FROM CONFLICT TO HARMONY
NOTE: This is a sequel to "Darkness Into Light" previously posted. Reading the first story is recommended but not necessary.
The lure of broader horizons...
...built steadily during my four years in college. The thought of returning to the stifling social and religious climate of my home town in rural Utah grew from distasteful to intolerable. Aside from quietly enduring comments and untenable opinions of family, friends, and neighbors, I would be subjected to their recurrent teasing, urging, and dismay over never having dated girls in high school and did not have a girlfriend. My weak but habitual response was that I didn't have time for that. More troubling was that back home I could only listen politely and withhold any response that contradicted their firmly held beliefs.
By the time I graduated, in 1984, I knew what I had to do: recognize that my attraction to men was an integral part of my being. The recognition was slow in developing—and not without periods of relentless turmoil and crushing guilt—but my one and only experience of sex with my roommate in college forever demolished any doubt about my homosexuality. Memories of that glorious night in bed served to reinforce my resolve to seek what I wanted.
I knew, however, that homosexuality was anathema in the community where I grew up. Returning to live my life at home would inevitably impose the expectation to marry and raise a family, which to me would be no more than a continuing pretense and a life of buried yearning for the type of companionship I craved.
My parents would surely be upset over my decision not to return to the place of my birth and would no doubt regard it as abandoning my roots. But I was firm in my decision. I could not be genuinely happy in an isolated, homogeneous community. They fully expected that I would be heir to the grocery/hardware store they owned. My two sisters were not part of that plan because the patriarchal values of their church and community dictated that they marry and become obedient housewives and nurturing mothers. The subjugation of women was but one of a host of reasons for my questioning of fundamental lessons I had learned—and naively accepted—prior to my college experience.
I struggled to devise a plan for telling my parents of my decision. It had to meet two criteria. It had to explain convincingly why I chose not to return home. The second criterion was paramount because I loved them and did not want to hurt them. I had to minimize as much as possible their disappointment. I hoped that expressing my love for them and acknowledging the sacrifices they made for me would soften the blow. Telling them I would not return home would be distressing enough but I couldn't criticize their religious values or the narrow-mindedness of the community. Furthermore, telling them I was homosexual would disappoint them terribly and I immediately ruled it out of my emerging plan.
Spring break of my senior year was approaching and I would spend the week at home as usual. Not usual, however, would be the discussion I knew had to occur. I had interviewed for a handful of jobs out of state and two companies extended a job offer, one in Atlanta and the other from NUMMI, a joint venture of General Motors and Toyota in Fremont, California. It had only recently opened in 1984 and was actively recruiting engineers. The salaries offered were comparable. I accepted the California offer because it seemed to be far enough away from the constricted atmosphere of rural Utah but close enough to allow occasional visits to the family that I loved.
I spent hours refining my strategy for breaking the news to my parents. It turned out to be largely useless.
Three days into my Spring break, my mother left for several days to take care of a widowed sister who was recuperating from surgery. That meant I would have to divulge my decision only to my father. On Thursday night after dinner my father said, "You'll be graduating soon. I'm very proud of you. What are your plans for the future?"
My carefully crafted plan...
...included a way to initiate the discussion but my father's question unexpectedly provided the opening for the discussion I feared would cause disappointment, pain, and possibly anger. But I knew I had to answer his question and hope that I could do so without hurting him too much. "I've accepted a job offer from a company in California. It's a great job with a lot of possibilities for advancement. I'll miss you and Mom but I can visit frequently. You've said that the store would be mine when you retired but...."
"Stop right there," he interrupted in an emphatic tone.
I fully expected a mini-explosion of objections to my relocating to the West Coast. I hit the pause button on my strategic plan and scanned his face for any hint of what was to come. Unfortunately, his customary reserve (except when chatting with customers) provided no clue.
"Let me assure you," he continued. "I had a hunch when you were in high school that being a shopkeeper would not bring you happiness. Your talents would possibly draw you to better things. Your success in college only changed my hunch into a conviction. Am I disappointed that you don't want to run a store in the middle of nowhere? NO! Am I proud of your achievements? YES! Am I confident that you will continue to succeed in whatever lies ahead for you? Of course. Let me repeat. I'm proud of you, son. I have only one request. Please...please keep the faith. You'll be tempted. But cling to your faith and let God be your guide."
