Too Much Rain, Chapter 142
So in this chapter John and Paul go through a gauntlet of press interest to promote their latest album and tour, and John is asked a question by Fiona that stumps him.
WARNINGS: THIS IS SLASH FICTION. Other than that, no particular warnings.
Hope you enjoy.
Chapter 142
Cavendish
Early July 2000
“John!” Paul was shouting up the stairwell. It was past time John should have come downstairs, ready to go. As it was, they would be late to their first interview, which would mean that all their subsequent interviews would be late, too. Paul was sympathetic to John’s delaying tactics, but enough was enough.
“I’m coming already!” John’s voice echoed down the stairwell.
That means another five minutes, no doubt, Paul thought to himself. He turned away and continued his pacing around the foyer and the sitting room. He was extremely nervous. Perhaps he was more nervous about these interviews than any others he’d ever done. At least they had foiled the press somewhat by limiting each interview to 20 minutes. Not much damage could be done in that amount of time, if he and John kept their bottle.
Their new press agent, Henry, poked his head into the foyer again just as Paul paced past. “We’re late!” He said.
Paul gave him the classic ‘no kidding!’ shrug, and then quietly gestured upstairs.
“Can’t you persuade him to come down?” Henry asked.
Paul said sharply, “He’ll be down when he’s ready.” The voice was firm and protective. Henry recognized that tone and immediately withdrew his head. Paul shook away his momentary irritation. Other people had no business ordering him or John around. It was their life, their career, and their prerogative to do what they wanted, when they wanted, as they wanted. But he did secretly wish that John would hurry up. Paul’s nerves were like dashes of oil thrown down on a sizzling pan. They were dancing around in unpredictable sizzles, and Paul had begun to feel that uneasy feeling in the pit of his stomach. He often became queasy when he had to stand around waiting for a scary event. He turned at the sound of John’s footsteps on the stairs.
“He appears!” Paul sang.
John looked splendid in tight fitting blue jeans, a crisp white shirt, and his trademark Converse shoes. But he looked vexed. “I really don’t want to go,” he told Paul flatly.
“So you expect me to go alone and face the bastards by myself?” Paul asked provocatively, his eyes twinkling. He, too, looked splendid in a well tailored dark grey suit and open-necked white shirt with dress shoes.
John grimaced. “I don’t know why we agreed to press in any event. We don’t have to. Our album will sell, and so will our concert tickets.”
Paul was nodding as John was talking, but headed for the door and went straight out. John could do nothing but follow. John followed Paul right into the limousine, as Henry heaved a huge sigh of relief. Henry then jumped into the front seat next to the driver, and soon they were off.
Snug inside the back seat with the divider window closed tight, John said, “You never answered me. Why did you agree to do this?” His voice reflected his irritation.
Paul said, “We have never been cowardly before, John. We’ve always faced the music. Remember what you faced during 'the Beatles are bigger than Jesus' remark?”
John groaned and turned away.
Paul continued talking to the side of John's face. “It wasn’t fun, it wasn’t pleasant, but it was necessary. And we barreled through it and went on to finish that tour on our own terms.” Although he was speaking to the side of John’s face, he knew that John was listening. “This is no different. We just have to face them down. Sangfroid. That’s the main thing we have to remember.”
John glared dubiously at Paul. “It’s going to be a fucking free for all.”
“There’s only one reporter at a time. We have them outnumbered!” Paul pointed out.
“You only need one reporter to spoil your whole day,” John muttered. But he turned to look out the window, and lost himself in his glum thoughts. For years he had wanted the world to know about Paul and him. For years! He had pouted about it, whined about it, rebelled about it, and nagged about it. And now that he felt it was very near - the moment of truth - he surprisingly found that he had no desire to experience that exposure whatsoever. In fact, the closer they had gotten to the moment of truth, the more John’s reluctance had gained momentum. Now he was overwhelmingly against the very idea of it! He shook his head and mumbled to himself.
Next to him, Paul smiled. He, in turn, looked out his window. For years he had wanted to avoid talking about his relationship with John. He had never wanted the world to know the truth about it. Was it shame or was it self-preservation? He supposed it was some of this and a whole lot of the other. Now it was like a wave at high tide, moving in on him relentlessly. Would he outsmart the wave and jump under it at just the right moment, kicking to the surface a moment later, or would the wave catch him head on, and push him down under, where he would struggle for terrifying moments for air. How did he feel about it? He wasn’t sure. One thing he was sure of: he wasn’t going to let them ruffle his feathers. He was going to be calm and matter-of-fact no matter what they said or asked. He turned to gaze at John, who was still glaring out the window. His visage softened as he watched his lover. His life mate. His partner. John would be fine. John would handle it like the pro he was. No worries! (As the Aussies said.)
The interviews were scheduled to take place in a hotel in Central London. John and Paul were escorted to the proper floor on the freight elevator. They were accustomed to freight elevators by now. That had become their lot in life. It was strange really - all of their wealth and fame had reduced them to the servants’ entrances! The set up was in a hotel room. The interviewers would be cycling through one at a time in 20- minute intervals. Since the same camera and sound men were doing the recording, once the small talk was over with each new interviewer, there would be maybe only 15 minutes for actual questions.
As soon as they entered the room, Paul asked to see the list of interviewers. Reluctantly, Henry’s assistant handed Paul the clipboard. The assistant had been told not to let John or Paul see the list unless they asked for it directly. Well, Paul had asked very directly, right as soon as he came in the room. He was all business. John, on the other hand, wandered into the sitting area, and plopped dramatically on to a sofa. He appeared to be glaring angrily at the chairs where soon he and Paul would be sitting, in front of lights and cameras.
