off my restraining arm yet again, turned, and said in a loud, clear voice:

“You homophobic bigots are so obsessed with having something shoved down your throats. The only thing I want to see shoved down your throat is one of your own cakes until you choke on your hatred!”

I got a tighter grip on Robby’s arm and succeeded at last in dragging him out of the Chateau du Gateau. Outside the store, he vented his feelings with a stream of profanity, which attracted shocked looks from passersby. I was desperate to shut him up and get him in the car. At last, I resorted to the one thing guaranteed to get his attention. I landed an almighty smack on his backside. It startled him into silence.

I shoved him towards the car, whispering, “Well talk about this at home. Get in the car now.”

Robby got in the car, but he hadn’t let go of his fury. On the short drive home, he ranted about Keys. I was angry with Keys, too. I was angrier with Robby for letting an insignificant insect like Keys have such an effect on him. I listened to him in silence. Robby’s rage is like a fire. It burns out if nothing feeds it. Silence effectively smothers it. When it had spent itself, he asked,

“Am I in trouble?”

“Yes.”

I could see him bite his lip with my peripheral vision. I was determined to keep my eyes on the road.

“C’mon, Sam. Don’t you think I have a right to be angry?”

I turned onto our street. We live in a tiny, rented house in an older neighborhood. Cars were parked on both sides of the street. I paused to let another car by. Then I said,

“You have every right to be angry. You also have a responsibility to yourself – and to me, I hope – to control your temper.”

I continued lecturing him, even as I pulled into our driveway and parked.

“Robby, you just handed that asshole a victory. Handed it to him on a silver platter.”

As we went inside, he flared up. “Well, you could have said something, you know! You just sat there like the mealymouthed wimp you are! Why don’t you stand up for yourself? Why couldn’t you at least stand up for me? It’s a fucking good thing civil rights don’t depend on the Sams of the world.”

I controlled myself with great effort. “You’ll get plenty of opportunity to stand up, Robby. I intend to see to it you don’t sit comfortably any time soon. Don’t you dare show me your temper after what you just pulled! He was baiting you, and you let yourself be baited. All you had to do was turn around and walk out.”

Sometimes it’s hard to believe I’m only two months older than Robby. At times like this, I felt twenty years older. I struggled to understand how an intelligent, sensitive, fully grown man could behave like a rebellious teenager. He certainly looked the role now. As a high school teacher, I have plenty of opportunities to experience adolescent rebellion. Weirdly, my relationship with Robby has taught me a lot about dealing with my students; and my students have taught me something about dealing with Robby. The more I argue with him, the less reasonable he gets.

At school, I’d learned to recognize the point when I should stop talking and start writing a referral. I couldn’t refer my recalcitrant fiancé to an assistant principal for detention, but I could hearken back to school discipline of an earlier era and show my displeasure with a paddle. A few hard swats across the seat of his pants had a way of making Robby engage his brain and disengage his mouth. This time, however, I was pretty sure the paddle was inadequate. A lengthier, more intimate punishment was in order. I passed the sentence I knew Robby dreaded most.

“Strip off and bring me the hairbrush.”

Robby had asked me to discipline him at the beginning of our relationship. I’d agreed only reluctantly, but I’d come to respect him for acknowledging his needs. The immediate, painful consequence of corporal punishment worked for him. There were times when his ability to self-regulate shut down and he regressed to a rebellious adolescent. When that happened, he needed another person to enforce some boundaries. This time, Robby wasn’t ready to submit without further argument.

“You’re not being fair, Sam. I don’t deserve punishment.”

I shrugged. “I can’t make you take your spanking, Robby.”

I probably could have made him, as I have a substantial size advantage. Robbie is barely 5’ 8”. I’ve got six inches and fifty pounds on him. I would never coerce him, though. The foundation of our relationship is consent. Unless and until Robby accepted he deserved a spanking, one could do him no good. I let my silence speak for me.

After several long seconds, Robby pleaded, “Come on, Sam.”

I relented from my silence, hoping he was now ready to listen.

“You tell me you don’t deserve a punishment. I say you do. Losing your temper and using vulgar language in front of Key’s son and those customers may have given you short term satisfaction. In the long term, you’ve given ammunition to him and all the other bigots out there. I just hope your tantrum will be the end of the matter.”

Robby’s sullen attitude was gone, but he still didn’t get it. “Why wouldn’t it end there? We didn’t smash up his business or threaten him.”

As I said it, I felt it was a low blow—but I still had to say it:

“I hope it doesn’t cost me my job. The school doesn’t need any reason not to renew my contract. I don’t have tenure, Robby. I’m a first year teacher. And right now, we’ve got parents standing up at school board meetings, demanding the removal of books with any gay content.

“They want to fire teachers for acknowledging they’re gay or even using the word ‘gay’ in their classes. This fall, the administration made teachers who had rainbow flags in their classrooms remove them and take down anything else that showed support for the LGBTQ community. What do you think they’ll say if news of that scene in the bakery spreads? It probably won’t be, ‘Mr. Anderson, we support you all the way.’”