I couldn't find the words to express my relief and gratitude for his acceptance (and for the implied love behind what he said). I rose from my chair, walked around the table, and hugged him. Because he was not a demonstrative man, it was the first physical expression of love that we shared since I was a small child. Finding my voice, I said (hoarsely because I was tearing up), "Thanks, Dad. I love you."
Without expressing his love for me, which was unnecessary and would be uncharacteristic of him, he said, "Sit down, Son. There's more we need to talk about."
I wasn't sure what that might be but I complied.
"First of all, don't worry a bit about the store. Your mother and I have talked it over and decided that if you didn't want it we could sell it. That would not only free you to do what you want but would provide money for us to live on in retirement. Secondly, your mother will be more disappointed than I am to see you move to California. That's what mothers are like. I'll tell her when she gets home in a week or two. She'll cry. But behind the tears will be the same pride that I feel about your success and your future."
"Be sure to tell her I love her and will visit as often as I can."
"I'll do that. Now that's out of the way, I have a question for you." He paused for several moments while looking at me very seriously.
Uncomfortable with the silence, I asked, "So what's the question?" I thought it would be about my job or my career plans but was blind- sided by what he said next.
"You never dated girls in high school. You don't have a girlfriend. That worries me. Are you queer?"
I was stunned. I had promised myself that I wouldn't hurt my parents and bring inevitable shame to the family by divulging my sexual preferences. But in spite of my resolve, my long silence, and breaking eye contact, my face flushing answered his question. I knew for sure that my secret had been unconsciously revealed.
"So you are, aren't you?"
"Yes," I replied almost inaudibly.
Another long silence. Anxiety overwhelmed me. I feared the wrath of my father far more than the wrath of God. My fealty to my religion had long since withered away over fundamental contradictions between its teachings and the indisputable evidence of science. I was convinced that overt discrimination against blacks and subjugation of women were incompatible with the admirable precepts of Christianity: compassion, fidelity, and honesty. I felt I had to break the silence even if it meant suffering through my father's righteous condemnation of homosexuality in general and of me in particular. "I'm sorry, Dad. I can't help it. It's the way I am. Can you forgive me? Do you still love me?"
"Of course I love you, Son. I'm saddened that you're not normal. But you are and always will be my son. It's no different, really, than the Lewises. Their son is retarded but they love him ... perhaps even more than if he were normal."
I resented his saying homosexuality was not normal but I chose not to argue the point. Instead, I said, "Thanks, Dad, for understanding. And for loving me in spite of what I am."
"Just one more thing. Will you promise me not to act on your deviant desires? It's one thing to be queer. God can forgive that. It's another, however, to yield to carnal temptation. That's a true sin in the eyes of God."
"I promise," I lied. My father's unexpected acceptance of my homosexuality was astonishing. It was too much to hope, however, that he would be equally accepting if I couldn't promise to be unblemished by forbidden sexual acts. My intent to seek out a life partner to love and to be loved by must be kept from my father.
"Thank you, Son. I trust you to keep that promise. And in doing so earn a place in the Kingdom of Heaven." He paused before adding, "By the way, I won't tell your mother about your abnormal desires or about your promise. She would still love you as I do but the information would be too much for her to bear."
"Thanks, Dad. I love you."
He showed a small smile. I returned his smile with a much larger one.
My elaborate plan for breaking the news with all of its contingent tactics had been abandoned but I couldn't have been more pleased with the result.
Life was fulfilling...
...after six months in my new job. The work was challenging and interesting. The locale was fascinating, especially San Francisco across the bay. There was, however, one void in my life. I yearned for a companion. I made friends at work and a few were attractive enough to fuel my fantasies as I jerked off alone in my apartment. But all of them were married or had girlfriends and therefore were not obvious candidates for a gay relationship. I wondered if any of them were like my college roommate who craved gay sex but chose to avoid the stigma of being known as a homosexual. That possibility led me to an inescapable conclusion. Like many others, I suspected, I was behaving as a typical straight man to avoid discrimination and possibly persecution. At a minimum, to reveal my innermost yearnings would likely jeopardize the quality of my social life and my career advancement.
I tired of sight-seeing through San Francisco during long, often lonely weekends. Concurrently, my desire for sexual companionship grew stronger. If none of my coworkers were likely to fill my needs, perhaps I could meet a stranger who might be a willing partner. It was that thought that prompted me to enter a coffee shop late one Saturday evening. I reasoned that it a bar would offer a more fertile field of men like me but my abstinence from alcohol would make that awkward if not impossible. As I sat sipping on my soft drink, I scanned the other patrons I found only one man, probably ten years older than I but was reasonably handsome and, significantly, sitting alone at a table. I mentally undressed him, which was a mistake because my cock started to swell. As I stared at the man and puzzled over whether and how to approach him, I was startled by a voice behind me.
