Coming Out - 8. Life With Winston

The next afternoon, Winston phoned me. “How ya doin, Bruce?”

“Uh...I’m OK, I guess. The question is—how are you doing?”

“Oh, don’t worry about me. I’m fine—and last night was fuckin fantastic!”

“Well, I’m kind of glad to hear that. I’m worried you might be taking a dangerous step, and I don’t want our...thing...to hurt you.”

“Don’t you worry about that, Bruce. I’m a big boy, and I can handle whatever shit life throws at me.”

We talked a little longer, and Winston said he would like to come over around ten o’clock.

“That’s kind of late, isn’t it? Don’t you need to go home and sleep?”

He chuckled. “I was kind of hoping I wouldn’t have to go home to get that sleep—”

I laughed and said, “Bring it on, Detective!”

True to his word, he knocked on my door right on time. I smiled as I took in his casual appearance—shorts, a muscle shirt, and sandals. One hand held a six-pack of beer and the other a bottle of wine. I eyed him up and down appreciatively.

Holding up the wine, he said, “I don’t know what you like, but I’m sure this is way below your standard—”

I grinned. “It’s the thought that counts, and I can get just as wasted on Haut-Brion as I can on Thunderbird!”

“Oat what? What the fuck you talkin about? They make wine outta goddamn oats now?”

I looked at him sideways, unsure of whether he were serious or not. His face betrayed his innocence, and I sure as hell wasn’t going to say anything to embarrass him. “Never mind, lover-boy. Bring your sweet ass in here, and we’ll see what caliber of wine connoisseur you are!”

It turned out to be a rather surprising bottle of Chablis. I regarded Buchanan with suspicion. “Did you pick this out all by yourself?”

He hung his head in mock shame. “Not exactly. I was browsing the shelves, looking like a goddamn fish out of water, and this nice lady came over and asked if she could help me.”

“Nice lady, huh? You’re not going all straight on me, are you?”

“Hell, no. Uh, this might not be the time to tell you, but I’ve fucked a lot of women in my time.”

“And a lot of men?”

“Well, more men than women.” He winked, “and I think you know which I prefer.”

“So this nice lady helped you pick out a bottle of wine for your boyfriend.”

“As a matter of fact, that’s what I told her!

“You’re shitting me! What did she say?” I asked in amazement.

“She pointed this one out and said she and her girlfriend have always liked it!” He burst out laughing. “No shit. That’s the fucking truth!”

I joined him in laughing. “Well, Winston, the world might be moving in a new and better direction. At least out here in California.”

He popped a can of beer and I retrieved a white wine glass and uncorked the Chablis. He took a sip from my glass and announced, “Not bad at all.”

I took a slug of his Coors and winked. “I concur.”

A soft breeze kept the insects at bay, so we sat on the balcony in the dark, enjoying our drinks in contented silence.

I can’t put my finger on it for some reason, but this just feels right—like it’s never felt with anyone before.

Winston sighed, “Bruce, I can’t tell you the last time I just sat back and chilled, without keeping one eye peeled for perps and weirdos.”

And I can’t tell you the last time I just sat back and felt love for a man with everything—looks, strength, confidence, and a big fuckin dick!

I smiled, leaned over, and kissed him lightly. He put down his beer and pulled me closer. I sat on his lap, facing him, and got serious about kissing him. His cock hardened under my balls.

“Hmm. Feels like something’s going down below,” I said with a naughty grin.

“Could be. You want to do anything about it?”

“Why don’t you carry me inside and I’ll show you?”

He put his arms under mine and stood up, holding me. I wrapped my legs around his waist, and he carried me into the apartment.

We only got as far as the hallway. He pressed my back against the wall and kissed me hard. I reached down and freed his hard cock from his shorts. I released my legs from their grip around his waist, shed my shorts, and lifted my legs back up to surround his middle.

Winston took a small step back, which allowed his erection to spring up. I smiled and leaned back a little against the wall in his sturdy arms as he slipped his dick into my waiting hole. I began to pull myself up and down, riding his massive prick, and he reciprocated by thrusting into and out of me.

It must have been a crazy sight—a tall, muscular Black man with his pants down around his ankles, pinning a much smaller white guy against a wall, driving his cock up into his ass. We were both smiling and kissing from time to time.

After a while, I said, “Aren’t your arms getting tired?”

“Fuck my arms. It’s my cock that’s having all the fun!”

I kissed him and bounced harder on his boner. He was starting to hit my G-spot, and I sensed my release was approaching. Winston had closed his eyes and was breathing hard. He must be getting close, too.

He pushed me down on his dick and buried it as deep in my ass as he could. A flood of hot liquid filled me, and that was all it took. I shot my load all over his muscle shirt.

After what seemed like an eternity, Winston opened his eyes and smiled at me. We were both breathing normally again. His arms relaxed, but I remained impaled on his still-hard cock with my arms and legs wrapped around him. Adjusting his grip on me, he stepped back and carried me down the hall. He lowered me onto the bed still inside me and still hard.

“I—” I started to say.