Paul perused the list and about three quarters of the way down he stopped, his eyes not believing what he was seeing. “Henry!!!” He shouted.
Paul rarely shouted. This shout aroused everyone’s attention, and Henry, who was standing on the other side of the room, felt the hairs going up on the back of his neck. What now? He wondered. He quickly approached Paul, whose face looked like a black cloud. Henry was vaguely aware that John had gotten up and was headed for Paul too, asking, “What is it?” repeatedly. Henry got to Paul just seconds after John did.
Paul looked pointedly at the assistant until the young man realized he was supposed to make himself scarce. He scurried away. Paul saw the curious looks on the faces of the camera, lighting, and sound crews. He told Henry shortly, “Get rid of them for a few minutes.”
Henry asked everyone to leave the room for a few minutes. They all trundled out, dying of curiosity, and hung around whispering gossip in the hallway outside the room.
“Why is this magazine on the list?” Paul asked, his voice a deep, disapproving growl.
Henry looked at the list and saw where Paul was pointing. He had worried about how that particular magazine would go down with John and Paul. Before he could say anything, John grabbed the clipboard and yelled,
“The Advocate? You fucking invited the fucking Advocate here?” John’s voice reflected extreme disbelief and outrage. “How could you do such a stupid thing?”
Henry cleared his throat. “I had 12 spots. There were over 70 requests. They drew numbers, and the ones whose numbers were called got on the list. It’s standard procedure,” Henry added.
Paul was staring at Henry in an unnerving way, while John began to panic. “Paul! I’m not going to do any of these damn interviews! We’re here to talk about our music and our tour. The fucking Advocate is not here to talk about our music and our tour!”
Paul was more self-contained. He said calmly to Henry, his eyes never leaving his face, “Are you telling me you didn’t vet the applicants before letting them draw numbers?” His voice was quiet, but scary.
“My assistant vetted them. He... he didn’t know what The Advocate was.”
“And where were you when this was going on?” Paul asked. His voice was too silky, too smooth.
“I was overseeing the press packets...” Henry explained. “There were problems with them.”
“It doesn’t matter, Paul, because I’m not doing this...” John was saying. He hadn’t been listening to the conversation between Paul and Henry.
Paul sighed. “Okay. This is what we’re going to do. I note that The Advocate is scheduled in the last 45 minutes. Henry, you’re going to announce that John here isn’t feeling well, and we’re leaving earlier than scheduled, and we’re sorry but the last 5 interviews are cancelled. In addition, you are going to tell each interviewer as they come in the room that we will not entertain questions about our private lives, and if they ask them, we will politely decline to answer.”
Henry blanched. “They’re going to riot.”
“Well, they can riot or John and I can riot. Pick your poison,” Paul said flatly, and there was no humor in his voice or expression at all.
Henry swallowed and said, “They’re gonna know John isn’t unwell, because he will have sat for the other interviews...”
“He’ll say he is incredibly weak, and he can’t sit there for four hours. Three is all he can handle. It’s that or nothing, right John?”
John was nodding fiercely. He didn’t realize that Paul had cleverly roped him in to doing three hours of interviews when he had wanted to leave immediately.
Henry nodded his surrender, and said, “You two relax. We’ll get the first interviews started and a little later I will break the news to the others.”
Paul patted Henry lightly on the back as he turned to leave the room. “This was a big mistake, Henry, but you’re entitled to one. Don’t ever let this happen again.” He turned and headed for the little fridge in the room to get bottles of water for John and himself. He sat down next to John on the sofa. John was holding a throw pillow on his lap and looked dejected.
“So, John, you’re not feeling well - don’t forget.” Paul had a mischievous smile on his face. He was trying to charm John out of his mood.
“I won’t have to pretend,” John growled. “I do feel sick.”
“So, if they ask about it, we’ll smile neutrally and remind them we’re not here to talk about our private lives, and turn the subject back to the album or the tour.” Paul was speaking softly to John, building him up mentally for what was to come. John nodded weakly, but he didn’t look happy at all.
The first interviewer was from the BBC, and she came in looking young and perky. Paul heaved a sigh of relief. She wasn’t going to want to rock the boat. He had her sized up in a split second. They sat in the “hot chairs”, as John and Paul always jokingly called them, and turned pleasant, calm faces to the camera.
Paul was right. Miss BBC did not ask any questions about their personal lives. They had a good 15 minutes’ discussion about the upcoming tour. The album reviews had been great, and the first week’s sales were also great, so the interview went very well. As the interviewer left, Paul whispered to John, “You were getting awfully cheerful there at the end, John. Don’t forget you’re sick!”
John guffawed. “Maybe I can gin up some vomit for the next one.”
Paul laughed. “Let’s don’t go that far...”
The first 5 interviews flew by, and while one of the interviewers, an older woman from a Canadian television show, asked them how they felt about all the rumors about their relationship, Paul deftly handled that one by saying, “Oh, we don’t pay any attention to rumors and gossip. No point to it.” And then he had smiled warmly to show her he had nothing to hide. She didn’t have the courage to pry further in that direction, and as soon as the clock approached the 15th minute, Henry hustled her out.
It was about this time that Henry’s assistants were telling the last five on the list that John Lennon was not feeling well, and couldn’t continue after the next two interviews. There was an immediate uproar as the five who were cancelled protested and attempted negotiations for a few minutes at least. Henry overheard the uproar, and stepped in to turn them all down politely but firmly. After Henry turned around and disappeared back in the room with the sixth interviewer, the remaining 6 reporters began to express their outrage to each other.
