[Author's note: This is the second part of a trilogy. The first part, "One Glorious Weekend," relates how I met a young man that would change my life.]
CHAPTER ONE: A SURPRISING LETTER
It was two weeks before the end of the spring semester of my freshman year. It had been a difficult for a country boy from Wyoming to adjust to the hectic life in New York City and even more difficult to manage the demands of college classes. I had been able to get good grades but only because I spent so much time studying.
It was not as difficult for my room mate in the dorm. He lived in the Hamptons on Long Island, had attended a private prep school, and seemed to already know much of what was taught in the freshman classes. Our differences manifested themselves early in the school year. He frequently and not too subtly insulted me as a "farm boy living in Indian Territory," teased me about not having fashionable clothes, and criticized what he felt was my lack of preparation for college. His arrogance was intolerable. I tried to ignore his snobbery but it ate away at me until, shortly after Spring break, I lost my temper. All the hurt that he had been heaping on me erupted. Since that heated argument, we spoke to each other only when it was absolutely necessary. What could have been a beneficial friendship was anything but.
I had formed no real friendships with other students, because I had to spend so much time studying. I had a number of acquaintances but no one I could call a friend. Loneliness and homesickness were my occasional and depressing companions.
Except for a few days during Spring Break.
I spent three wonderful days with a seventeen year old boy I met in Riverside Park, a homeless hustler who solicited me for sex. As a frustrated virgin homosexual, I was tempted but couldn't afford his asking price. Nevertheless, we shared a bed and an array of sexual activities for three wonderful days.
Since losing my virginity that weekend, my fist was my only source of relief. I would have liked to have seen Jose again but it was not to be.
Or so I thought.
I picked up my mail one Wednesday afternoon, the day a check for living expenses usually came from my parents. I was surprised to find another letter in my mail box. I was even more surprised at the return address. It was from Jose Delgado, the young hustler who had brought so much joy to my life. I rushed to my dorm room, confident that my asshole room mate would be in class and I could read the unexpected letter in private.
In my room, I tore open the envelope. A handwritten letter was inside:
Dear Ray I hope you are well. I'm fine. I still live with my customer. I service his friends and they pay me good money. I'm not hungry any more. I have good clothes too. I want you to know how much I appreciated your kindness. You treated me like a person. Not a queer whore boy. I'm OK. But I miss you. I get all the sex I want but it's just business. Not like when you and I were together. I think about you all the time. Even when somebody is fucking me I pretend it's you. I guess school is about over and you'll be going back to Wyoming soon. I'd like to see you before you go. To tell you how much I miss you. I'd like to spend some time with you (in bed!) No business. No money. Just fun. Please call me at 555-1212 on Friday. Even if you don't want to get together I would like to talk to you. PLEASE!
Your friend, Jose
P.S. Robert (my customer) has gone to Texas. He'll be gone until Monday. I'm here alone. Does that give you any ideas?
I read the letter over and over. It was too good to be true. Jose seemed to be happy living with his customer. Best of all, he was inviting me to visit him so we could share our bodies. What more could I want? How could I turn him down?
Time dragged by until Friday, the time when he wanted me to call. At ten, right after my first class, I nearly ran to the corner of Amsterdam Avenue and 114th Street where there was a phone booth. (Yes, a phone booth! With a door for privacy. At that time, cell phones were far in the future.)
My fingers trembled as I dialed the number. I grew more nervous as the phone rang three times. Then, a formal voice said, "Sampson residence."
I didn't expect that. The voice was so formal sounding. There was a hint of an accent, very much like Jose's but it sounded much older than I remembered. Perhaps it was Sampson. Had I read the letter right? It said Friday ... but which Friday?
"Jose?" I asked tentatively, holding my breath.
"Ray! It's you! You called!" The exuberance left no room for doubt that it was Jose as he continued in rapid-fire bursts of excitement. "I was worried that you wouldn't call. I was afraid you wouldn't want to see me again. I miss you, Ray! Can you come see me?"
"I miss you, too, Jose. Are you all right?"
"I'm fine. Really. Except that I miss you. Can you come visit me? Please!"