“Shh.” He hissed softly as he helped me lie flat and stretched out on top of me. I was amazed that his dick hadn’t softened in the least.

He leaned down and kissed me, pulling my tongue into his mouth as he removed his arms from under mine and wrapped them around my head. He began to fuck me again, slowly at first, then with more power.

All I could think was this man had shot his load, stayed hard, and was now doing it all over again. In the back of my mind, I wondered if my asshole could take all this abuse, but I was positive I wouldn’t stop him, even if he wanted to do it four more times!

What the fuck? Doesn’t he have a refractory period? This is fucking amazing, but I wonder how much of it I can take.

He did it two more times, but we took a shower together between numbers two and three. I also came twice, the second one in his mouth, after he exited me the third time and turned his attention to my pleasure.

After the marathon of fucking, we cuddled on the bed. As I was about to fall asleep, he said, “Bruce?”

“Yeh?” I muttered, half awake.

“I hope I wasn’t too rough on you—”

I took a deep breath. “Well, I’ve never done this before, and I doubt I could do it every day, but it was the best sex I’ve ever had, and I expect you to top it the next time!”

“I don’t know about that, but I’ll give it my best.” We both chuckled. I cuddled up close to him and he soon fell asleep.

I lay there and watched his chest rise and fall, wondering why Winston was entirely different from all the men I’ve had relationships with. Can it be something more than just sex? Can it be...love? I thought I loved Craig—no, goddammit, I did love Craig, but it was puppy love, and he was faking it with me.

Pete and I were just meeting each other’s needs, and his need was to learn how to be gay. He was an eager student, and we parted as friends. David and I had amazing sex, always full of surprises thanks to his special training, but there was no love there. I think my anger over his dumping me was more my ego being bruised than because I loved or missed him.

And then this policeman, this detective who saved my life, who fills me like no man ever has, is now in my life. Do I love him? Is it too soon to know? One thing I know for sure, there’s something more than just sex going on, and I’m gonna enjoy finding out what the fuck it is.

********

Over the next few years, Winston and I settled into a comfortable routine. He was promoted to Senior Detective, and I thrived at my MBA studies. After four years of metals, concrete, stressors, and supports, they were such a pleasant diversion. I still planned to follow through on my plan to work in aeronautics, but I could also see a future where my business skills would come to the forefront.

Winston didn’t move in, and I never visited his place—he said it was small and messy—but we were together several times every week. He almost always slept at my apartment from Friday through Sunday, except when he was called out on a case. I quickly learned that life with a policeman was unpredictable, thanks to the criminal element.

The best times were when we went on drives in his convertible with the top down and the Pacific breezes flowing over us. It was easy to put any possible disapproval out of our minds and just “be” together. Strangely, we got more looks because we were of different races than because we were gay.

And of course, the sex was mind-blowing. At first, I doubted I could handle his gargantuan cock, but I soon found that I needed its size to be satisfied. He even let me fuck him a few times, although I was embarrassed because my cock was so small compared to his. We had a fantastic time in bed, and I was beginning to think it might be more than just that.

The sex was terrific, but we had the most fun when he was off for a few days and we went cruising in his cherry-red 1975 Mustang convertible. He was so proud of his car—I honestly believe he washed the damn thing every day.

Winston would come over the night before our road trip so that we could get an early start—and I’m talking about the crack of dawn! We would catch a quick breakfast at an all-night diner on the 82 in Menlo Park and head in whichever direction our plan called for.

We often took the Bayshore Freeway up to the 84 and headed north on I-80 toward Sacramento or Tahoe. There were dozens of B&Bs and small hotels around the lake, and we always chose a cabin or condo with a deck or balcony facing the water. It was so peaceful and serene, and our love-making often included doing it under the stars.

But our favorite destinations were on the coast. Half Moon Bay was a quiet, romantic little town over on the One with a B&B that was our hands-down fave. The Ocean View Inn opened in the early 1900s and still had that era’s charming architecture and amenities. The proprietor, Mrs. Charles Calvin, insisted everyone call her “Aunt Sally.” She was British and loved the famous pub game of the same name.

Winston and I liked arriving around the three o’clock check-in time and spending the rest of the afternoon in bed. With both fine and casual dining establishments all up and down the main drag—Cabrillo Highway—dinner was easy to find.

Breakfast, of course, was Aunt Sally’s specialty, and she delighted in surprising us with unusual combinations like king crab étouffée served over homemade waffles. She often packed a picnic lunch for us, and we loved to walk the ten blocks down to the Point Montara Lighthouse and chill all day.

The beach along that stretch of coast was uninhabited state parkland, and we soon discovered several secluded coves where we skinny-dipped in the blue Pacific surf. Needless to say, most times, the swimming ended with sex on the beach!

As much as Half Moon Bay was special to us, the nude beach at Big Sur was the most fun. It felt so liberating to be naked on our beach towels—openly holding hands, kissing, and making out with hard-ons—with nobody around us giving a shit about it.

