Let it Snow, Let it Snow, Let it Snow, Guest post Brog
Brian first turned me on to Jason Statham. He said he had no acting depth and exactly one expression: pissed. But he was hot in a controlled, British kind of way and he was action personnified. He was right. I love Jason Statham. And this is my kind of movie, all action, very little plot, the perfect escape. Car chases, kick ass fights, gratuitous violence and no mushy stuff. I turn ten again in these kind of movies, full of wonder and wishing I could do that. Be a spy or a bodyguard or a cool villain. But I'm a lawyer, and today I wouldn't want to be anyone but me.
I'm enjoying the movie, but I'm enjoying the company a lot more. The theater never did fill up. Just us and a few others. So the chances that anyone might see me holding his hand on the arm of the seat are slim, but even if they did, I wouldn't care. I absolutely love the feel of his hand in mine. Strong, big, nice grip, not too soft. It's the first link between us that says more than we work together, do the same thing for a living, and like each other as people. It says we are also on a date. We are attracted to each other. This isn't about colleagues. Or even platonic friends. This is a start.
As much as I like the way it feels, it also scares me a little. It's unfamiliar. I'm used to dating girls. I know the ropes for dating girls. Because of Kinney, I understand gay men and their dynamic, at least a little, but you don't learn about gay dating from hanging with Brian. After Phillip, the abomination, and before Justin, the right one, Kinney was all about serial fucking and had nothing to do with dating. So I'm uncertain about the rules. I don't want to feminize him by opening doors or turning him into my girlie date. But I don't want to be crass and appear boorish either. Do I pay for stuff? I mean I asked him to the movie. He bought his own ticket and Coke. I glance at his profile. His coloring works well in the dark, that brush of gray hair, but you lose the impact of those incredibly blue eyes. He sees me looking and he smiles, squeezing my hand gently. I squeeze his back. We return to Jason Statham.
When the movie ends, we sit there and watch the credits. Not because we care, but because we don't want to let go of each other. The lights come up and we have no excuse. We fumble into coats, gloves, all the gear, and notice there is a clot of people milling around the lobby. Looking beyong them through the glass to the gloom of late afternoon, we see why they haven't gone out.
It's a fucking blizzard.
"I'm telling you right now," Parker leans in to say to me in a low voice. "If we get stuck here, cosy up to the guy in the red parka. He's big enough to live off of for a full winter."
I laugh. The unexpected cannibalism joke works well with me. "This is incredible. No wonder no one was here. They all had the sense to believe the weatherman."
"That's not sense. How often are those guys right?"
"You have a point. What now?"
"Getting a cab is moot. The nearest subway station is four blocks. My place is closer. Let's make a break for it."
We link arms and no one thinks a thing of it. Even straight guys would link arms in this blizzard to avoid being separated and to give extra insulation against a driving wind. Snow blind takes on new emphasis for me. The soft, lovely little flakes feel like voodoo pins sinking into exposed flesh. My eyes are watering so much, I can't keep them clear. The wind is a machete. I let him lead me. By the time we get inside his building, we're both shivering so hard we can barely punch the button for the elevator. We stamp off the excess frost, rub our frozen faces with our ungloved palms and listen to our teeth chatter in unison. Lovely.
As soon as we enter his place, he takes my coat and his and hangs them over the shower to dry. He then starts a blazing fire in the hearth and offers me a slug of Irish. Only now is sensation returning to my limbs. His place is warm, but it takes awhile to replace the chill in our bones. We sit together on the sofa, our wet shoes abandoned at the door, and he pulls a beige cashmere throw over both of us. I reach for the decanter, Waterford, I notice, and refill our matching tumblers. Finally he speaks. "I hope Clara is warm at the vet's."
I smile at him. That's sweet. "Sure she is. You know they would keep their kennel warm. They have sick animals there, after all."
"True. I never wanted a pet. Too much responsibility in a city. But after Hero died, everyone kept telling me to get a pet as if that would fill the void. That made me even more determined not to. So one day I was walking to my favorite local grocer and there was this young African American boy standing on the corner with a cardboard box. His hand lettered sign read, 'If you dont buy my dogs they gonna be put to sleep.'
Now that's what I call a hard sale. I had to laugh. I didn't believe it for a minute. But I glanced in the box and this little orange and white puppy was sitting there staring up at me with these soulful eyes, the last one of the litter, and I was cooked. Five bucks, I paid for her. Best bargain of my life."
"She's obviously not a destructive dog," I say, noticing the place is pristine. I slide my arm across the back of the couch, behind him, not really around him, but...he smiles and leans against it. Now it's around him.
"No, she's a doll. I miss her. But damn, at least I don't have to walk her in this storm."
