Authors: Nikki Sex
“Secrets, silent, stony sit in the dark palaces of our hearts. Secrets weary of their tyranny: tyrants willing to be dethroned.”
— James Joyce
~~~
The Captain of the Airbus, announcing our imminent arrival in Las Vegas, pulls me out of my memories. Rehab and Alcoholics Anonymous, along with ongoing counseling, has worked. I’ve been stone cold sober for over three months. I know my weakness. I’ll never drink a drop of alcohol again.
My plane lands and the pretty, blonde stewardess meets my eyes.
“Thank you, for everything,” she says, and her lips curve up in a smile, as she nods her good bye. I’m shocked when she extends her hand.
I take it. It’s small, soft and dry. My palm heats with electric pleasure from the kindness of a woman’s touch. There’s an emptiness inside, I can’t escape—yet with her willing handshake, for that one moment, my whole world brightens.
Wow.
I want to grin, but I only give her a half smile back—one that doesn’t pull on my scars and make me look even more frightening.
I’m surprised by an intense bubble of joy that floods through me. A moment of true connection with another human being.
So rare.
So vital.
I sigh with satisfaction as I depart the aircraft. Warm feelings of happiness stay with me during the entire taxi ride to my hotel.
I check in without incident. The reception staff are professional and accommodating, their faces composed. The usual shock, horror and pity registers in their eyes, but at least they’re able to meet my gaze.
I long for just one person to treat me like a regular guy.
I’m beginning to think this is an unreasonable expectation.
At least when I’m with my counselor, I’m able to forget about my scars. They don’t bother him in the least.
~~~
The next day, André Chevalier picks me up from my hotel in his cherry-red Ferrari 275 GTB. It’s a classic, built in 1966. What a sweet ride.
He offers to let me drive, but I’m not up to handling a high-performance car. My nerves are shot. Just now, I can't take that kind of responsibility—if I did, I think my head might explode.
André phoned me last night and told me to take a sleeping pill and to eat a hearty breakfast.
I can read between the lines. My counselor’s admonishment to, “Eat and sleep very well,” can be translated to “We’re going to have a difficult session tomorrow, so prepare yourself.”
We drive around a scenic area of Red Rock Canyon National Park and Lake Mead. In my opinion, spring is the best time of the year to visit Vegas. In April, you can expect warm days and mild, clear nights.
Today’s an exception. The morning news stated it would be uncommonly hot today, possibly reaching 90 degrees.
The cloudless blue sky is a pretty contrast to the red and brown cliffs. I’m sweating but the car windows are open, so the rush of air dries any moisture from my button-down cotton shirt and khaki shorts. With good roads and fantastic scenery, the drive alone is worth the price of admission. Except for unseasonal heat, the weather’s perfect.
André’s trying to chill me out before our session.
It isn’t going to work.
We stop to hike off the beaten path in the Rainbow Mountain Wilderness. It’s marked as an easy walk. We get out of the car, and André slips on the backpack. Too distracted to offer to carry it, I let him.
I don’t know if they have boy scouts in France, but if they do, André was one. I’m sure everything from water to first aid kits and probably even a satellite phone is tucked away in there.
It’s a dry heat, but I feel a cooling sheen of sweat on my skin as we begin our stroll in companionable silence. Juniper and pine trees are dotted along the well-used path. It’s a trail which can be done in a loop so we get to see different scenery all the way.
Eventually, we stop to drink water. We sit in the shade on a log where there’s a nice view of Lovell Canyon. The desert has a dry beauty, with towering red sandstone cliffs. Surrounded by cactus trees, sage bush and the occasional chattering squirrel, we could be the only people in the world.
It’s certainly private.
A good place to share secrets, I fear.
André has the car keys. I suspect he’s not driving me out of here until I spit out the bones of some skeletons. I force myself to appear composed on the outside.
Inside I’m squirming.
“My friend,” he says, slanting me a look. “You have come to visit me on many, oh-so many occasions. We have discussed much,
oui?”
“Sure”
“And so, do you not think it is time that you speak to me of what you really wish to discuss?”
“What do you mean?”
“You know what I mean.”
I sigh heavily. “It’s difficult.”
“Do you trust me?”
“Yes.”
“
Oui, eh bien
.” He throws his hands into the air. “You embrace this secret so tightly. As if it is the greatest of lovers, you keep it close. You protect it.”
“No.”
His gaze on mine, he bends toward me. “
Oui, oui
, it is true!
You
think
you
hold this secret, but
je suis désolé
, I am most sorry. This secret, it is a tyranny of the soul, for
it
holds you,
n'est-ce pas?
”
I run my hand through my hair. The tips of my fingers catch on the thickened skin of my facial scars. I know that I’d planned to talk about my concerns eventually, but how the hell do I start?
“My friend,” he asks in a low, quiet voice. “Have you murdered someone who should not have been killed?”
Shit.
I school my face to remain composed, but my heart skips a few beats and then jumps into overdrive.
Murderer.
My mind’s in a whirl.
Shit! Shit! Shit!
How did he figure this out? He has no idea how on target his question is. Except this isn’t what I want to discuss with him. This is
another
secret I’m hiding.
One I plan to take to my grave.
Arms crossed, eyes narrowed, he studies me with his penetrating gaze. Suddenly, he uncrosses his arms and bursts into unexpected laughter.
“What?” I say, irritated. I sure as hell can’t see what’s funny.
André shrugs his shoulders, in that uniquely French way of his. “
Mon ami
, when I have a client who is unwilling to speak to me of his or her transgressions, I use what I have christened, “The Murder Technique.” It is when I ask them if they have killed someone.”