We made an odd-looking couple—one Black, one white; one in his late 20s, the other in his 40s; one tall and muscular, the other six inches shorter and 50 pounds lighter. We laughed at the expressions on some people’s faces and showed our gratitude to the ones who made a point of introducing themselves and getting to know us.

Winston and I were simply comfortable with each other. Was it more than that? Fuck if I knew. I can’t help calling it love. We had a great sex life, but that was only the beginning. We knew all about each other, from birth to the present, and we held nothing back. He heard about my ventures with Craig, Pete, and David, and I learned about his flings with men and women.

But most of all, we simply reached a point where we didn’t need to say much because everything came naturally. Oh, sure, we had plenty of conversations, especially sharing each other’s daily gripes and successes. We were at ease in our relationship, being able to read each other wordlessly.

And that brings me to a negative experience. I hate to mention it, but it almost got us arrested, and it taught me an important truth about Winston’s life—one that he had never mentioned and I had been ignorant of.

We were out driving around one day, and we found ourselves on the outskirts of the little town of Gilroy, about an hour south of Palo Alto. We heard there was a theme park nearby, and we wanted to check it out. On the north edge of town, we stopped at a motel whose name I won’t mention here, but it was part of a nationwide chain.

“Why don’t we check in here, have lunch, and then head over to the park?”

Winston agreed, and we pulled into the parking lot. We got out of the car together and went inside. The reception desk was right by the front door, and the clerk on duty must have seen us leave the Mustang together and walk toward the hotel holding hands.

At first, it was a struggle to attract his attention. He seemed to be doing nothing much but wouldn’t greet us or look directly at us. With a sly grin, Winston whacked the little call bell on the counter. The sound was so loud the man almost jumped out of his skin and turned to glare at us.

“Whaddaya want?”

“I think you mean, ‘May I help you, Sir?’ ”

He snorted. “I mean what I said—what do you want?”

Still smiling amicably in spite of the asshole’s open hostility, Winston replied calmly, “We’d like a room for the night, please.”

“Don’t have any.”

“You sure about that? There aren’t many cars in the parking lot.”

“They’re all out somewhere.”

“I see.” Winston pulled his little gray Motorola cell phone out of his pocket and picked up one of the hotel chain’s brochures from the counter.

He dialed and began speaking, “Hi. I’d like to make a reservation at your hotel in Gilroy, California, please.” He completed the transaction and turned back to the desk clerk, who was steaming mad.

“Hi. My name is Winston Buchanan, and I have a reservation.”

“Won’t do you no good.”

“Really? Why is that?”

The man became outraged. “We don’t want your kind here.”

I almost fainted. Looking at Winston, I widened my eyes as if to say, “Let’s get the hell outta here!”

But my intrepid police lieutenant was having none of the dude’s bullshit. Looking the man right in the eye and speaking deliberately, he demanded, “And what kind would you be referring to?”

“Take your pick—faggots, n****r lovers, outsiders, Democrats. We don’t take none of ‘em. We don’t want you around here, so get your sorry asses the fuck outta our town.”

I tried to intervene, but Winston was faster. He leaned across the counter and grabbed the man by the shirt collar pulling him within an inch of his face. “You want to say that again, asshole?”

I jumped in. “Come on, Winston. Why would we waste our time staying some place this prejudiced? I’m sure we can find somewhere else who’d like our business.”

The clerk barked, squirming out of Winston’s grasp, “There ain’t no place in this town that’ll give you a room. You’d better get the hell outta here before I call the cops on you.”

I gripped my lover’s arm and tugged him out of the lobby. When we arrived at our car, he was so angry he couldn’t stand still.

As we stood there, two police cruisers rushed into the parking lot from opposite ends and blocked us in. A uniformed officer jumped out, gun drawn, and ordered us to lie on the ground. Panicked, I looked to Winston for help. He remained calm and slowly nodded to me to do as they instructed.

The officers handcuffed both of us and roughly shoved us into the cruiser’s back seat. Soon, another police car arrived, and a sergeant came over. He peered in, glared at both of us and demanded of Winston, “You got some ID, asshole?”

“Sure do, Sergeant,” Winston replied, “right in my back pocket.”

“Don’t fucking move.” The sergeant gingerly removed Winston’s wallet and opened it. He about shit his pants when he saw the Detective Lieutenant badge. He quickly stepped away and had a hasty conversation with the other policemen.

He came back and reached in, unlocking the handcuffs. We climbed out of the cruiser, and the sergeant returned Winston’s wallet to him.

“Look, Lieutenant, we don’t want no trouble here. This is a conservative, family-oriented town. We don’t see many—” he was unable to finish the sentence.

So Winston helped him, “Gay Black off-duty policemen with white boyfriends?”

The sergeant shrugged. “Whatever. I think it would be best if you two found some other place to stay, preferably miles away from Gilroy. I can’t say what the folks around here would do, but I’m damn sure the desk clerk is calling all his pals and stirring up a hornet’s nest right now. Please, Lieutenant, do me a personal favor and head on out. You’ll save me a big fucking headache.”