The reporter from the Advocate told the others, “I was going to confront them about their relationship. I think I’m the only one who has the balls to do it.”
Another reporter said, “They get famous and they forget they owe things to the press that helped them get famous.”
A third reporter said, “If the man is sick, he’s sick. I don’t see why we need to turn this into some kind of conspiracy.” At that point he, and another two of the disappointed reporters, turned and left.
The lucky reporter who was to be the seventh and last interviewer said to the remaining two disappointed reporters, including the reporter from the Advocate, “Each of you give me a question you wanted to ask, and I’ll see if I can get to them after mine are done.” The two reporters each handed over their most important question, and the Advocate reporter said, “Don’t ask mine until last, because they’ll cut you short if you do.”
Meanwhile, back in the interview room, the sixth interviewer was expressing skeptical concern about John’s health.
“We’re told you’re too ill to finish?” He asked.
John stared at the man with icy eyes. The man was taken aback by this. It was one thing to come up with confrontational questions while waiting outside in the hallway. It was another thing entirely to be faced with another human being who was taking offense at what you’d said. John finally said, “I didn’t want to come at all. I’ve lasted as long as I can.” These words, at least, were true.
“I hope it is nothing serious?” The reporter asked, quickly trying to show a sympathetic face.
“I doubt if I’ll die, if that’s what you mean,” John said, chuckling a little to reduce the tension in the air.
“If you feel at any moment like you might die, please let us know and we’ll call an ambulance,” Paul quipped to John. “We wouldn’t want you dead on our hands, would we?” Paul had turned to the reporter as he asked the impertinent question.
The reporter chuckled uneasily. He had succeeded in pissing them both off, and he hadn’t asked any of his prepared questions yet. “I’m very sorry you’re feeling ill,” he said sincerely. And then he moved on to the stock questions about the album and tour. Soon he was being escorted out, feeling like an abject failure. No Pulitzer Prizes for him!
Number Seven strolled in to the room. He was going to play it cool until the end. He had read the Advocate’s question, and was actually glad he had offered to ask it. He could blame the Advocate reporter for it if it pissed off John and Paul.
Paul immediately caught the cagey gleam in the reporter’s eye, and he turned to John until their eyes met. He sent a very clear message to John, although no one else noticed it. Be careful - this guy’s up to something. This was the silent warning. John nodded imperceptibly. Then he turned toward the reporter with a studiedly sickly smile and a limp handshake. Paul’s greeting and handshake was far more robust.
This reporter worked for Variety, a Los Angeles-based entertainment trade magazine. More news than gossip, Variety had been the main business periodical for Hollywood show business for decades. Thus, Reporter No. Seven was a real news reporter. He wasn’t likely to be intimidated by John Lennon’s steely gaze, nor waylaid by Paul’s smooth charm. Both men had figured this out just by eyeballing him. They’d been exposed to every kind of reporter there was in the last almost 40 years, and quickly knew what they were dealing with. They were glad he was the last one of the day.
The reporter wasn’t interested in small talk. While he quickly asked John if he was okay, and received a shrug expressing ‘just barely’, the reporter dove right into his own questions. He needed to try to squeeze in the Advocate’s question.
“John, you will be sixty in a few months. Do you envision continuing in this business much longer?” The reporter’s face was neutral, and reflected little warmth and no good will. “And Paul - you’re not far behind.”
Paul laughed and said, “When we were your age we distrusted old people too.”
John was looking at the reporter with an odd expression on his face. He finally said, “I think we’ll keep writing songs as long as we enjoy doing it. If it stops being successful, then we may just write songs for fun. For us, music isn’t hard labor or anything. It’s a pleasure.”
Paul added, “And what would we do if we didn’t do this? Sit around and watch television and count our awards? After a month of doing that, I think I at least would die of boredom.”
“Your world tour is very ambitious, though. It stretches out for almost a year.”
“It may take longer than that,” Paul said matter-of-factly. “We’re taking it a few dates at a time, with breaks in between. We’re still working out the details for some of the gigs.”
John wrapped his arms around his stomach as though he was feeling bad. He kept his head down. Paul had looked over to John with concern on his face, and then turned back to the reporter, who noticed all this and thought for the first time, I think the man really is sick. But he told himself not to go soft on them. His job was to dig for an interesting news bite.
“Will you be able to keep up that pace? Your press packet says your shows will last almost three hours.” The reporter was not giving up his assumption that John and Paul’s advanced ages would make it impossible for them to do a professional job.
This attitude irritated Paul, but he smiled warmly instead of showing it. “We’ll soon find out, won’t we, John?” He poked John with his elbow, and John’s head flew up from their place in the palms of his hands.
“Yeah. What he said.” John had decided to get rid of this guy as soon as possible. He was trouble. So he had to step up his ‘sick’ act. He managed to look quite miserable.
The reporter felt his time melting away, and so he said, “One of the reporters whose turn was cancelled asked me to ask a question for him. He works for the Advocate, which is a gay men’s magazine. He wants you to respond directly to the widespread rumors that the two of you are actually living together as lovers.”
Paul was surprised by this gambit, but then berated himself for not anticipating it. He schooled his face not to change expression and said, “I believe we stated that we would not be discussing personal issues here today.” His voice was polite, but firm.
“You can’t expect people not to ask the question, though. It is like the elephant in the room!” The reporter protested.
“So you asked the question. Move on.” This was John, looking up from his hands and leveling a beady-eye on the reporter.
“I didn’t get an answer,” the reporter said. “It’s a simple ‘yes’ or ‘no.’”