We're quiet for a minute, enjoying the whiskey, the fire and each other, and then he leans over and picks up a remote and Coltrane starts playing on the sound system. Perfect. "Did you like the movie?"
He smiles. "It delivered. I think he's really hot, don't you?"
"Oh yeah. I wish I could fight like that. I just brawl. That's what I was raised doing. Brian and I had dads who were union in Pittsburgh. Irish union guys. Two things you learn, drinking and brawling. How about you?"
He laughs. "I've never brawled in my life, except intellectually. I drink rather well, however."
"What does your dad do?"
"Retired investment banker."
"Silver spoon?"
He laughs. He has a great laugh. "More like silver plate, but I never wanted for much. I grew up in the burbs of Connecticutt, he worked in the city. So we were close enough for me to spend a lot of time here. I've always loved this city. I have an older brother and a younger sister. They're the normal ones," his smile seems a little melancholy. "The parents never rejected the fact I was gay, they just refused to acknowledge it. Even when Hero and I became a couple and he went with me to visit. He was always my 'friend'. When he died, they came to his services and I overheard my mother talking to someone at the wake. She said that I was Jimmy's best friend. Something in me just snapped. I guess it was all the emotion of the moment. I broke the WASP code of silent acceptance and politesse and went Irish on her. I said I am not his best friend, I am his lover. His partner. He was my husband. I am a widower. I lost the love of my life. Don't you fucking dare minimize it."
"Good for you," I tell him, picturing the scene as I let my hand drift to his shoulder and pat it gently. The back of his head is firmly against my arm now.
"She shrank away in horror, more for my making a scene, than the gay issue. We never talked about it again. I live this strange detente with my parents."
"If I tried to tell my folks I was dating a guy, they would just disbelieve it. Period. They don't even acknowledge that Brian is gay. They aren't as much homophobic as they are so narrow in their thinking that if you aren't a prancing sissy, you aren't queer."
He smiles at me. "And people wonder why gays can be so fucked up emotionally. Jimmy's big Irish family was the opposite way. They completely embraced his homosexuality, and his old man, a retired firefighter, called him 'my big gay son' and called me 'the wife'. They are incredibly kind and loving people. They really pulled me through and they stay close to me even now."
"Like Shannon?"
"Well, not that close," he chuckles. "You won't get home tonight, Brog. No way you can go out in that blizzard."
"I was thinking that myself. This couch looks pretty comfy."
He nods. "We'll make it work. Hungry?"
"Always."
"Luckily I always have food in the freezer. Everyone I know thinks I'm too thin so they keep bringing me food to try. I eat all the time. I just have a high metabolism. How does lasagna sound? The friend who made it is a chef in an Italian restaurant, so it's good stuff."
"Perfect."
Before he can get up, I take his arm. He looks at me. I take a deep breath and lean over, my nose brushing his, still a little cold, my lips finding their way to his mouth. He meets my kiss with some hesitation and then he kisses me back, his fingers spreading on the back of my head. It's a nice kiss, no tongues, but not sexless, either. It's a beginning. It's stimulating. I want more. He's the one to break it. We smile at each other. "Well, now..." he says softly and I shrug.
"I wanted to get the first one out of the way."
"You did that very nicely. By saying 'first', do you anticipate there will be more?"
"I wouldn't mind, would you?"
Those too blue eyes sparkle as he fixes them on mine. "No, Brog. I wouldn't mind."
He gets up and walks into the open kitchen, retrieving a casserole from the freezer. I watch his ass as he goes. I like his body, trim, tall enough, solid. I like everything about him. He turns on the oven and slides the dish inside, covering the top with foil. "It'll take forever to cook, but at a low heat, it can go straight into the oven. I think you'll like it." He takes out a marble cheese board and slices a few varieties of cheese he roots out of the fridge and brings it over with water crackers. He sits down beside me and I say,
"I'm not sure what to do."
"Don't do anything, Brog. Just be yourself. I don't expect anything, you're under no pressure. We have all the time in the world. We're snowed in, after all. Want to watch a game? It's Sunday."
"No. I just want to be here with you. Listening to jazz and enjoying the fire and figuring it out together."
"Works for me," he moves closer, giving me a little thrill as our thighs touch. "Let's not rush anything, Brog. In a very real way, it's new to me, too."
I understand what he means. The pressure is off. I put my arm around him and he rests his head on my shoulder as we both stare into the flames. For now, that's enough. More than enough. It just feels right. Outside the snow continues to fall at an alarming rate, but I don't mind. Let it snow, let it snow, let it snow. This is a gift from God. This is the perfect excuse. Who could ask for anything more?