Winston gave the man a stony stare for several seconds before nodding once. “Come on, Bruce, let’s ‘head on out’ as this officer requests.”

We got into the Mustang and headed north on the 101 in minutes. Neither of us spoke. I was shaken by the whole mess, and I sensed that the mistreatment and prejudice crushed Winston’s spirit.

After driving for five minutes, he pulled into a roadside picnic area, killed the engine, and jumped out of the car, leaving the door open. He took ten steps toward some trees that surrounded the picnic table. Then he threw his head back and screamed at the top of his voice, GOD. DAMN. IGNORANT. FUCKING. SHITHEAD. ASSHOLES!”

He stood in silence for another couple of minutes before returning to the car. Once in the driver’s seat, he looked down, took a deep breath, and turned to me. Tears were streaking down his face.

“I’m sorry, Bruce.”

“Sorry? What the fuck do you have to be sorry about? Those fucking assholes are the ones who should be sorry.”

“Yes, they should, but they won’t be—likely not ever. I’m sorry you witnessed what has been a part of my life since I was a kid. Haters hate, and that’s all there is to it.”

“But were they hating us because you’re Black, or because we’re gay, or what?”

“They don’t need a fucking reason, but I’d guess it was ‘all of the above.’ ”

The day was ruined for us, so we went home. That night we made love in silence, taking our time to be gentle, and afterward, we cuddled until Winston fell asleep.

I lay awake, still in turmoil on the inside. I had never experienced anything like that in my sheltered, privileged, lily-white life. Of course, I knew there was prejudice against Black people, and I knew I had to be careful to hide my sexuality. But I never felt the searing heat of hatred that came at us both today. I never dreamed that I could be the target of such senseless animosity.

Tears filled my eyes. This was an isolated incident for me—one I dearly hoped would never be repeated—but it was a constant threat to the man I loved. I hurt for him. I wanted revenge for him. I wanted to drive back down to Gilroy and beat the shit out of everyone who had been so cruel to him. And foolish as it now sounds, I wanted to protect him.

I got out of bed quietly so as not to wake my lover and sat on the balcony for hours, wondering why society was so cruel. I stared at the stars as if they held the answer, but it never came.

We need to get the fuck out of this place and find somewhere that we can be accepted for who and what we are—two good, decent men who love each other and only want happiness for ourselves and everyone around us. Does such a place even exist in this fucked-up world?

*******

Aside from that horrible day, our time together was generally upbeat. We had days when things didn’t go right, when we came home angry, hurt, disappointed, disgusted, or just plain sick of the shit. In other words, we were a normal couple who always supported and loved each other through the bad patches and the good.

We soon found ourselves in a group of like-minded friends. Most of them were gay couples like us, including Winston’s two fellow officers who took over the responsibility of keeping me safe, so he could be with me without breaking any rules.

Sergeant Luís Guzmán and Officer Paul Chen had been together for a few years longer than Winston and me, and the four of us had great fun going to sporting events and dining out together.

We even had a four-way at my apartment once, and the sex was a ton of fun. I was reluctant to engage at first, mostly because I didn’t think I’d like watching Winston fucking someone else. However, the way the other three handled it, I found myself easily joining in and having a rollicking time with each of them—and with all of them at the same time!

Our life together had settled into a reliable pattern of mutual support, affection, and physical attraction. I was nearing the completion of my MBA degree, and I had received offers from three of the companies where I interned, so I intended to stay in the area. Winston was studying for the captain’s exam, and we hoped he would be promoted soon. Our life was on the right track, and we were together for good.

********

Then, one evening, when Winston was on duty, a sharp knock came at my door. Thinking he was surprising me by showing up unannounced, I threw the door open with a warm smile and stared in shock at my visitors.

Sergeant Guzmán and Officer Chen stood in uniform, looking pale and solemn.

This can’t be—

My knees buckled, and one of the cops grabbed my arm, guided me into the room, and seated me on the couch. Luís sat on one side of me, and Paul sat on the other.

The silence was unbearable, the uncertainty crushing. “What the fuck, guys?” I demanded at last.

They exchanged glances. Being the ranking officer, Guzmán spoke, “Bruce, we have some bad news for you.”

The blood drained from my face as I shook my head. “No! This is NOT happening.”

The sergeant cleared his throat and continued with all the solemnity of a judge delivering a verdict.

“Winston has been shot. He’s at Stanford Medical Center in critical condition. The doctors say it doesn’t look good.”

I sat stunned. Paul Chen laid a comforting hand on my knee. I fought against the feeling that I was going to throw up.

After several deep breaths, I repeated blankly, still not registering my own words. “Winston has been shot. How is that possible? He is in the hospital. What hospital, where? It doesn’t look good. I have to go to him.”

Guzmán said, “That’s why we’re here, Bruce, but we need to be going—”

“Wh–What?” I said, looking up at him, confused. He had said we needed to be going.

“Winston asked for you. The doctors think he’s holding on until you get there.”