"Mind if I share your table? The place is unusually crowded today."
I looked around to find a twenty-something guy in a tight tank-top and cargo shorts with a broad smile on his face. I replied, "Not at all." My response and my matching smile was not the only or even the major reason for welcoming him to the table. It was his remarkable resemblance to several men in my erotic fantasies.
"Thanks," he gushed as he sat down. "I'm Will." He offered his hand for me to shake, which I did. He held my hand in a moderately firm grip, enough to prolong the handshake much longer than normal but not enough to prevent me from disengaging his hold on me if I chose. I didn't. Why, I don't know. Perhaps because it was the skin-to-skin contact, however innocent, that subconsciously made me feel good. Or perhaps it was merely an indication of his uncommonly friendly personality.
We chatted for a long time, learning each other's background and interests. He showed what seemed to be a particular interest in what I said and I was fascinated by his story. He was a professor of art and supplemented his income by selling oil and water color paintings. His breadth of interests was astonishing and included an understanding of my family's faith. He was particularly knowledgeable about oriental religious philosophies—subjects that would never have interested me except when described so vividly by a totally charming guy. His charm was also evidenced by a seemingly insatiable curiosity about my field of expertise, mechanical engineering. I never got the impression that he was being a mere polite listener. His questions were frequent, relevant, and he was intent on absorbing whatever I said.
Over a second round of drinks—latte for him, soda for me—we spent another hour or so in conversation. At one point I said, "I've never been interested in art. I guess I'm just a left-brained person. But the way you talk about it makes me want to learn more."
He cocked an eyebrow, thought for a moment, and said, "Talking about it is one thing. Seeing it is quite another. If you're really interested, I have several paintings in my apartment-cum-studio. Would you like to see them?"
"Yes," I replied enthusiastically, thinking only of the studio part of his invitation and not the apartment part.
We walked three blocks to a 1930s era building and up two flights of stairs to Will's apartment. Several of his paintings hung on the wall of his living room. Some were abstract, a few were still lifes, others were scenery; and all were done in what I recognized as different styles. I complimented him on his talent. He hesitated before saying, "Thanks. They are samples of my work fit for ... how do I put this? ... for public display."
"Do you have more?" I asked. "I'd like to see them."
"Well," he mused. "I'm afraid you might find them offensive."
"In what way?"
"I'm hesitant to tell you. In the short time since we met, I've come to enjoy your company. I'd like that to continue ... if you're willing. You may find my other work disgusting and would no longer want to be my friend."
"Nonsense!" I declared. I've already come to think of you as a friend. I don't know what you could show me that would jeopardize that."
He looked at me seriously as if he were assessing my sincerity and weighing the risks of showing me whatever it was that he was reluctant to reveal. "Okay," he said. "Come on back to my studio."
Before opening the door to what had been a second bedroom, he paused, turned to me and said, "You must understand that many of the paintings are commissioned work for private clients and not meant for public display. I want you to keep that in mind and to give me your completely honest reaction. Promise?"
"I promise." My curiosity about what mystery lay behind the door peaked.
My mistake...
...was to promise something when I was unsure of the consequences.
Will opened the door and flipped on the light. I could smell the scent of the oil paints in the room, and the scent of orange blossoms wafting through the open windows and the open door leading to the private, secluded patio/sundeck, overlooking the valle-arroyo below. Nothing in his studio, however, was different than the paintings that hung in the living room. I was perplexed by his reluctance to show me what was in his studio. Waving his hand in an arc to point to out a dozen paintings, some of which were obviously unfinished, he said, "Most of these are either works in progress or that I'm not satisfied with."
"They all look quite good to me," I replied. "I don't know why you hesitated in showing them to me."
"The reason is what you don't see," he said enigmatically. "I have a few finished works put away that are waiting to be picked up by clients with, shall we say, unique preferences. What you see now are those that would not offend sensitive visitors to my studio."
"May I see them?" I asked, intrigued by what they might be. He hesitated so I added, "I promised I'd tell you honestly what I thought of them. And I also promised that whatever they are it would not affect our friendship. Where are they?"