In several minutes of conversation, he assured me that he was being treated well by his host and by all his customers. We arranged to meet at five in front of his apartment building. He gave me the address on Park Avenue near 48th Street. "We'll have dinner," he said, "And then come back to the apartment." I knew what would happen then and almost sprouted a boner thinking about it.
I mentally calculated how I would have to scrimp in order to buy our dinner. But, I quickly concluded, it would be more than worth it.
In my two remaining classes of the day, I couldn't concentrate on what the profs were saying. Afterwards, I showered, put on fresh clothes, and told my asshole room mate that I would not be around until Sunday night. Normally, I would have said nothing but I didn't want him to report me missing when I was gone for two nights.
CHAPTER TWO: REUNION
In my eagerness to see Jose, I arrived at the apartment building at half past four. Jose must have also been eager because he was standing on the sidewalk waiting for me. He saw me approaching, rushed up to me, and gave me a big hug. It felt wonderful but I worried about what the passers-by would think.
He had filled out since I saw him a few weeks earlier. Rather than the scrawny kid I remembered, he was a healthy looking young man and even more attractive.
"Pretty classy neighborhood," I remarked.
"Yeah," he gushed. "Not bad for a kid from public housing in the Bronx."
He led me over to Madison Avenue and pointed to an Italian restaurant. "There it is," he said. "Some of the best food you ever ate."
I shuddered to think of the menu prices as we entered but, as I had previously decided, being with Jose was worth it. The maitre de greeted Jose warmly. "Ah, Signore Delgado. Good to see you again. I have a nice table by the window. Right this way."
"Thanks, Donato," Jose said. "But is the booth in the back available?"
"Of course," the maitre de said officiously. "It's still early, you can sit wherever you like."
The booth was more of an alcove with partitions high enough to block any view except for one end of the empty bar. A half-round table and a semi-circular bench with leather upholstery would comfortably seat six or more. Jose slid in to the center of the bench. I followed.
"No, slide over here next to me," Jose said as he patted the place next to him.
When I was beside him, he said, "Thanks for coming, Ray." He placed his hand on my inner thigh, gave me a quick kiss on the lips.
Instinctively, I recoiled from his kiss. In my mind that was something that a closeted gay must never do in a public place. The consequences of being outed were too dire. Jose, possibly offended by my rejection of his bold move, was initially confused.
"Not here," I said. "Not now. Let's save it for later when we're alone."
He laughed. "It's okay, Ray. Everybody here knows what I am and what I do. They may not approve of my life but I bring them a lot of business so they tolerate it ... as long as their other customers don't see it. I always check. Nobody saw us."
His remarks told me two things. First, he had been here often with customers. It was now clear how the maitre de knew him and gave him preferential treatment. That solved a mystery that had puzzled me since we entered the restaurant. Second, he had evolved from the pitiful street hustler I had met just weeks before; he was poised, confident, and comfortable with himself. That was only a mild surprise because I knew from the beginning that he was bright and adaptable.
Before I could apologize, the waiter brought our menus. One glance at the menu induced panic. The price of one meal was nearly my weekly budget for food.
"I know what you're thinking," Jose grinned.
"Oh?"
"Yes. You're worried about the prices. Don't be. This is my treat. You bought me several meals. I'm returning the favor."
"But the meals I bought were from McDonald's and a cheap diner," I objected. "This place is ... well ... extravagant!"
"Don't think of price, Ray. Think of value. You bought my meals when I really needed them. The cost of those meals doesn't begin to equal how much I appreciated them. I know you couldn't afford them but you paid for them anyway. Your generosity was priceless."
"But..." I continued to object. I wanted to ask if he could afford it but couldn't decide how to ask without being condescending.
"But nothing," he interrupted. "It's a lot like the service I give to my customers. They're horny and frustrated. I give them satisfaction. Back when we met, I was hungry. You fed me but the food was nothing compared to the satisfaction of being treated with kindness and respect. In that weekend we spent together, I wasn't a queer whore boy. I'll never be able to repay you for that."