Numb, I got up and let the two policemen guide me to their cruiser. With lights flashing and siren wailing, we rushed to the hospital, which was only ten minutes away. My ability to function was nonexistent, and they all but carried me into the E.R., to a curtained area where a doctor and two nurses stepped aside to let me approach the bed.

Winston lay bare-chested and covered in blood-soaked compresses, with IVs in both hands and machines beeping and blinking around him. His eyes were closed and his breathing was shallow. I turned to the doctor, searching for a small measure of hope.

“He has two bullets in his chest. One is in a lung, and the other, the problem one, is lodged in his heart and inoperable. Nothing we can do for him except keep him comfortable until it’s over.”

I gasped, trembling with emotion. Luís Guzmán stepped up and put both hands on my shoulders. He leaned in and spoke softly in my ear, “He wanted to see you—”

I stepped closer and picked up Winston’s right hand. It was cold, but he was still breathing. “W–Winston?” I whispered. His eyes opened, and he turned his head toward me. He managed a weak smile.

“Bruce! How the—” He struggled for breath. “fuck are you?”

I smiled. He was still here, my lover, my best friend. “A hell of a lot better than you are!” My voice quavered as I struggled not to cry.

“I forgot to duck.” His voice was raspy, strained.

“What have I told you about that?” Through blurry vision, I tried to smile back at him.

“My bad—” he took a shallow, shaky breath. “Listen, I wanted—to say—” The effort was too much and his chest heaved, setting off some monitors.

The doctor stepped forward and rested a hand on Winston’s shoulder. “Take it easy, Detective Buchanan.”

Winston nodded to the doctor and looked up at me again. Tears were streaming down my face. My lungs constricted, and I found it hard to breathe. I thought I was going to pass out, but I was determined not to make things worse by drawing the doctor’s attention away from the real patient.

“To say...I love you, Bruce.” He took a deeper breath, gaining strength. “I know we haven’t said it to each other before, but my time is running out, so it needs to be said.”

“I...I love you, too, Winston,” I croaked. “I’ll always love you.”

He smiled weakly as his life slipped toward an abyss from which there was no return. “I might be late...picking you up...for the drive on Saturday—”

Confused, I turned to the doctor, who shook his head. Winston was fading fast, and his mind was playing tricks on him. Through my tears, I said, “It’s OK, Win. I’ll wait for you. I’m in no hurry.”

He tried to smile again, but it was obvious he was in a lot of pain, and his breath was coming in gasps. “Remember, I told you...I can handle...whatever shit life throws at me?”

I chuckled through my tears and nodded, unable to form words.

“Well, I might have...exaggerated that...a little.”

The doctor looked at one of the monitors, leaned down to Winston, and spoke quietly, “You need to take it easy, now.”

Winston squeezed my hand and gazed around the room, unsure of where he was. Seeing his two fellow officers, he whispered, “Make sure he’s okay.” They both nodded solemnly.

Winston’s eyes returned to me, and his thumb gave one last caress to the back of my hand. His lips moved soundlessly, but there was no mistaking the words they formed: I love you. His eyes fluttered, then closed. The machines attached to him began to squeal and beep. The doctor stepped forward and felt for a pulse in Winston’s neck, took his stethoscope, and listened to his chest.

“Code Blue,” the doctor said with urgency.

The team went into action without a word. I stumbled back to where Guzmán and Chen stood stoically. They quickly caught me as my legs gave out, keeping me from sinking to the floor. Trembling with my tears flowing, I watched, helpless, as Winston’s body jolted when they applied the shock paddles. I couldn’t stop thinking about all the times his once strong and commanding body made love to me.

The paddles worked, and the machines quiesced. The doctor inserted a plastic tube into the mouth of the man I loved and taped it in place as a machine started huffing and puffing, breathing for Winston.

Confused, I asked, “Why are you doing all this? Didn’t you say there was nothing you could do?”

The doctor stepped away from Winston’s bed, approached me, and spoke gravely, “Your friend is an organ donor. One of the first things he said to me was to make sure any of his organs that might help someone would be saved.”

He paused to glance over at one of the monitors before continuing. “We’re keeping him going until the O.R. is ready to harvest them. Unfortunately, his heart can’t be used, but he was such a strong and healthy man that just about everything else can save a life or help restore someone to health.”

I lost it. Even dying, this robust, loving man thought only of others. Seeing me about to collapse, the two officers gripped my arms and carried me to a chair outside the curtains. They stood in silence as my body convulsed with sobs.

Soon, a pair of orderlies and a nurse in surgical scrubs appeared, and they prepared to take Winston away to the O.R. The doctor who had been caring for him stepped out and addressed me, “Sir, if you’d like, you can have a moment with him—”

Somehow I summoned the strength. I stood, wobbled a bit, shook my head at the two policemen who stood ready to help, and walked to Winston’s bedside. I took his hand in mine again and squeezed it. I leaned down and kissed his forehead. I pressed my head against his chest, listening to the faint ba-dum one last time before raising my head.

I remembered how often I had rested my head on his chest after our love-making and felt his calm breathing and heard his heart beating. And now I would never hear those sounds again. A gut-wrenching sob tore through me as I watched a single tear fall and land over his heart.

