Triangles (27 page)

that is the biggest turn-on of all. He stops kissing me.
Take off your clothes.

He stands back away from the bed,

watching me shed my dress. When I am down to lingerie and stockings,

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he says,
Come over here.
He sits in the overstuffed chair.
I want a lap dance.

I have no idea how to do a lap dance, but what the hell? I stand in front of him, moving my body to imagined music.

Blues. Billie Holiday. He reaches for me, tugs me so I’m straddling his legs.

That’s it. Beautiful.
He gentles his hands behind my shoulder blades, coaxes me forward and unhooks my bra. Lets it fall. Slips a hand under each breast, lifting them gently and framing my nipples with the Vs

of his fingers, the motion unexpectedly ingenuous, as if he’s touching a woman for the first time. And now his tongue

teases into the folds, circling the marble tips. I bite my bottom lip against the moan trying to escape—too much a cliché for this moment. And the thing that shifted, whatever it was, slithers sideways again, reveals an emotion closer to love than lust.

His hands fall away, to my thighs. They 511/881

push me down, into his lap, only his jeans and my panties between the thing I want most right now, stiff and pulsing.

He kisses me again, and my body screams to have him inside me, but he says …

HAVE YOU EVER BEEN TIED UP?

It is the most intense experience of my life, and when I get home I’m glad the house is fast asleep, so it can go into my journal.

Oil of Cloves

To offer up every slender thread of control is frightening. Ex-hilarating. I am naked when he lays me, trembling, on the bed. “I won’t hurt you. Not if you’re very good.” He uses my stockings.

One for my hands, which he crosses at the wrists, stretching them over my head. The other he wraps around my eyes. I’m swimming in a dark sea, where something unseen waits for me. “Don’t move.”

It’s hard to comply when his teeth rake my neck in a vampire-style kiss, lower to my nipples. His bite is half brilliant hurt, half surreal pleasure. The scent, lifting from his hair, is spice. Cloves, I think. It’s sharp, sexy as hell.

“Open your legs.” His face dives between them, and his mouth claims what he finds there. And when he says, “You can come now,” I am beyond ready. “Now that you’re wet, I’m going to do something I’ve always wanted to.” He slips one finger inside me. Two. Three. At four, the pressure becomes terrific. But when I squirm, he gives my arms a warning tug. “No. Hold still.” I do and he works his entire hand into that narrow place.

And, over the flashing silver pain, I shudder orgasm. “That’s my girl.” I wish I could see his rigid cock, fevered and poised to push inside me. One wicked thrust and I come again. And again. And now, so does he.

ORGASM

Few things represent

so well the inequality

of the sexes. Picture

Adam,

running around the garden

with a nice breeze-induced

stiffy, meaningless until

that lecherous serpent

got

involved. Before it became

about intent, erection felt

good, and that was all. Then

his companion found some

off-

the-wall forbidden fruit.

One little nibble and

Eve

became the object of Adam’s

no-longer-innocent stiffy’s

desire. And here’s the rub

(so to speak). He—man—

got

off pretty much by whim.

She—woman—discovered

hunger, difficult to satiate.

And when she tried, she was

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censured.

Marissa

I’VE TRIED

To put the scene in the deli

out of my mind. Tried, with

no success. Hindsight sucks.

I should have marched over

to Christian’s table, stood

there until he had no choice

but to introduce his hotshot

lunch date to his tongue-tied

wife. Instead, I didn’t even look

his way, afraid her hand would

be back on his arm. I ate chicken

salad in the park, pretending to

listen to my friend Claire talk

about Braxton Hicks contractions.

When the music started, all I could think about was how Grit

sounded more like the Grateful

Dead. And when Drew called

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to let me know he was on his

way, I told him I felt sick.

“Think it was the chicken salad.”

SO INSTEAD OF DREW AND GRIT

I dropped Claire off. Took Shelby

home, which proved completely

embarrassing for her brother, who

was in the kitchen, totally naked,

when we came through the door.

Shelby probably didn’t care, if she noticed at all. I, however, freaked.

“Shane Michael Trask! What the hell?

Go put some clothes on, would you?” I’ve never seen a face quite so red, or a butt quite so pale as he made

a dash for his room, trailing a weak,
Sorry. Didn’t think you’d be back
so soon.
Neither did I. Still, propriety seems in short supply around here.

At least a birthday-suited Alex wasn’t standing there with him. And I’m even more grateful that I didn’t catch them in the act. Not sure if I caught them

post- or pre-, or that it really matters.

Obviously, they
do
. But it’s one thing to know your son is gay, and quite

another to be presented, up close, with 518/881

specifics. At least he can’t get pregnant.

Thank God for small favors and all.

NOT THAT I BELIEVE IN GOD

Growing up, Andrea and I were given no clear understanding of a possible Creator.

Dad was raised in a strong Jewish home.

But that teen questioning thing weakened Ira Snyder’s religious resolve. He never thought twice about marrying Mom,

a lukewarm Lutheran. Both went through a pagan phase, a Wiccan thing, and even had a Buddhism fling, searching for deeper meaning and ending up more confused than anything. And that’s the belief system Andrea and I inherited—confusion.

When I met Christian, I attended

his church, mostly because he wanted me to. But I also had an itching curiosity.