Paul was worried that John would say something indiscreet at this provocation, so he jumped in and said, “For us it isn’t ‘simple.’ If we answer these intrusive questions about our personal lives, where does it end? We’ve lived our entire adult lives in the spotlight. We each want to have corners in our lives that are just for us. We have often regretted saying too much about our private lives in interviews in the past. We just decided we aren’t going to give in to that pressure where we’re made to feel as though we’re liars or worse just because we want some measure of privacy for ourselves.” Paul’s voice was not hostile; it was an attempt to reason with the reporter so he could see their side of it.
John had lost patience. He had felt the rage building up in him as Paul’s plea was being delivered. How dare these reporters behave as though they were entitled to know their private business! He suddenly jumped in as Paul was just ending his comment and said, “You reporters are all the same. If a celebrity wants privacy, you call him ‘secretive’, as though there is some horrible dark secret he is hiding. We don’t owe you information! We’re here to sell our album and our tour. You’re here to sell magazines. This is a commercial transaction. We’re not sitting here asking you about your private life, and you have no business sitting there, asking us! Our personal lives are not for sale!” John’s voice was vibrating with passion.
The reporter knew he was going to be escorted out any minute now, but felt he had one more point to make before leaving. “People will think because you won’t answer the question ‘no’, that it means that the answer is ‘yes.’ And even if it is ‘yes’, what’s the big deal? Don’t you see how that information sheds light on your creative partnership, and the songs that you write?”
John was fit to be tied. He was vibrating with anger. Paul reached over and grabbed John’s wrist, squeezing it tightly. This served to remind John that he was supposed to be sick. He slunk back in his chair and put his hand over his forehead.
“I really don’t think we have anything more to say,” Paul said quietly to the reporter. “John isn’t feeling well, and we need to end this now.”
As if on cue, the lighting lead cut the lights, and the cameraman stopped filming. Paul immediately began removing the little microphone from his lapel, and the soundman assisted John in removing his. The reporter felt awkward, but he also felt proud of himself. He’d asked the question - about the elephant in the room - and although he never got a straight answer, the quick wrist squeeze Paul had given John to calm him down had told it’s own story. No, it wasn’t evidence in the strictest sense of the word, but for the person who witnessed it, it appeared to be a very husbandly thing to do. The reporter couldn’t really blame them for not wanting to talk about it publicly. What would happen to their legacy if they ever acknowledged it? Most of their fans were older, and probably more conservative about such matters. In a way, they had shown a lot of courage to sit there and not lie. It could have been so easy to say ‘no’ and move on. But they didn’t. They’d always been brutally honest about themselves in the almost four decades of their fame, and the reporter had a fugitive admiration for their choice: so much more honest to say, mind your own business, than to lie - which would have gotten most of the monkeys off their backs.
As the door closed behind the reporter, and when all the crew had left the room, John fell back in his chair and groaned, “Oh my fucking god that was every bit as horrible as I thought it would be!” It came out without stopping or punctuation, almost like the first verse of Lucy in the Sky With Diamonds.
Henry said, “It wasn’t bad at all. You had a good number of strong interviews there for your album and tour. And you stood up to that last guy really well.”
John was not in a forgiving mood. “Yeah, which we wouldn’t have had to do, if you hadn’t put the Advocate on the interview list!”
Henry felt the rebuke, but responded honestly. “If we’d eliminated him from the draw, he would have written that we’d deliberately excluded him and suggested that it was because you knew he’d be asking about your relationship. At least this way you have plausible deniability.”
Paul said, “That’s a charitable interpretation of what just happened,” but then he sighed and got up. “Come on John, let’s get you home. You’re ill, remember? We have to play the game until the bitter end.”
John did get up, but he was heard to mutter, “My life is not a fucking game!”
*****
Two Weeks Later
Fiona’s Office
“I was really shook up by those interviews we did,” John told Fiona.
“Why is that?”
“I was terrified they were going to confront me about my relationship with Paul, and one of them did.” John looked seriously bummed.
Fiona cocked her head to the side. The devil’s advocate role was her burden in life. “I don’t know how many times I’ve heard you say that you wanted to be open about your relationship with Paul. You used to be very upset that Linda was getting all the attention as Paul’s spouse. What’s changed?”
John looked irked that Fiona had remembered his comments from years ago, and was equally irked that she had reminded him of them. He said with a pout in his voice, “That was before it was possible for it to happen. Linda was like the dam that kept the water back. We had to keep it secret so she wouldn’t be hurt. It never occurred to me that I was actually grateful that she was there as an obstacle.”
Fiona considered what John had said. “In truth, what was bothering you was that you couldn’t be the one and only in Paul’s life. It wasn’t the public acknowledgement of it, so much as the private reality of it.”
John looked at Fiona directly for several moments and then said, “That’s a good way to put it. When it comes down to it, I wanted Paul to myself, and the only reason I wanted everyone to know was that I thought this would make it so. But now that it really is so, I don’t need that fantasy of exposure anymore. It’s really weird.”
“How does Paul feel about the idea of coming out?” Fiona asked.
“Don’t use those words ‘coming out.’ It makes it sound like we’re gay, and we’ve been living in the closet all these years.”
Fiona was silent. She waited while John’s words could echo in his head for a while. Finally she said, “Well, maybe you’re bisexual, but your relationship with Paul has been in the closet for some time, wouldn’t you say?”