The doctor guided me into the supporting arms of the two officers. A part of me died as the nurse and an orderly rolled Winston out of my sight. I stood, stunned and confused in the void of unnatural calm after they were gone.

Finally, Sergeant Guzmán broke the silence, “Bruce, can we take you home now?”

I looked up, confused. “Will he...I mean, will they—”

“I believe that after his organs are saved, he will be transported to a funeral home.”

“Where? Which one?”

“I’m not sure. Did he ever say if he had a will or any specific wishes for—”

I shook my head. I was ashamed to admit we had never discussed death or funerals. I was beginning to panic. “I don’t...what should I do?”

“Sir, the Department has people. They will be in touch and can help with all the arrangements.”

“What about Winston’s family? Who will tell them?”

“Winston only has a sister in North Carolina. We’ll contact her, but I’m sure they were not close. As far as I can tell, you’re as good as his next of kin.”

“Me?”

To my surprise, he straightened, and his tone once again became formal. “Yes, Sir. And I’ve been authorized to ask if you would be willing to coordinate with the Department for his funeral. As you might expect, a police officer who dies in the line of duty receives particular honors.”

I nodded slowly in assent, unable to think what to say. If this was what Winston wanted and deserved, I would do it, even if it killed me.

Our two friends went back to my apartment and stayed with me. The next several hours were a blur. I remember sitting with Luís and Paul, drinking a lot of wine, throwing up, crying with them, and finally curling up on my couch in a stupor. I don’t think any of us slept.

********

The next morning, shortly after Guzmán and Chen left, three other policemen, one of them with two stars on his shoulders, knocked at my door. They politely asked if I could discuss a few things with them.

They informed me that hundreds of police men and women from all over California and some neighboring states would attend Winston’s funeral. After the service, a long motorcade of cars, motorcycles, and mounted officers would escort his coffin to the National Cemetery. As a Vietnam veteran, he would receive full military honors.

As we talked, it began to dawn on me that these policemen were treating me as if I were a member of Winston’s family. When they paused in their explanations, I said, “Thank you for telling me all of this, but what is my role? I mean, you’re acting like I’m his...brother, or something.”

The officer with the stars, who had introduced himself as Captain Biggs, clarified, “I’m sorry, Sir. I should have explained. Detective Buchanan listed you as his next of kin.”

“But I’m not—”

His look of sympathy and compassion said it all. “I’m aware of your relationship, Bruce, and I have to say there was no one closer to Winston, who loved him more, or who he loved more than you.”

“You mean...it’s all right with the Department? I thought—”

“Yes, I understand. You thought Winston would be in trouble if your relationship were made public.” He paused as I stared at him in amazement.

“We’ve come a long way, Bruce, and a relationship between two people of the same, um, gender is better accepted now. Winston was a proud man but was proudest of his love for you. I don’t think anyone would have had the balls, uh, pardon my French, to give him any guff over who he loved.”

I sighed in relief. The captain and the other officers, one of whom was the police chaplain, went over the funeral details, stopping to ask me if certain arrangements were OK with me. I told them to give Winston the honor he deserved.

********

The funeral took place on a bright, sunny morning three days later. A gentle breeze off the mountains made the hundreds of U.S., California, Police Department, and city flags flutter. I was picked up at my apartment by a police limousine and introduced to the Chief of Police, who was waiting within.

Because the attendance was so large, Winston's service was held on the parade ground of the police academy. Speeches were given by Winston’s fellow officers and superiors, plus some prayers by the police chaplain. The governor spoke, and a letter from the President of the United States was read aloud. His coffin was draped in an American flag and carried out to the somber skirl of bagpipes.

It was placed on a horse-drawn gun carriage at the head of a slow procession through the city. In my mind, I pictured the funeral of President Kennedy, which happened the year I was born. In school, we watched a movie on the tenth anniversary of the assassination that burned into my memory. I cried that day, along with most of my fellow students.

The cortège made its unhurried way to the National Cemetery, following a route lined with officers, firemen, and soldiers who came to attention and saluted as it passed by. Crowds of spectators, many in tears, watched in eerie silence.

I tried to be stoic at the grave site where prayers were said. My body flinched involuntarily at the sharp cracks when rifles were fired in salute. The last straw came when the first mournful note of Taps broke the silence. It was impossible not to cry openly as an honor guard crisply folded the flag from Winston’s coffin and presented it to me. Numb, I reached out to accept it, the words of the officer not registering.

Afterward, I was escorted to a reception for dignitaries in City Hall, where the flags were at half-staff and a lot of black crêpe was draped over the balustrades. I was surrounded by policemen and Winston’s friends, who took care of me as if I were a grieving spouse.

I was shocked and amazed by how cordial and sympathetic everyone was. My loss was respected, and no one acted like it was anything out of the ordinary that Winston and I were lovers.

When I thought I couldn’t bear anything more, Sergeant Guzmán and Officer Chen drove me back to my apartment. I invited them in, but they declined, so I found myself alone on my balcony, a glass of Chablis in my trembling hand.