I looked at him with an increased sense of admiration. "You're an amazing young man, Jose." I glanced out at the dining room. Seeing no one, I gave Jose a short but meaningful kiss. He grinned appreciatively.
As I studied the menu, he said, "I know what you're thinking."
"Again?"
"Yes. You're wondering how I can afford to bring you here."
"The thought had occurred to me," I confessed.
"My customers pay me very well. And they keep coming back for more. I have very few expenses. So don't even look at the prices; just order what you want."
After the best meal I had had since leaving Wyoming, Jose signed the check and we walked back to the apartment building where Jose lived. He greeted the doorman by name and we took the elevator to the tenth floor. The apartment could only be described as elegant: luxurious furnishings, obviously expensive art work on the walls, and a commanding view of Park Avenue below. He led me to his large bedroom. Against one wall was a king-sized bed with a mirrored headboard. A love seat and armchair was in one corner. Built-in cabinets along the length of one wall housed a large-screen TV and component music system on open shelves and who knows what behind several cabinet doors.
Before I could comment on the sumptuousness room, he embraced me in a hug with an intensity I didn't expect. "I've missed you so much," he said. "I only wish that ..."
"You wish what?" I asked.
"Never mind. Let's get naked."
I needed no further persuasion. Clothes dropped carelessly to the floor. Passions elevated to fever pitch. Penises engorged. The bed hosted not a paying customer and a service-provider but two young men who yearned to express their feelings for each other.
Was it because I had once experienced the joy of sexual intimacy and then had to live without it? Or had Jose's skill improved? Whatever the reason, the next hour was a fabulous mixture of sensual delight and physical satisfaction.
CHAPTER THREE: DILEMMA
As we lay in an embrace, recuperating, Jose asked, "Are you happy, Ray?"
"I'm deliriously happy, Jose. I can't begin to imagine what would make me happier. What you did ... no, the way you did it ... was simply awesome."
Jose grinned and said, "I try to do my best with customers but that's to keep them coming back. With you, it's different. I tried to do my best with you because I wanted to make you happy."
"I hope your customers recognize your extraordinary talent," I said.
"They always come back for more and sometimes give me a generous tip. I guess that means they're pleased."
I had to know so I asked, "Are they good to you? Do they treat you with the respect you deserve? Or do they just use you for their selfish pleasure?"
"They're not mean to me if that's what you want to know. I don't really know what they think of me but I can tell you that all of them are just customers to me. I try to make them happy but it's business. It's not like with you. I want to make you happy because I like you."
"And I like you, Jose."
"For more than the sex?" he asked with half a grin.
"For much more," I replied. "You're courageous, bright, considerate, ambitious, ... I could go on and on."
"Do I make you happy?" he asked.
I didn't think he was fishing for more compliments. There was a very serious tone to his voice. There seemed to be something behind his question. I didn't know him well but well enough to sense that something was bothering him.
"You make me very happy," I replied while wondering whether I dared probe into what might be troubling him.
He was quiet for several minutes before he said, "Do you think that ..." He didn't finish the sentence.
"Do I think what, Jose?"
He hugged me more tightly. I felt his tears falling onto my shoulder. I gave him a few minutes but when he remained silently crying, I said. "Talk to me, Jose. Tell me what's bothering you."
He rose off my shoulder and sat on the edge of the bed wiping away his tears. I rose to sit beside him and hug him.
"I've got it good here, Ray. But I'm just a whore boy. I want to make something of myself. I want to finish high school. Maybe go to college like you. But most of all, I want to love somebody and be loved back. I enjoy sex with my customers but it's empty. There's no feeling. Not like when I'm with you. I wish ..." He stopped talking and dropped his head to his chest.
"You wish what, Jose?"
He stiffened and seemed to be pulling away from my hug. "I wish for the impossible!" he forcefully exclaimed. "I wish that we could be together. Forever! I wish that you loved me as much as I loved you. But that's impossible! You're in college. I'm a whore boy. You will graduate and go back to Wyoming. I'll be here sucking and fucking and hoping that Robert doesn't throw me out. I'd be out on the street again. There! I've said it! If you want to go away and never see me again, I wouldn't blame you. You don't need a queer whore boy complicating your life."