“It’s more complicated than that,” John argued. “When I met Paul I was attracted to his being - his aura, his beauty, his body language, his talent, his intellect, his sense of humor - it was the package that attracted me. I didn’t see his private bits at first; I saw this beautiful human package. It wasn’t male or female to me. And that is how it has been for me ever since - I’m attracted to a human package, and then after I’ve been attracted to their gestalt I notice their private bits. Like, ‘oh! He’s got a cock!’ Or, ‘she’s got a pussy!’ It’s kind of a surprise to me. I don’t particularly care what parts they have. So it is more complicated than you make it sound.”
“Sounds like a perfect definition of ‘bisexual’ to me,” Fiona said, defending herself.
John paused and said, “Yeah, well, Paul is different. He was meant to be straight.”
“We’ve talked about this before. I feel as though I should challenge you on that. Would a straight man fall in love with someone of the same sex and maintain a decades’ long sexual relationship with him?” Fiona was honestly curious about John’s response.
“Well, I don’t know the answer to that as a general matter, but I can assure you that Paul did exactly that. He’s not attracted to men; he is attracted to women. It took me years of scheming to get him to see me as a sexual object, and then I suspected he was just humoring me because he didn’t want to lose my partnership, and thus the band. The band was fucking everything to him back then.”
“But when you walked back into his life later? He was happily married with children. Why do you suppose he succumbed to your seduction then?” Fiona knew she was pushing John, but it was time he understood that he wasn’t alone in his bisexual yearnings. When it finally dawned on him that Paul, too, obviously had at least some bisexual yearnings, it would no doubt help John to cement his sense of security in the relationship.
John shook his head. “I know he loves me. But I’m an anomaly to him. For him, it’s like there are men, women and John Lennon. I’m like a third sex to him in some way. I guess ‘cuz I got ahold of him when he was so young.”
“But weren’t you afraid he was having an affair with another man? What was his name?” Fiona fumbled with her notebook.
“Rob.” John said the word as if he were saying “hell on earth.”
“Yes - Rob. Would he have been attracted to this other man if he wasn’t also bisexual?”
John again shook his head. “He told me about that. He was feeling terribly hurt by the crap I was putting him through. I was going through a kind of nervous breakdown after the cancer, and I was horrible to him, and then I ignored him, and then I disappeared for several weeks. I even had that horrible sexual encounter with another man while I was away from him. Rob was literally stalking him, seducing him. And the thing was, Paul could never cheat on Linda with a woman. He just would never go there, period, because he had promised her. So Rob seemed like a possibility to him.”
Fiona listened politely and then asked, “Why is it so important for you to think of Paul as straight as opposed to bisexual?”
John was left speechless. He hadn’t expected the session to take this weird turn into an area he had never examined before.
“I don’t think it is ‘important’, Fiona,” John said slowly, with some irritation. “I just believe it to be true.” John stopped for a moment, and then his face lit up with amusement. “Or, maybe it is important for me to think he is utterly straight because he found it so easy to resist my charms for so long.”
Fiona chuckled along with John, but felt that John had again escaped from facing an interesting insight through his sense of humor.
*****
Later That Night
They were in bed, they had fooled around, and now they were lying quietly beside each other. John’s head was nestled on Paul’s chest, and Paul’s arm was wrapped around John’s shoulder.
“Paul?” John asked in a subdued voice.
“Hmm?” Paul was half asleep.
“Do you think you are straight, or bisexual?”
That got Paul’s attention. His eyes flew open. “What?” He asked.
“You heard me. It came up in my session today.”
“Whether I’m straight or bi came out in your session today?” Paul couldn’t quite imagine how this topic could possibly have come up in John’s session.
“Fiona seems to think I have some need to think of you as straight.”
“Well, John,” Paul said after a very long moment of silence during which he had been carefully selecting his words, “you do know that I have sex with you, don’t you?”
John snickered. “Of course.”
“And that I thoroughly enjoy it?”
“Glad to hear that,” John responded.
“Doesn’t sound very straight to me,” Paul pointed out. He waited a few seconds and then added, “Just sayin’.”
*****
WARNINGS: THIS IS SLASH FICTION. Other than that, no particular warnings.
Hope you enjoy.
Chapter 142
Cavendish
Early July 2000
“John!” Paul was shouting up the stairwell. It was past time John should have come downstairs, ready to go. As it was, they would be late to their first interview, which would mean that all their subsequent interviews would be late, too. Paul was sympathetic to John’s delaying tactics, but enough was enough.
“I’m coming already!” John’s voice echoed down the stairwell.
That means another five minutes, no doubt, Paul thought to himself. He turned away and continued his pacing around the foyer and the sitting room. He was extremely nervous. Perhaps he was more nervous about these interviews than any others he’d ever done. At least they had foiled the press somewhat by limiting each interview to 20 minutes. Not much damage could be done in that amount of time, if he and John kept their bottle.
Their new press agent, Henry, poked his head into the foyer again just as Paul paced past. “We’re late!” He said.
Paul gave him the classic ‘no kidding!’ shrug, and then quietly gestured upstairs.
“Can’t you persuade him to come down?” Henry asked.
Paul said sharply, “He’ll be down when he’s ready.” The voice was firm and protective. Henry recognized that tone and immediately withdrew his head. Paul shook away his momentary irritation. Other people had no business ordering him or John around. It was their life, their career, and their prerogative to do what they wanted, when they wanted, as they wanted. But he did secretly wish that John would hurry up. Paul’s nerves were like dashes of oil thrown down on a sizzling pan. They were dancing around in unpredictable sizzles, and Paul had begun to feel that uneasy feeling in the pit of his stomach. He often became queasy when he had to stand around waiting for a scary event. He turned at the sound of John’s footsteps on the stairs.
“He appears!” Paul sang.