Robby hung his head. “I’m sorry, Sam. I don’t think it’ll come to that, but you’re right. I should have used more restraint.”

He walked off, sniffling, to take off his clothes and retrieve the hairbrush. I always use our living room for punishments, partly because it’s convenient, with plenty of room to wield a paddle or belt. The sofa is also more convenient for spanking than a chair. Most importantly, I want our bedroom to remain a place where we rest and make love.

I sat on the sofa and waited. When Robby reappeared a couple of minutes later, he looked very much like a contrite little boy. His blue eyes were glassy with unshed tears and his chin trembled. He was a heartrending sight. Punishing him was never easy for me. I dropped my gaze to remind myself he was not actually a child. His body was trim and lithe, but the muscular definition and impressive cock, now flaccid, were attributes of a man. He handed me the hairbrush and lay over my lap. His pert bottom was my delight, but now I had to mar its beauty.

I started right away with the brush. I often give him a hand spanking warmup to lessen the shock of the brush. Right now, though, I wanted Robby to understand how seriously I took his misbehavior. I raised the brush and snapped it down on his right buttock. I felt him jerk as the sting registered. I gave the left buttock the same treatment. Back and forth, left and right, up and down, I established a pattern. I covered his bottom with hard, crisp smacks of the brush. His bottom reddened rapidly under the assault, and the individual marks became lost in an overall hue that I thought of as “Well Spanked Red”.

After laying down a foundation of spanks, I picked up the pace. The brush became a blur as I cracked it down. Robby struggled to maintain his position. I wasn’t hitting him very hard, but the smacks of the brush were arbitrary and ceaseless. I laid down barrages of three or four smacks on the same spot, knowing how much those hurt. I paid special attention to the crease of his bottom and the area just above it known as the sit spot.

I don’t spank by a clock or by any set number of smacks. I time Robby’s spankings by two things: the damage to the bottom and his reactions. I strive to bring him to the point at which I’ve literally worn him out. When his physical struggles stop and he lies pliantly across my lap like a wounded bird in the mouth of a retriever, I know we’re almost done.

I usually end the spanking with ten brutal spanks on the sit spots, putting my shoulder into them. Five on the left side. Five on the right side. One after the other. No alternating. I intend these to leave bruises and they usually do. Robby has told me frequently he needs to feel the effects for a while. This time, I made it ten on each side, which pushed him past his limits. He cried with the abandon of a child.

Later, Robby lay with his head in my lap. I stroked the dark blond hair that fell over his eyes. I’d tended his bottom with ice packs and arnica. He’d be sore enough, even with the aftercare, to remember this spanking a few days. I didn’t expect the aftercare would do much to mitigate his physical pain, but emotionally, it would reassure him of my love and forgiveness.

I continued to stroke his hair with my left hand, while reaching for the TV clicker with my right. I wanted to watch the news. I found the program had already begun. I sat up in shock at what I heard.

*****

“We go now to Jasmine, at the Chateau du Gateau bakery, where we understand an incident took place earlier in the day. Jasmine, what can you tell us?”

“Hi, Colin. The Chateau du Gateau, a popular bakery located in the historic Cobblestone District, this morning became the scene of a dramatic showdown between a same-sex couple and the owner of the bakery, Thomas Keys. I have Mrs. Anna Dolan here with me. I understand you were present this morning, Mrs. Dolan?”

“Yes. I came in to pick up a cake for my daughter’s birthday. There were several of us in line and only one boy to wait on customers. Two or three others were in front of me. I heard voices raised, and that got my attention.

“Mr. Keys is the owner of the bakery. I’m a fairly regular customer so I know him, of course. He was speaking with a couple of gentlemen over in the wedding cake section. I heard him say he couldn’t bake a wedding cake for them.

“One of the gentlemen sounded upset. He said he’d see Mr. Keys in court. Then Mr. Keys told him good luck with that, and he was tired of gay people pushing their agenda down everyone else’s throat.

“Then the gentleman who’d threatened to sue Mr. Keys got really mad. He told Mr. Keys someone should shove a piece of his wedding cake down his throat until he choked on it. I could see the other gentleman trying to pull his, um, friend towards the door.

“Mr. Keys yelled at both of them to get out of his bakery, and they left. I recorded the whole thing on my phone because you never know these days what might happen. I’m no Karen, you understand, but one of the gentlemen was very irate.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Dolan. Channel 7 has learned the names of the customers whom Mr. Keys refused service to but is not revealing them at this time. Mr. Keys declined to comment but said he is represented by DOCC: Defenders of Christian Consciences. Efforts to reach DOCC have been unsuccessful.”

Robby had raised his head. Now, he lay slumped back over my lap. “Oh, shit, shit, shit, shit, SHIT! I’m sorry, Sam!”

I kissed him on the cheek. “At least she called us gentlemen.”