I thought back over the years we shared. Winston and I had settled into a comfortable rhythm of spending time together, sharing the fun with our small group of gay friends, and taking long drives in the countryside in the red Mustang. Of course, the sex was spectacular, but our connection was so much deeper than merely physical.

My head was spinning as I went over the memories. I found myself crying, laughing, and shaking my head in denial—and my cock was hard as a rock through it all.

“What kind of fucking world is this?” I bitterly demanded out loud. “To give me a man like Winston to love, to make it all work so perfectly, and then to steal him from me in a few short minutes?” Once again, the mute stars in the night sky failed to give me an answer.

I drank the whole bottle of Chablis and opened another. I think I would have kept doing that all night, except that I felt nauseous and figured I had better stop. I cried myself to sleep on Winston’s side of the bed with my face buried in one of his favorite shirts.

The next morning, a knock roused me from my troubled sleep. Red-eyed, I peered through the peephole, my vision so blurred that I almost didn’t recognize my visitors. Luís Guzmán and Paul Chen were in civilian clothes, looking back at me from their side of the door. I opened the door and silently invited them in. We hugged, and I offered them something to drink.

“You got a beer?” Guzmán asked. I smiled and handed each of them a Corona.

Taking a seat, I wondered what brought them to my apartment.

Guzmán cleared his throat. “Bruce, we’re here to...uh...give you something.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a set of car keys. My heart froze as I recognized them at once.

“W–Winston’s convertible?” I said, my voice shaking.

“Yes. He filed his will with the department’s attorneys, and he left the car to you. Along with this note.” He handed me a sealed envelope.

My hand trembled as I took it from him. Unfolding it, I skimmed the words before reading aloud,

“Bruce, lover, we both know my fucking job is dangerous. I don’t have any intention of you ever reading this, but just in case, I want you to have the Mustang. You’ll cherish her a lot more than anyone else ever would. Be strong. Remember me, but move on when you’re ready. All my love, Winston.”

I looked up. Guzmán and Chen had tears in their eyes. I would have had them, too, but I had cried so much over the past few days that I didn’t have any tears left to shed.

The three of us sat without speaking for a while. They finished their beers and the silence became awkward as they waited for me to say or do something. I awoke from my reverie and remembered I was their host.

“I want to thank you both—for everything you’ve done.”

Voice choking, Luís answered, “Bruce, it was an honor. Winston was a good friend and a damn fine cop.”

I stepped over and hugged Chen, then Guzmán. Finding new tears, I smiled at them and said, “Thank you. I hope you two have a wonderful life together. And I hope we meet again sometime.” I paused and regarded them fervently, “And be safe.”

The three of us hugged again at the door as they left. A few minutes later, I picked up the keys to the red Mustang convertible and went outside. There she sat, clean as a whistle, top-down, waiting for me.

I started the engine and headed for the 280. I had no idea where I was going, but I felt Winston riding with me, his loving smile cheering me on my way.

********

I don’t recall how I filled the endless days and the long, lonely nights after Winston’s death. My life became a kind of numb routine of classes, papers, and meetings with my thesis advisor. My personal life was a desert, barren and empty.

Nevertheless, I graduated two months later, although earning an MBA seemed less important to me now.

My parents flew in from Denver for the celebration. My older sister Natalie, her dickhead husband Richard Bronson, and their two red-haired twins, Keiran and Karen, had joined them from Philadelphia.

At lunch in a restaurant after the ceremony, my father turned to me with a stern look and demanded, “So, now what are you going to do?”

“Tim!” my mother scolded.

“I only wanted to ask. It’s something we’d all like to know.”

To lighten the tone of the conversation, Natalie teased, “Are you going to get a surfboard and become a beach bum?” She only said it to make everyone smile. And it worked, to some degree. With an enthusiastic grin, seven-year-old Keiran interjected, “Cool! Are you, Uncle Bruce?”

I smiled at him. At least he had no responsibilities to the family—yet. I hoped my nephew would have an easy life and that he would be free to be whatever he wanted to be and to love whomever he wanted to love. It was fucking 1990, I was twenty-seven years old, and the world had changed a lot since I was Keiran’s age.

I turned to face Dad, choosing my words. “Actually, I’ve accepted a position at an aerospace contractor in Seattle. They do a lot of work for all the major manufacturers of planes and rockets. I’ll start in their space engineering division in three weeks, after I take a short vacation to rest and unwind.”

There was stunned silence all around the table. Even Keiran and Karen sat nervously silent. Showing far more restraint than I ever expected, my father said, “Well, that sounds like an option—”

“Tim—” my mother warned again.

He cleared his throat. “Of course, I don’t have to tell you that we wish you all the best, and much success, whatever you decide to do.”

I stated firmly, “I’ve already decided, Dad.”

I was not taking any of his bullshit. I had made up my mind that I wasn’t going back to Denver and wasn’t taking some junior executive position in one of his goddamn businesses. The last thing I wanted to do was be some kind of fucking heir apparent resented by everyone.