John looked splendid in tight fitting blue jeans, a crisp white shirt, and his trademark Converse shoes. But he looked vexed. “I really don’t want to go,” he told Paul flatly.
“So you expect me to go alone and face the bastards by myself?” Paul asked provocatively, his eyes twinkling. He, too, looked splendid in a well tailored dark grey suit and open-necked white shirt with dress shoes.
John grimaced. “I don’t know why we agreed to press in any event. We don’t have to. Our album will sell, and so will our concert tickets.”
Paul was nodding as John was talking, but headed for the door and went straight out. John could do nothing but follow. John followed Paul right into the limousine, as Henry heaved a huge sigh of relief. Henry then jumped into the front seat next to the driver, and soon they were off.
Snug inside the back seat with the divider window closed tight, John said, “You never answered me. Why did you agree to do this?” His voice reflected his irritation.
Paul said, “We have never been cowardly before, John. We’ve always faced the music. Remember what you faced during 'the Beatles are bigger than Jesus' remark?”
John groaned and turned away.
Paul continued talking to the side of John's face. “It wasn’t fun, it wasn’t pleasant, but it was necessary. And we barreled through it and went on to finish that tour on our own terms.” Although he was speaking to the side of John’s face, he knew that John was listening. “This is no different. We just have to face them down. Sangfroid. That’s the main thing we have to remember.”
John glared dubiously at Paul. “It’s going to be a fucking free for all.”
“There’s only one reporter at a time. We have them outnumbered!” Paul pointed out.
“You only need one reporter to spoil your whole day,” John muttered. But he turned to look out the window, and lost himself in his glum thoughts. For years he had wanted the world to know about Paul and him. For years! He had pouted about it, whined about it, rebelled about it, and nagged about it. And now that he felt it was very near - the moment of truth - he surprisingly found that he had no desire to experience that exposure whatsoever. In fact, the closer they had gotten to the moment of truth, the more John’s reluctance had gained momentum. Now he was overwhelmingly against the very idea of it! He shook his head and mumbled to himself.
Next to him, Paul smiled. He, in turn, looked out his window. For years he had wanted to avoid talking about his relationship with John. He had never wanted the world to know the truth about it. Was it shame or was it self-preservation? He supposed it was some of this and a whole lot of the other. Now it was like a wave at high tide, moving in on him relentlessly. Would he outsmart the wave and jump under it at just the right moment, kicking to the surface a moment later, or would the wave catch him head on, and push him down under, where he would struggle for terrifying moments for air. How did he feel about it? He wasn’t sure. One thing he was sure of: he wasn’t going to let them ruffle his feathers. He was going to be calm and matter-of-fact no matter what they said or asked. He turned to gaze at John, who was still glaring out the window. His visage softened as he watched his lover. His life mate. His partner. John would be fine. John would handle it like the pro he was. No worries! (As the Aussies said.)
The interviews were scheduled to take place in a hotel in Central London. John and Paul were escorted to the proper floor on the freight elevator. They were accustomed to freight elevators by now. That had become their lot in life. It was strange really - all of their wealth and fame had reduced them to the servants’ entrances! The set up was in a hotel room. The interviewers would be cycling through one at a time in 20- minute intervals. Since the same camera and sound men were doing the recording, once the small talk was over with each new interviewer, there would be maybe only 15 minutes for actual questions.
As soon as they entered the room, Paul asked to see the list of interviewers. Reluctantly, Henry’s assistant handed Paul the clipboard. The assistant had been told not to let John or Paul see the list unless they asked for it directly. Well, Paul had asked very directly, right as soon as he came in the room. He was all business. John, on the other hand, wandered into the sitting area, and plopped dramatically on to a sofa. He appeared to be glaring angrily at the chairs where soon he and Paul would be sitting, in front of lights and cameras.
Paul perused the list and about three quarters of the way down he stopped, his eyes not believing what he was seeing. “Henry!!!” He shouted.
Paul rarely shouted. This shout aroused everyone’s attention, and Henry, who was standing on the other side of the room, felt the hairs going up on the back of his neck. What now? He wondered. He quickly approached Paul, whose face looked like a black cloud. Henry was vaguely aware that John had gotten up and was headed for Paul too, asking, “What is it?” repeatedly. Henry got to Paul just seconds after John did.
Paul looked pointedly at the assistant until the young man realized he was supposed to make himself scarce. He scurried away. Paul saw the curious looks on the faces of the camera, lighting, and sound crews. He told Henry shortly, “Get rid of them for a few minutes.”
Henry asked everyone to leave the room for a few minutes. They all trundled out, dying of curiosity, and hung around whispering gossip in the hallway outside the room.
“Why is this magazine on the list?” Paul asked, his voice a deep, disapproving growl.
Henry looked at the list and saw where Paul was pointing. He had worried about how that particular magazine would go down with John and Paul. Before he could say anything, John grabbed the clipboard and yelled,
“The Advocate? You fucking invited the fucking Advocate here?” John’s voice reflected extreme disbelief and outrage. “How could you do such a stupid thing?”
Henry cleared his throat. “I had 12 spots. There were over 70 requests. They drew numbers, and the ones whose numbers were called got on the list. It’s standard procedure,” Henry added.
Paul was staring at Henry in an unnerving way, while John began to panic. “Paul! I’m not going to do any of these damn interviews! We’re here to talk about our music and our tour. The fucking Advocate is not here to talk about our music and our tour!”
Paul was more self-contained. He said calmly to Henry, his eyes never leaving his face, “Are you telling me you didn’t vet the applicants before letting them draw numbers?” His voice was quiet, but scary.