He opened a closet door and brought out three large canvasses covered by a sheet. "Don't say I didn't warn you," he said as he removed the sheet to reveal the first painting. I inhaled sharply at the sight. It was a nude body builder in a gym holding a massive bar bell above his head. The rippling muscles in his arms, torso, and legs were evidence of his strength. Most eye-catching, however, was an impressive bulge in his jock strap. I couldn't speak. I could only stare in wonderment at the epitome of masculinity. My eyes were riveted to the body builder's crotch.
As if from a parallel universe, a voice jarred me into an awareness of where I was and what I was doing. "Honest opinion time, my friend."
"I'm overwhelmed!" I gushed. "The painting is magnificent!"
"And what do you think of the subject?"
"He's gorgeous."
Will laughed. "What I meant was, what do you think of a soft porn painting? Are you disgusted by it?"
A realization suddenly exploded in my mind. If I told him my reaction—honestly—I would reveal something about myself that I had successfully hidden for many years. But a promise is a promise. And Will had already captured my admiration ... as an artist and as a friend. Could my secret be safe with him? Might it be sufficient cause to sever our budding friendship? I decided to strategically deflect his inquiry and simply said, "No, I'm not at all disgusted. In fact, it reminds me of a painting we studied in Fine Arts 101, a required course in college. The artist had an unfamiliar name."
"Was it George Quaintance?"
""Yeah that's it. The painting we studied, a reclining nude man, was intriguing so I went to the library to find more like it. I must admit I was captivated by his work."
Will explained, "His early but beautifully suggestive paintings, without throwing it all at you at once, left a bit of inquisitiveness to be arousingly discovered soon afterwards ... at least for those few with uncommon interests."
Will flashed one of his charming smiles and set the painting aside so I could see the next one. I gasped. It showed two naked, trim, but solidly built men standing in a forest kissing. Their bodies were positioned such that both of their fully erect cocks were plainly visible. I panicked as I felt my own cock begin to engorge.
After letting me study the second painting, Will set it aside to show me the next. Two naked men were lying in bed in a Victorian bedroom. Each had his lips wrapped around the other's cock. I had seen a few pictures of nude women (that didn't rise above the level of interesting) but never of men, much less men making love. The effect was overpowering. My cock accelerated its growth and soon caused serious discomfort due to its confinement in my briefs.
Will grinned and asked, "Are you all right?"
"Yes," I answered automatically but soon said, "No, I guess I'm not. Do you mind if I sit down?"
Will pulled a chair over to me and I sat, hoping it would relieve the pressure in my crotch. And perhaps hide the embarrassing bulge in my pants. That hope was not fulfilled. The discomfort persisted. Worse, Will said, "You seem to have been aroused by my paintings. I'll take that as a high compliment."
He noticed! What could I say? I felt my face flushing.
"Nothing to be embarrassed about," he said reassuringly. "You should have seen me when these guys posed for me! I had a hard- on throughout the entire sitting. Even later, when they were gone and I was adding some finishing touches, my cock was achingly hard." I looked up at him incredulously. The implication of his words was that he was gay. And that I had nothing to fear about asking him directly, "Does that mean you're gay?"
"Yes. And I assume from your reaction to the paintings that you are too. Are you?"
"Yes," I said meekly and immediately regretted my thoughtless response. I was very skilled in covering up my secret. And even experienced in expressing disapproval of homosexuality. I had a lot of practice pretending to be straight with my friends in school and on the job. It had become automatic and habitual. But upon hearing Will's casual admission of being gay, my finely tuned habits abandoned me.
Will knelt on the floor and put a hand on my knee. His expression exuded understanding, compassion, and friendship, which was also evident in his voice as he said, "I think I know how you feel, my friend. Because I had similar feelings not that long ago. I felt like I had a demon inside me, that I was abnormal, and in constant fear that my dark secret would become known. Is that how you feel?"
"Sort of. Demon? Not really. Abnormal? For a while. But I convinced myself that I wasn't sick — just different than other guys. Fear? Absolutely! There are too many people who are too ready to condemn, to criticize ... and to believe the hateful lies that churches and society in general tell them."
"Come, my friend. Let's go back to the living room where it's more comfortable. We're birds of a feather and I suspect we have a lot to talk about."
We talked until almost midnight. He was (genuinely, I think) interested in my experiences in church, with my family, and living in a rural community where the slightest deviation from proper behavior was fodder for disapproving gossip. He empathized with my torment as I fought to overcome and later accept my homosexuality I told him how college away from home allowed me to leave the darkness of an isolated and narrow-minded environment behind and enjoy the light of broader horizons. I even mentioned my one-night experience with my roommate and how it had changed me forever. Our conversation was very therapeutic. For the first time, I felt free to bare my innermost thoughts to someone who did not judge me and who could understand the turmoil I endured.