“OK.”
“And always, when I ask this, my client will reply, “But no! I only stole from them!” Or they will speak of some lesser crime, like destroying another’s valuable possessions for revenge, or sleeping with another man’s wife,
comprenez-vous?”
Despite the excruciatingly awkward circumstance, I feel an amused smirk begin to twitch my lips.
Grinning, André nods. “Just so. For the first time, I ask this question and you
have
murdered someone. But… it is during war, in the service of your country, I think?”
My jaw tightens. It wasn’t during war, but I say nothing.
I’ll never tell.
“Do you wish to speak of this?”
“No.”
“
Bon.
” He nods once more. “Very well then, for this is not to our purpose. For months, you have chosen to remain silent.” He throws one elegant hand up in the air. “It is enough! Let there be truth between us now. This shame has held you for far too long.”
Our eyes meet and I say nothing.
I’m not sure I can.
“Courage, my friend. You have always intended to tell me of this great secret of yours.” André stands up and turns in a circle. “Here—” he gestures to the wide-open country before us—“here and now is the perfect moment to do it.”
I shift restlessly as the log I’m sitting on is suddenly uncomfortable. Even in the shade, the sun is searing and relentless—yet this heat I’m feeling comes from inside. I suppress the impulse to get up.
To move.
To run.
I stare off into the sky. A bird of prey, a lone hawk or perhaps an eagle is circling overhead. I wish I could fly away with him.
After licking dry lips, I finally draw in a deep breath and tell André what’s bothering me.
“I think I may be gay.”
“Oh?” He sits down beside me once more and asks with mild interest. “And why should you think this?”
I inhale a deep breath and open my mouth to speak, but something stops me. It’s as if a gate has fallen down, trapping my tongue. Like some sort of physical and mental roadblock, I can’t get around it.
André seems aware of my problem. He tranquilly asks, “Do you wish to have sex with a man?”
“No!”
He raises one eyebrow in query. “And the thought of two men pleasuring each other?”
I hesitate for a fraction of a second but say, “A turn off.”
He tilts his head and studies me—observant bastard that he is.
The idea of having sex with a man is easy—that’s a vehement no. But an unwanted urge to see naked men? Not so much.
I shake my head. “I wouldn’t go looking for it, but if I saw it while flicking through channels on late night TV, you know, something with one man nailing another… I’d probably watch.”
And I’d get a hard-on, dammit, but I can’t tell him that.
“
Bon,”
he replies briefly. My answer doesn’t faze him. “Tell me now; when you were a child of perhaps nine or ten, name a movie you particularly recall enjoying.”
The change of topic is confusing, but I’ve learned to trust André’s unexpected subject deviations. No matter what it seems like, or how casual, irreverent, cheerful or lighthearted he appears, André’s always going somewhere when he talks to me.
I frown. “What, like
Titanic
?”
His approving smile relieves me. I feel like I’ve just gotten a gold star from my favorite teacher. My younger, yet more emotionally experienced teacher.
“
Oui, oui
, very good,” he says enthusiastically, gesturing with his hands. “Now tell me, which actor or actress held your attention? Was it the most attractive hero or the very beautiful heroine?”
“Oh, the heroine for sure. Kate Winslet was seriously hot in that movie.”
André shoots me a quick smile—the kind of smile one man gives another when they both are thinking of a beautiful woman and hot sex.
“
Très bon,
I most heartily agree.
Mon ami
, I do not believe you prefer men. There is a reason, I think. Tell me, if you please, why do you have this concern?”
“I… I was close to my buddies overseas.” I bite my lip, stare at my hiking boots and get lost in the problem. I don’t know how much time goes by. It’s just so difficult to discuss this shameful, relentless defect of mine.
A subtle clearing of André’s throat brings me back to the issue.
Our eyes meet. “It’s hard to explain,” I say. “I found myself looking at my buddy’s dicks whenever we took a piss.” Embarrassed, I avert my gaze. “Dammit, I wanted to—but I didn’t want to—but I
had
to—but I couldn’t, I shouldn’t—on and on! It’s like the movie
Groundhog Day.
My mind and body do the same thing over and over. I’m caught in a never-ending loop of indecision. I can’t stop it.”
I turn toward him, to see how he’s taking this socially unacceptable problem of mine. André nods his understanding, and his expression is still one of polite interest. He hears me, he gets it—but he doesn’t think I’m a freak.
To André, I’ve never been a monster.
I wish I felt the same.
“You know,” I say, forcing myself to meet his eyes. “In the Army, men piss in the desert or in a urinal with other men every day and my gut roiled every damn time. The situation made me nuts. There’s something seriously wrong with me.”
“Ah,” André says. “I understand. Grant,
pardon,
for I must disagree. Me? I do not think there is anything wrong with you.
Mais no!
It is my opinion there is oh, so much that is
right
with you.”
His words make me feel better, but I only give him a faint smile. What was once deliberate is almost an unconscious action. I keep any smiles to a minimum so my expression doesn’t twist and make me look even more grotesque.
But I do feel like smiling. In fact, a broad, happy grin might be in order.
I’ve told him my highly combustible, socially unacceptable and perverse compulsion to look at dicks. I confessed my deepest fear that I might be gay. And what was his response?
It was a bit like throwing a grenade that fails to detonate. No explosion. No huge reaction. No fireworks. Talk about anti-climactic. My secret’s a dud. That wasn’t so bad after all. What was I afraid of?