“My assistant vetted them. He... he didn’t know what The Advocate was.”
“And where were you when this was going on?” Paul asked. His voice was too silky, too smooth.
“I was overseeing the press packets...” Henry explained. “There were problems with them.”
“It doesn’t matter, Paul, because I’m not doing this...” John was saying. He hadn’t been listening to the conversation between Paul and Henry.
Paul sighed. “Okay. This is what we’re going to do. I note that The Advocate is scheduled in the last 45 minutes. Henry, you’re going to announce that John here isn’t feeling well, and we’re leaving earlier than scheduled, and we’re sorry but the last 5 interviews are cancelled. In addition, you are going to tell each interviewer as they come in the room that we will not entertain questions about our private lives, and if they ask them, we will politely decline to answer.”
Henry blanched. “They’re going to riot.”
“Well, they can riot or John and I can riot. Pick your poison,” Paul said flatly, and there was no humor in his voice or expression at all.
Henry swallowed and said, “They’re gonna know John isn’t unwell, because he will have sat for the other interviews...”
“He’ll say he is incredibly weak, and he can’t sit there for four hours. Three is all he can handle. It’s that or nothing, right John?”
John was nodding fiercely. He didn’t realize that Paul had cleverly roped him in to doing three hours of interviews when he had wanted to leave immediately.
Henry nodded his surrender, and said, “You two relax. We’ll get the first interviews started and a little later I will break the news to the others.”
Paul patted Henry lightly on the back as he turned to leave the room. “This was a big mistake, Henry, but you’re entitled to one. Don’t ever let this happen again.” He turned and headed for the little fridge in the room to get bottles of water for John and himself. He sat down next to John on the sofa. John was holding a throw pillow on his lap and looked dejected.
“So, John, you’re not feeling well - don’t forget.” Paul had a mischievous smile on his face. He was trying to charm John out of his mood.
“I won’t have to pretend,” John growled. “I do feel sick.”
“So, if they ask about it, we’ll smile neutrally and remind them we’re not here to talk about our private lives, and turn the subject back to the album or the tour.” Paul was speaking softly to John, building him up mentally for what was to come. John nodded weakly, but he didn’t look happy at all.
The first interviewer was from the BBC, and she came in looking young and perky. Paul heaved a sigh of relief. She wasn’t going to want to rock the boat. He had her sized up in a split second. They sat in the “hot chairs”, as John and Paul always jokingly called them, and turned pleasant, calm faces to the camera.
Paul was right. Miss BBC did not ask any questions about their personal lives. They had a good 15 minutes’ discussion about the upcoming tour. The album reviews had been great, and the first week’s sales were also great, so the interview went very well. As the interviewer left, Paul whispered to John, “You were getting awfully cheerful there at the end, John. Don’t forget you’re sick!”
John guffawed. “Maybe I can gin up some vomit for the next one.”
Paul laughed. “Let’s don’t go that far...”
The first 5 interviews flew by, and while one of the interviewers, an older woman from a Canadian television show, asked them how they felt about all the rumors about their relationship, Paul deftly handled that one by saying, “Oh, we don’t pay any attention to rumors and gossip. No point to it.” And then he had smiled warmly to show her he had nothing to hide. She didn’t have the courage to pry further in that direction, and as soon as the clock approached the 15th minute, Henry hustled her out.
It was about this time that Henry’s assistants were telling the last five on the list that John Lennon was not feeling well, and couldn’t continue after the next two interviews. There was an immediate uproar as the five who were cancelled protested and attempted negotiations for a few minutes at least. Henry overheard the uproar, and stepped in to turn them all down politely but firmly. After Henry turned around and disappeared back in the room with the sixth interviewer, the remaining 6 reporters began to express their outrage to each other.
The reporter from the Advocate told the others, “I was going to confront them about their relationship. I think I’m the only one who has the balls to do it.”
Another reporter said, “They get famous and they forget they owe things to the press that helped them get famous.”
A third reporter said, “If the man is sick, he’s sick. I don’t see why we need to turn this into some kind of conspiracy.” At that point he, and another two of the disappointed reporters, turned and left.
The lucky reporter who was to be the seventh and last interviewer said to the remaining two disappointed reporters, including the reporter from the Advocate, “Each of you give me a question you wanted to ask, and I’ll see if I can get to them after mine are done.” The two reporters each handed over their most important question, and the Advocate reporter said, “Don’t ask mine until last, because they’ll cut you short if you do.”
Meanwhile, back in the interview room, the sixth interviewer was expressing skeptical concern about John’s health.
“We’re told you’re too ill to finish?” He asked.
John stared at the man with icy eyes. The man was taken aback by this. It was one thing to come up with confrontational questions while waiting outside in the hallway. It was another thing entirely to be faced with another human being who was taking offense at what you’d said. John finally said, “I didn’t want to come at all. I’ve lasted as long as I can.” These words, at least, were true.
“I hope it is nothing serious?” The reporter asked, quickly trying to show a sympathetic face.
“I doubt if I’ll die, if that’s what you mean,” John said, chuckling a little to reduce the tension in the air.
“If you feel at any moment like you might die, please let us know and we’ll call an ambulance,” Paul quipped to John. “We wouldn’t want you dead on our hands, would we?” Paul had turned to the reporter as he asked the impertinent question.
The reporter chuckled uneasily. He had succeeded in pissing them both off, and he hadn’t asked any of his prepared questions yet. “I’m very sorry you’re feeling ill,” he said sincerely. And then he moved on to the stock questions about the album and tour. Soon he was being escorted out, feeling like an abject failure. No Pulitzer Prizes for him!