Will was equally open about his experiences. He grew up in a tenement in Brooklyn with six siblings, a constantly exhausted mother, and an alcoholic father. To escape the squalor of Brooklyn, he came to California to attend college part time while working a series of jobs. During that time, he had a number of sexual encounters but never found a man with whom he wanted to spend more than one night in sexual gratification.
As the pace of the conversation waned, he said, "It's late." I reluctantly agreed and faced the prospect of having to return home to my lonely apartment.
The question...
...came as a surprise and had an implication that was both enticing and slightly ambiguous. "Can you spend the night with me?"
I had to confirm the intent of his invitation. "I'd love to. But I'd like to know whether I'm another one-night stand or if you think you'd like to continue our friendship. Either way, I accept your offer. With thanks."
He laughed. "I don't know which it will be. Neither of us do. But this I do know. I like you. Who knows? If we both like each other enough, imagine what might happen."
My imagination was kick-started by his speculation. I was on the brink of believing that I had found the man with whom I could share my life. But as I followed him to his bedroom the dominant rational side of me reigned in my hopes and forced me to accept the possibility that one marvelous night of erotic pleasure might be all I could reasonably expect.
I became more and more nervous—not because of any hesitance about what we would do together—but because of overly eager anticipation. I had wanted for so long. And now I was about to enjoy what I had only dreamed of happening.
As we entered his bedroom, fear engulfed me. Would my inexperience mean that I could not fully satisfy him? Would his disappointment cause him in the morning to include me on the list of his casual trysts? I had little time to ponder the possibility of failure. He grabbed me in an embrace and asked, "Are you sure you want to do this?"
"Yes," I immediately answered and returned the hug. "Almost from the time you sat down at the table in the coffee shop."
"As have I." We locked lips. Soon, our tongues were dueling. My nervousness, my worry of disappointing, my fear of not finding a companion all faded, overcome with sublime contentment. The intensity of my feelings at that moment — as I look back on it — was no doubt due to the circumstances. And the kiss. Unlike my college roommate who went straight for my cock, Will kissed me. That, in some odd way, was a symbol of friendship and respect ... and affection if not fully matured love. I felt I was more than a body with a cock to suck. Rather, I was a person. That magnified my euphoria.
He ground his crotch into mine and found my cock was hardening quickly. He placed a hand on my bulging trousers and fondled my swelling manhood. "Oh my!" he grinned. "I think we'll have to give this beast a little room to breathe." With that, he unbuckled my belt, unbuttoned the waist band, and unzipped my fly. He dropped to his knees to pull down my pants and boxers. My cock stood up at full attention. "Nice!" he purred. "Just like a Lucky Strike."
"Say what?"
"Maybe you don't remember the slogan for Lucky Strike cigarettes: `So round, so firm, so fully packed'."
I laughed. He stood and we kissed again. Then it was my turn to uncover the treasure between his legs, an irresistible opportunity. He wore no underwear beneath his cargo shorts, which both surprised and pleased me. A bigger surprise was that he had only stubble for pubic hair. (I would learn later that he frequently trimmed it.) Having been granted free access to the most private part of his body, I reached out nervously and touched it. It was not yet fully engorged but the warmth of his cock as I wrapped my hand around it spread a thrilling sensation throughout my body. And my mind. This was exactly what I had yearned for but the experience far surpassed my expectations. My fondling soon brought his impressive cock to a full erection while mine retained and even increased its length and girth.
Moments later we were lying on his bed kissing and pressing our bodies tightly together. Few words were spoken; none were necessary. I had decided to follow his lead since he had far more experience than I. But I had concluded that I wanted the experience to go on as long as possible. Therefore, I didn't mind that the foreplay lasted a long time. I enjoyed every precious moment of it.
Eventually, he broke our embrace and began to lick his way from my neck downward with a prolonged stopover to stimulate my nipples until they protruded and became more sensitive than they had ever been. It was surprisingly erotic.