I was stunned by his emphatic outburst. I never suspected the depth of his affection for me. The way he degraded himself by continuing to see himself as a whore boy disturbed me. I admired him, I worried about him, and, yes, I cared for him but I had never considered a committed relationship.
I put my hand under his chin, raised his head, and said, "Look at me! Let's get a few things straight! First of all, you're not a whore boy. You're a resourceful young man who escaped from a bad environment. Sure, you sell sex for money but you have the good sense to want something more. Second. I'm not going to walk out on you. And that's not because you're good in bed. It's because you're a somebody -- a somebody with intelligence and ambition that deserves help. And finally, I'm flattered that you love me. But I have to be honest with you, Jose. I haven't even considered a committed relationship. You'll have to give me some time to think that through. In the meantime, I want to be your friend. I want to do whatever I can to help you. I want to see you as often as I can. And not for the sex as good as that is. I want to be sure that you don't get hurt."
He looked into my eyes for a moment, then threw his arms around me, and laid his head on my shoulder. Through his tears, he said, "That's why I love you, Ray. When you look at me you don't just a see a cock and an asshole. You see me as a somebody."
We laid back down and cuddled for a long, quiet time. My mind was racing. Beyond the pure bliss of holding a handsome young man in my arms, I was overcome with his confession of love for me. Simultaneously, I was deeply troubled by thoughts of his future. He had the intelligence and initiative to be successful but he lacked the resources and opportunity for an education that would make it possible. Most significantly, I was conflicted over the prospect of the committed relationship that he said he wanted. I would welcome it but realistically knew it was highly impractical and therefore unlikely.
My torturous thoughts were interrupted when Jose whispered in my ear, "I know what you're thinking."
"Not again!" I exclaimed. "This time, I'll bet you're wrong."
He chuckled and said, "We'll see! You're thinking about me. And my future. That's why I love you, Ray. You care about other people. Well, don't worry. I'll be fine. I can look out for myself. You're also thinking about us. You're wondering how you can tell me that we can't be together forever. I already know that. So don't let it bother you. I'm sorry I said anything."
"You're only half right," I said as if I had won the bet. "You're right that I worry about you but you're wrong about my not wanting to be with you. The simple truth is that I can't think of a better person to spend my life with. I'm not going to walk out on you because it would hurt me as much as you."
He kissed me and said, "I don't want you to leave but I'll understand if you do."
CHAPTER FOUR: A PLAN AND HOPE
Much later that evening, we shared a highly erotic and satisfying sexual experience before turning out the light to go to sleep. Jose was nestled tightly against me when he fell asleep. I couldn't sleep for a long time trying desperately to resolve my concerns for the young man and sort out the depth of my feelings for him.
The next morning we showered -- together and with the inevitable sex play -- and ate breakfast in the nude. During breakfast, I hatched a plan that just might be possible.
"Jose, I've done a lot of thinking since last night. I've come to the conclusion that I care for you more than I realized. I've respected you from the day we met. I've wanted to help you and felt frustrated that I couldn't do more. That much I've known all along. Now, it's different. I really care for you, Jose. I don't know if it's love because I've never been in love and I don't know what that's like. But I was serious when I told you that I can't think of a better person to spend my life with."
He grinned. "Even though I'm a whore boy?"
I pounded the table with my fist and shouted, "STOP IT! RIGHT NOW! You're not a whore boy! You've got to stop thinking of yourself that way!"
My flare-up seemed to frighten him. Very meekly he said, "I was joking, Ray. I'm sorry."
"Okay," I said more calmly. "But it's not true and it's a bad joke."
I leaned over and kissed him by way of apologizing for my outburst. Then I continued with my fanciful plan. "We both know it will be difficult but I have a few ideas and I want to know what you think of them."
"I'm listening," he replied.
"First, let's talk about your education. You can get your high school diploma. There's something called a GED. You study and take a test given by the state. If you pass the test, you have your diploma."