My father took a different tack. “Well, I think it’s fine that you have the opportunity to see the world of business from every angle and gain a lot of experience...before you move up to a management role—”

“If that’s where the job takes me, fine, Dad.” I looked him in the eye, man to man. “But at this point, my only goal is to be successful at what I do. I want to learn as much as possible about the job I’ve signed on to do.”

“And that’s what you should do,” my mother added, diplomatic as ever, “and I think that’s where we’ll leave it.”

Defeated, my father gazed out the window. “I must admit the climate here in California is a lot kinder than ours in the Rockies.”

“Well, Seattle is a lot colder and wetter, but it gets nowhere near as much snow as we have back home.”

At least by referring to Denver as home, I’m going with the flow and trying not to be a total asshole.

My brother-in-law Richard, who was a corporate attorney in one of Dad’s companies, spoke up. “Your MBA from Stanford is sure to take you far in this world, Bruce.”

Natalie chimed in, “I never thought my little brother would turn out to be such a scholar. With your exploits as a swimmer, I always pictured you as a dumb jock!”

Keiran, who suddenly realized I had said space engineering, asked excitedly, “Are you gonna be an astronaut?”

We all had a chuckle and the lunch ended without further angst. With hugs all around, the family cleared out immediately afterward and headed for the airport for their flight back to Denver in one of Dad’s private planes.

There was no mention of Winston throughout their whole visit. I didn’t feel like bringing it up, and I guess the family either didn’t want to cause me pain or they were embarrassed about it and wanted to pretend it never happened. Especially Dad. Mom had told me he knew I’m gay but would probably never mention it.

Oh, well. That’s his problem, not mine.

********

Back in my near-empty apartment a week later, I packed the last of my clothes. I had sold or given away the furniture and sent a trunk of clothing and books ahead to the corporate apartment I would be sharing with another newbie at the company.

I hadn’t had a roommate since that motherfucker Carl in my freshman year, and I had to admit I was more than a little apprehensive. I hoped everything would be much different at twenty-seven than at nineteen.

Taking one last look around, I stepped out onto the balcony overlooking the community pool. Handsome young men in Speedos still strutted their stuff, showing off muscles above and below the belt. It occurred to me that my success rate with men was piss-poor.

I gave my virginity and love to Craig, and although he had responded eagerly and vigorously, he was incapable of truly loving me. Discovering he was faking it, and that he had been having gay sex long before me, was a hard pill to swallow. He only said he loved me because he knew I wanted him to. He left me for a new man, and I haven’t heard from him since.

I met Pete in the dorm and started out determined to have my way with him. Only, I soon found that I really liked him, and I loved introducing him to gay sex. He came into my life when I was still reeling from Craig’s deception. I wasn’t ready for another relationship, and my selfishness reflected it.

Pete was such an innocent but eager lover. When I decided it was time to break up with him, he beat me to the punch. His last words were so mature that I realized we had traded places. I was the naïve innocent, and he was the mature adult who could see the reality and embrace it.

David was...well, David was amazing fun. I still don’t know how or when he learned all his sexual tricks and techniques, but he delighted in sharing them with me. Right up to the end, he continued to surprise me with variations and sensations I had never felt before. And then...and then the son of a bitch broke up with me by leaving a message on the goddamn answering machine. Getting dumped via phone message really stung. He proved to be even more shallow than I had ever been!

But then there was Winston—a truly mature man who took me under his wing, both literally by saving my life and also virtually by allowing me into his. We took things slowly, and I learned the meaning of commitment. Our love blossomed and grew until the last day. I had believed that my heart had been broken before, but Winston’s death was so much more unbearable.

Three months have passed—three months without his love, without his comforting touch, and without sex, not even jacking off—and I still hadn’t eased the aching void. If you had asked me a year ago, I would have said I need to come at least once a day and preferred two or three times. But the gaping hole left in my life left by Winston has been impossible to fill in any way. I can’t look at a hot man and feel anything. I can’t touch myself and rekindle the desire.

In two weeks, I have to report for duty at my new job in Seattle. I’m not ready to make such a sharp turn in my life. I’m taking a vacation, something I haven’t had in years. San Diego is about as far south as you can go in California, so that’s where I’m headed. I’ll try to distract myself with sun and surf, and maybe even look at the cute men (I hear there are a lot of sailors there).

Maybe I’ll come back to life. Winston told me to move on when I was ready, but how will I know?

I locked the door, carried my last suitcase down, and stored it in the trunk of the convertible. In tribute to Winston and all the car had meant to him, I had done my best to keep her as shiny as new. She had been his baby, and he was so damned proud whenever he drove around with the top down. He’d been a confident Black man with a set of wheels that turned heads wherever he went.

Dad tried to hide how pleased he was when I told him to keep the Camaro, since I had the car of my dreams now, too.

As I merged onto the 5 for the eight-hour drive down to San Diego, I remembered the many romantic getaways the convertible had delivered us to. Those were happy days, and I’d always have the memories, but it was time to move on—again.

END OF BOOK TWO