When he reached my crotch I was leaking precum profusely. He licked it up and teased the tip of my cock with his tongue. That put me in a state of near delirium and I began to feel an urgently compelling need for orgasm to relieve the simultaneously painful and pleasurable signals from my crotch to my mind. But Will had something else in mind. He moved downward and started licking the inner surface of my thighs beginning at the knee and working slowly upward to my aching cock. The pain and the pleasure were reaching a crescendo when I felt his lips encircle my throbbing erection. The only perception in my mind, the only reality in my world, the only thing that mattered was the incomparably erotic sensations that radiated from my cock to every part of my body.
He took my cock into his mouth right down to the root and began bobbing his head up and down. No longer capable of controlling my thoughts or my body, I bucked my hips, driving my cock deep into his mouth. Almost before Will could react to the invasion of his throat, an explosive ejaculation accompanied by my primal scream put me into a mind-warping euphoria.
When my breathing, heart rate, and consciousness finally returned to normal (I had no idea how long that took.) I found Will cuddled up to me. All I could think of to say was something inane. "God! That was wonderful."
"I could tell you liked it," Will grinned.
"Liked it? That's the understatement of all time!" I replied and gave him a kiss with a ferocity that almost matched my appreciation. "I apologize for not warning you. But I shot my load before I realized how close I was to cumming."
"No apology is necessary, my friend. That was the best part for me."
My treatment of him couldn't match his expertise but I enjoyed exploring his body with my tongue and mouth. He had the presence of mind to warn me before he came but I ignored it and was glad that I did. His cum was far more tasty than my own.
Opposites attract...
...is a cliché and almost always wrong (except for magnetic attraction). Will and I were opposite in a number of ways but our relationship survived the many difference between us. He is a right-brained professor of art. I am a left-brained mechanical engineer. He is a free-thinking maverick. I'm constrained by an obsession to conform. He is adventurous. I'm cautious. He is spiritual but identifies with no organized religion. I was once a devout member of a church but my faith is now placed in verifiable, scientific evidence. He was full of spontaneity while my comfort zone was predictability.
Our courtship was brief and completely unexpected, which began as a casual meeting of strangers in a coffee shop that led to a night of erotic bliss. He, with a few brief encounters behind him. Me, with only one adolescent encounter long ago. Both of us with an intense need for erotic gratification.
Before moving in with him as a partner, I raised the potential problem of our being so different. I said after having considered the possibility for a long time, "I worry that our disparate personalities will doom our relationship to failure."
"Not necessarily," he replied. "Not if we're guided by yin and yang."
"Sorry, Will, but I don't know what that is.
"In Chinese philosophy, yin and yang are concepts that describe how opposites may appear to be contradictory but are actually complementary. They are interconnected and interdependent. Each gives rise to each other as they interrelate. For example, think of light and darkness. They may seem to be opposite and independent. But a shadow cannot exist without light. High is the opposite of low but neither exists except in relationship to the other. This duality is at the core of Chinese philosophy. You can think of yin and yang as complementary rather than opposing forces. They interact synergistically to form something where the whole is greater than the parts."
"Yeah. That's one of the principles of teamwork in product design. No one individual has all the knowledge or all the ideas. But by sharing, something emerges that is more than the sum of the individual team members' contributions. I've seen it work. But I've also seen it fail when egos blind individual team members from hearing or respecting others' ideas."
"So that's the key, isn't it? We have to listen as well as speak. We have to cooperate rather than compete. We have to follow at times and lead at other times. Yin and yang. I think we can have such a relationship. I'm certainly willing to try. Are you?"
Will's argument was persuasive. And his optimistic vision of how we could supplement each other's strengths was encouraging. "Yes," I replied. "I think we can make it work. It may take continual work and discipline but it's worth the effort."
Years of fulfillment and contentment followed punctuated by incomparable ecstasy as we lavished affection on each other in bed or in countless other places when privacy of love-making was assured.
The inconsistent and unfathomable rules of love bound us together and provided a shield against the sometimes cruel homophobic bigotry that surrounded us.
He freed me from the bonds of rational logic and introduced me to the adventures of the unknown while I tempered his zeal for more risky escapades. Among other mutual benefits of opposites cooperating was this: it kept our sex varied (but far from kinky), fresh, and always something to eagerly anticipate. We rarely failed to put our partner's pleasure above selfish gratification of our own carnal enjoyment ... although we almost always achieved both. In so doing we constantly reaffirmed our mutual love and firm commitment to each other and to the union of our souls forever. Yin and Yang. Two opposites achieving unity and fulfillment and becoming more than the sum of two individuals.
The end
Profound thanks to Iatia for editing and contributing valuable suggestions to this story in addition to being a continuing mentor and friend.