"Gee, I'm not sure I can do that. My grades were good but I missed most of my senior year in high school."
"That's the second part of my plan," I said. "I can help you study over the summer so you'll be prepared for the test next fall."
He looked confused. "But you'll be in Wyoming and I'll be here. I don't see how you can help me."
"That's the tricky part of my plan," I replied. "Suppose you were in Wyoming with me. I really don't know if that's possible but there may be a way. First of all, you'll have to buy a bus ticket. My parents will send me money for my bus ticket but it won't be enough for both of us. Do you think you can buy your own ticket to come with me?"
"Maybe. How much does it cost?"
"About a hundred dollars," I replied. [Author's note: Remember, this happened in the mid-1960's when Greyhound busses were common and the fare was a fraction of air fare.]
"Easy!" he exclaimed. His excitement was visibly increasing at the thought of spending the summer with me in Wyoming.
"Settle down," I cautioned. "There's one more problem to solve. I have to clear it with my parents but here's my plan. I'll tell them that you will work on the ranch in exchange for room and board. There's a lot of work that has to be done and maybe -- just maybe -- they'll welcome the help. It's hard work, Jose, not at all like what you have here. You'll get dirty, you'll get tired, you'll probably have a lot of sore muscles and blisters at first, but if you're willing to try it, it means we can spend the summer together and you can get ready for the GED test."
He looked at me for several moments, possibly trying to digest the opportunity. Finally, he grinned and exclaimed, "YES! I'll do it!"
He jumped up off his chair, threw his arms around me, and said, "I'd do anything to be with you, Ray."
"Hold on!" I warned. "There are still two problems to solve. First, my parents have to agree. I'm not sure they will."
His grin faded to what looked to me like an expression of disappointment. I suddenly regretted raising his hopes and then crushing them. "There's no guarantee, Jose, but I'll try my best to convince them."
"Okay," he said morosely and then asked, "What's the second problem?"
"That's a problem I want you to solve," I said. "If my parents agree, I want you to tell your parents where you're going. I want you to write to them often to let them know you're all right. Have you contacted your parents since you left home?"
He saddened and admitted, "No. I lied to them about going in the army. I just can't tell them what I've really been doing. They would be upset and ashamed of me. As ashamed as I am."
I understood his dilemma. Perhaps expecting him to contact his parents with the truth was too much to ask of him. "Let me think a minute," I said.
I didn't want to demand that he do something he wouldn't or couldn't do. But I was bothered that his parents had lost one son, another was in prison, and they couldn't help but be worried over their third son. After wrestling with the problem, I said, "It seems to me that you have three choices, Jose. And the choice has to be yours to make. First option: you could not contact your parents. They are no doubt wondering and worrying about you. That's got to be very hard on them. Second option: you can contact them and tell them the truth -- that you lied about the army and have been selling sex to customers. You know best how they would feel about that but I suspect they would be very disappointed. Third option: you can contact them and assure them that you're all right. That would be a relief to them but you'll have to make up a story to explain why you haven't contacted them for several months. I don't like the idea of lying to your parents again but it might be justified. It would ease the hurt they must feel about not hearing from you."
Jose sat staring at his empty plate while he weighed his options. Then, tears came to his eyes as he said, "I really do love my mom and dad. I miss them a lot. I'd like to see them again and tell them I'm all right. But how can I do that? They'd want to know about the army. They'd want to know what I'm doing. I can't tell them that; I just can't do it."
"Then that leaves the third option," I said. "Call them. Better yet, visit them. Tell them you love them and miss them. Make up some story about why you haven't contacted them."
"What kind of story?" he asked.
"I don't know. Maybe ... this is just an idea ... you could say that the army rejected you because of your age or something. Then you got a job ... let's say on a fishing boat. You've been out on the boat and just got back."
"I don't like that option either, Ray. It's telling another lie. They would ask why I didn't call before going out on the boat. And if they ever found out what I've been doing, the lie about it would only make things worse."
"Okay," I said. "So far, you have three bad options. Let's take some time to think about it."