Was there anything to the hype?

I have to admit, I felt
something
there, beneath the crucifix, in the midst

of believers. Maybe it was universal love.

Maybe a sliver of hope, a hint of reason beyond the chaos. Then Christian’s mom died.

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Then Shelby came along. And in Christian’s own crisis of faith, any small sense of God I had dissolved. Dissipated. Disappeared.

A RATHER AMAZING THING

Is that somehow, Shane held on to

whatever faith he found in Sunday

school. He clings to it, and to the idea of an omnipotent Creator who cares

for the earth and its inhabitants—two-legged or four-; winged, finned, or furred.

This, despite his father’s insistence that Shane’s sexuality denies him access.

This, despite my agnostic outlook. This, despite the hurt he will probably always experience because of being “the way God made him.” It’s fascinating, really.

And to be honest, I’m more than a little envious. I could use a major infusion of comfort on pretty much any given day.

Unfortunately, I don’t think I’ll find it hovering in the clouds, or rising, orange, at the break of morning. But if Shane can, 522/881

more power to him. And if that power does, in fact, come from God, hallelujah!

I PONDER SUCH THINGS

When silence bloats the empty

rooms of this behemoth house.

Today, as most days, I have only

Shelby for company, and right

now, she’s napping. Her door

opens like a whisper, and I

peek around it to check

on her. Small whimpers

escape her mouth, and her

legs move as if they know

things when she sleeps

that they cannot remember

when she’s awake, and I

wonder for the thousandth

time where she wanders

when she dreams. What

does she see? Who does

she meet? Is she perfect?

And for the millionth

time, a tsunami of sadness

crashes into me, drags me

down into an undertow

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of what will never be,

strands me, floundering.

RATHER THAN DROWN

I back out of her room,

close the door, leave Shelby

to whatever dreams she is allowed.

I need to do something mindless.

Routine. Laundry. I’ll do laundry.

Sort.

Wash.

Dry.

Fold.

Put away,

leaving detergent scent to

perfume the stale summer air.

The first door I come to is Shane’s.

I knock, though I know he’s out.

Habit. His room is cluttered.

Books.

Plates.

Wrappers.

Dirty socks.

Ditto underwear.

Does the boy never throw away

anything? Does he never pick

up his clothes? I toss carelessly

discarded clothing into a laundry

basket. Wander over to his desk.

Lighters.

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Rolling papers.

Marijuana crumbs.

Good china saucer.

Prescription bottle.

WHICH IS ODD

Because, at least as far as I know, Shane isn’t taking any prescribed

medications. What’s even odder

is the bottle has no label. Inside

are blue tablets, stamped with

the brand name
Gilead.
I take one, put the bottle back, and leaving

the basket of dirty clothes right

where it is, go to my computer.

Ten seconds’ worth of research

tells me something I do not want

to be informed of. Cannot possibly

face. Gilead is a pharmaceutical

company that specializes in

HIV treatments. No! It’s not

possible. Is it? I’m pretty sure

Alex is the first guy Shane has

actually slept with. I mean,

I could be wrong. But even if

I am, he’s only sixteen.

No way can he be infected.

Right? He would tell me, yes?

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Oh my God. I think I’m going

to be sick. My hands start to shake and sweat erupts on my forehead.

Stop. Think. Okay, call him. I have to know for sure. But, of course,

his cell goes straight to voicemail.

I leave a message there, and just

to be sure, I text the same request: CALL ME RIGHT AWAY. VERY IMPORTANT!

Now what? First, calm down.

Second, there’s nothing to do.

I can’t call anyone. There’s no one to call. Not even Christian. Especially not Christian. Not till I have some definite information. I start to pace.

Highly ineffective. All it does is make me more nervous. So I go into Shane’s room, put the blue tablet stamped

Gilead
back into the bottle. Gather up the rest of his dirty clothes.

Take them to the laundry room.

Sort them. Put light-colored tee shirts, underwear, and socks into the washer.

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Set it to cottons. Measure laundry soap.

Hit the start button, inhaling the only semi-comforting scent of detergent.

IT’S A VERY LONG TWO HOURS

Until I hear his key turn

in the door. It’s barely open,

his foot hardly through, when

I demand, “Why didn’t you call?”

I’m halfway to hysterical, and

sound it. His jaw drops, his

expression goes from blank

to concerned.
What’s wrong?

I grab his hand, pull him

down the hall, into his room

and over to his desk. I pick

up the bottle. “Do you have

something to tell me? About

these, maybe? God, Shane …”

My eyes sting, but I blink away

the tears. “Tell me you’re not HIV

positive!” He draws back

his shoulders. Toughens.

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No, Mom. I’m not. Alex is. But

don’t worry. It’s under control.

IT’S UNDER CONTROL

Now there’s a phrase

that should inject fear

into even the stoutest heart.

Not a lot of things in

life

are certain, except death.

Taxes. The need for

sustenance and the

inevitable results that

presents,

with luck, daily. But when

it comes to promises

spurring hope, it’s wise

to remember there are

too

few reasons to follow

through, when hope is,

truthfully, the most tangible

goal. Far too

many

people believe in the intrinsic

commonality of their brethren,