Jose nodded in agreement but his expression revealed how perplexed he was. We cleared the table and washed the dishes in silence. When that task was done, he said, "Can we go back to bed? Not for sex. I just want you to hold me."
"And I want to hold you, Jose."
We cuddled for a long time in bed, hugging each other. Jose, no doubt, was struggling with his sincere desire to see his parents, my insistence that he do so, and what to say about his prolonged absence. Meanwhile, I was hoping that his decision, whatever it might be, would be the right one.
Finally, Jose said, "I know what I have to do, Ray. But I might need your help. I'm going to go home to visit my parents. I'm going to tell them that the army rejected me, that I couldn't find a job, and what I've been doing. I'm going to apologize and hope that they forgive me."
"Are you sure that's what you want?" I asked.
"Yes. I hate having to do it but they deserve the truth. Besides, if my wish comes true and we live together, the truth about being queer will come out."
"Okay," I replied. "But don't say anything to them about going to Wyoming. Not until I talk to my parents."
CHAPTER FIVE: COMING OUT
Later that day, I phoned my parents. They were surprised that I wanted to bring a friend home for the summer. I didn't say anything about how we met or our real relationship. That should be said in person after I got home. They were not enthusiastic but were agreeable to having some extra help around the ranch.
When I told Jose the good news, he exploded in a fit of delirious delight that I couldn't have imagined. He said that he had a regular Tuesday night customer but on Wednesday he would visit his parents.
"Are you still sure you want to tell them the truth?" I asked.
"Yes," he replied with no hesitation.
"You said you might need my help. What do you want from me?"
"After I tell my parents about me -- if they don't throw me out -- I'd like them to meet you. I know they'll like you. I just know it! They'll feel better about my going to Wyoming if they know you are looking out for me. Will you do it?"
"That's a good idea," I said. "I'd like the chance to tell them what a wonderful person you are and they should be proud of you."
We spent the remainder of the weekend enjoying each other's company and, of course, lavishing affection on each other in bed. Sunday afternoon came all too quickly and I had to return to campus. It was a tearful parting for both of us.
By that time, I was almost ready to acknowledge that I loved Jose but I was reluctant to admit it to myself. There were very serious practical considerations: my schooling, my dependence on my parents for financial support, his finding a job and possibly a place to live in the fall, and the unfavorable odds of two young homosexuals forming a lasting bond. Surpassing those severe problems, however, was the magnitude of making an emotional commitment. I cared for Jose. I wanted very much to help him. But how much of my attachment was due to the fact that he had been my first and only sexual partner? Was I letting my sensual needs trump my reasoning?
For the next week, I tried to keep busy preparing for final exams but thoughts of Jose frequently intruded into my concentration. He had decided not to tell Robert Sampson that he was moving out and leaving for Wyoming until just before we left. Rightly, I think, he was afraid his host would feel betrayed and evict him on the spot. He regretted the deception until I reminded him that even though the old man had provided a place to live, his only interest was in selfish sexual gratification.
Just after supper on Friday night, I was studying for my last final exam on Monday when I heard a knock on my dorm room door. My asshole room mate opened the door and I heard Jose say, "Is Ray here?"
"Who wants to know?" he said sarcastically.
Before Jose could answer, I pushed past my room mate and said, "Let's go somewhere." Glaring at my room mate, I said, "I need some fresh air."
We walked around campus for almost an hour during which time Jose told me of his visit to his parents. They were, of course, delighted to see him. When he worked up courage to tell them the lie about being rejected by the army and the truth about what he had been doing, they were shocked. His mother cried; his father turned coldly silent. Jose then broke the news that he was going to Wyoming for the summer to work on a ranch with a friend. Naturally, they wanted to know who the friend was and Jose explained how we met and that I had treated him with respect and kindness. Upon questioning from his father, Jose admitted that he loved me and that we had had sex. During nearly two hours of discussion, his parents calmed down. They disapproved of what he had been doing but finally agreed that working on a ranch was far better than selling sex. But they definitely wanted to meet me.
"Can you come and meet my parents?" Jose asked.
"Of course," I said. "When?"
"Tonight?" he asked. "I know you have to study but it would mean a lot to me and my parents if you could spare the time."
"Let me change clothes and we'll be on our way," I said.
We took the subway to the South Bronx. We couldn't talk much on the way because the train was crowded. When walking from the station to his apartment building Jose grew visibly nervous. For that matter, so was I. The neighborhood had seen its best days but seemed to me to be a borderline slum. Adults, teens, and children on the street eyed us suspiciously as we passed. I was increasingly happy that I was helping Jose out of his unfortunate environment.
We reached his apartment building. The elevator was out of service, which Jose said was common, so we climbed five flights of stairs. Empty beer cans and whiskey bottles littered the stairway. The smell of pot and urine was noxious. Little wonder that Jose felt compelled to escape that environment.
Jose inserted a key and opened the door to apartment 514. I was struck by how tidy the apartment was although the furniture was sparse and showed its age. His mother came out of the kitchen to meet us and promptly gave her son a long, motherly hug while his father rose from an easy chair. Jose introduced me to his parents. His mother exuded a warm, welcoming manner but I sensed hostility and suspicion from his father.
For more than an hour, I was the target of a barrage of questions. Yes, I knew all about Jose's recent sexual activities but I respected his courage, initiative, resilience, and ambition. I emphasized how proud they should be of his character and intelligence. I answered in detail all their questions about my family, living on a ranch, and the work Jose would be doing. I inserted in that explanation my insistence that Jose write frequently so they would know he was all right. They asked about my future plans. I had to be honest and reply that I was majoring in business management but that may change but I would probably return to Wyoming permanently after college.
Then came a question that I half-expected and was not fully ready to answer. His father gave me a steely look and said, "Jose says he is marica." (Jose interrupted to explain that meant homosexual.) "He says you are marica too. He says you have ... you have been in bed together. He says he loves you like a man loves a woman. I want to know, do you love him like a husband and wife love each other?"
I had given that question a lot of thought over the previous week and had come to no firm conclusion. I had trouble separating out two factors. One, I wanted to help a young man with potential to rise above his background of poverty. How did that affect my affection for him? I wasn't sure. Two, he had given me the intimacy that I had craved for so long. Was my appreciation masquerading as love? I wasn't sure. Did I really love him? I wasn't sure. But I was sure that I could give only one answer to his father that would assure Jose's future.
"Yes, sir. I love your son. I give you my word that I will never hurt him or let anyone else hurt him. I promise you that I will do everything I can to make him happy. And successful. I want to share my life with him."
Jose's father continued looking at me intensely as though he were assessing my sincerity. I was uncomfortable, worrying that my answer didn't satisfy him. But then he said, with no change of expression, "I don't like what you do together. But I like you." Turning to Jose, he said something in Spanish, which made Jose grin and give his father a hug.
"Papa says he gives his blessing to my going to Wyoming. He also says that I must never lie to him again and must write a letter at least once a week."
His father rose from his chair and spoke to Jose, again in Spanish. Jose replied, "Si, papa. Te quiero." My conversation with Jose's parents apparently was a success.
Jose turned to me and said, "I will stay here at home until we leave for Wyoming. I'll collect my things from Robert's apartment tomorrow and tell him I'm leaving. Now, I'll walk you back to the subway station so you can get back to studying."
"That's okay," I replied. "I know the way."
"No," he objected. "It's dark. It's not safe for you. I'll go with you to the station."
I appreciated his concern for my safety but was not aware of his other motive until we left the apartment. In the privacy of the stairwell, he threw his arms around me, gave me a breath-robbing hug and a passionate kiss. "Thank you, Ray. I knew my parents would like you. But I love you!"
I returned to my dorm room thinking of all the ironies of the past few months: a "cowboy kid" attending an Ivy League school; a frustrated virgin homosexual finding joy and satisfaction with a hustler; a young man from an impoverished background showing signs of independence, initiative, and intelligence; parents who loved their son in spite of his "deviant" behavior; and, most of all, my rapid transformation from a frustrated virgin to someone who was on the brink of making a commitment to a life partner.
There are many unexpected twists and turns in life.
The end.