Number Seven strolled in to the room. He was going to play it cool until the end. He had read the Advocate’s question, and was actually glad he had offered to ask it. He could blame the Advocate reporter for it if it pissed off John and Paul.
Paul immediately caught the cagey gleam in the reporter’s eye, and he turned to John until their eyes met. He sent a very clear message to John, although no one else noticed it. Be careful - this guy’s up to something. This was the silent warning. John nodded imperceptibly. Then he turned toward the reporter with a studiedly sickly smile and a limp handshake. Paul’s greeting and handshake was far more robust.
This reporter worked for Variety, a Los Angeles-based entertainment trade magazine. More news than gossip, Variety had been the main business periodical for Hollywood show business for decades. Thus, Reporter No. Seven was a real news reporter. He wasn’t likely to be intimidated by John Lennon’s steely gaze, nor waylaid by Paul’s smooth charm. Both men had figured this out just by eyeballing him. They’d been exposed to every kind of reporter there was in the last almost 40 years, and quickly knew what they were dealing with. They were glad he was the last one of the day.
The reporter wasn’t interested in small talk. While he quickly asked John if he was okay, and received a shrug expressing ‘just barely’, the reporter dove right into his own questions. He needed to try to squeeze in the Advocate’s question.
“John, you will be sixty in a few months. Do you envision continuing in this business much longer?” The reporter’s face was neutral, and reflected little warmth and no good will. “And Paul - you’re not far behind.”
Paul laughed and said, “When we were your age we distrusted old people too.”
John was looking at the reporter with an odd expression on his face. He finally said, “I think we’ll keep writing songs as long as we enjoy doing it. If it stops being successful, then we may just write songs for fun. For us, music isn’t hard labor or anything. It’s a pleasure.”
Paul added, “And what would we do if we didn’t do this? Sit around and watch television and count our awards? After a month of doing that, I think I at least would die of boredom.”
“Your world tour is very ambitious, though. It stretches out for almost a year.”
“It may take longer than that,” Paul said matter-of-factly. “We’re taking it a few dates at a time, with breaks in between. We’re still working out the details for some of the gigs.”
John wrapped his arms around his stomach as though he was feeling bad. He kept his head down. Paul had looked over to John with concern on his face, and then turned back to the reporter, who noticed all this and thought for the first time, I think the man really is sick. But he told himself not to go soft on them. His job was to dig for an interesting news bite.
“Will you be able to keep up that pace? Your press packet says your shows will last almost three hours.” The reporter was not giving up his assumption that John and Paul’s advanced ages would make it impossible for them to do a professional job.
This attitude irritated Paul, but he smiled warmly instead of showing it. “We’ll soon find out, won’t we, John?” He poked John with his elbow, and John’s head flew up from their place in the palms of his hands.
“Yeah. What he said.” John had decided to get rid of this guy as soon as possible. He was trouble. So he had to step up his ‘sick’ act. He managed to look quite miserable.
The reporter felt his time melting away, and so he said, “One of the reporters whose turn was cancelled asked me to ask a question for him. He works for the Advocate, which is a gay men’s magazine. He wants you to respond directly to the widespread rumors that the two of you are actually living together as lovers.”
Paul was surprised by this gambit, but then berated himself for not anticipating it. He schooled his face not to change expression and said, “I believe we stated that we would not be discussing personal issues here today.” His voice was polite, but firm.
“You can’t expect people not to ask the question, though. It is like the elephant in the room!” The reporter protested.
“So you asked the question. Move on.” This was John, looking up from his hands and leveling a beady-eye on the reporter.
“I didn’t get an answer,” the reporter said. “It’s a simple ‘yes’ or ‘no.’”
Paul was worried that John would say something indiscreet at this provocation, so he jumped in and said, “For us it isn’t ‘simple.’ If we answer these intrusive questions about our personal lives, where does it end? We’ve lived our entire adult lives in the spotlight. We each want to have corners in our lives that are just for us. We have often regretted saying too much about our private lives in interviews in the past. We just decided we aren’t going to give in to that pressure where we’re made to feel as though we’re liars or worse just because we want some measure of privacy for ourselves.” Paul’s voice was not hostile; it was an attempt to reason with the reporter so he could see their side of it.
John had lost patience. He had felt the rage building up in him as Paul’s plea was being delivered. How dare these reporters behave as though they were entitled to know their private business! He suddenly jumped in as Paul was just ending his comment and said, “You reporters are all the same. If a celebrity wants privacy, you call him ‘secretive’, as though there is some horrible dark secret he is hiding. We don’t owe you information! We’re here to sell our album and our tour. You’re here to sell magazines. This is a commercial transaction. We’re not sitting here asking you about your private life, and you have no business sitting there, asking us! Our personal lives are not for sale!” John’s voice was vibrating with passion.
The reporter knew he was going to be escorted out any minute now, but felt he had one more point to make before leaving. “People will think because you won’t answer the question ‘no’, that it means that the answer is ‘yes.’ And even if it is ‘yes’, what’s the big deal? Don’t you see how that information sheds light on your creative partnership, and the songs that you write?”
John was fit to be tied. He was vibrating with anger. Paul reached over and grabbed John’s wrist, squeezing it tightly. This served to remind John that he was supposed to be sick. He slunk back in his chair and put his hand over his forehead.
“I really don’t think we have anything more to say,” Paul said quietly to the reporter. “John isn’t feeling well, and we need to end this now.”
As if on cue, the lighting lead cut the lights, and the cameraman stopped filming. Paul immediately began removing the little microphone from his lapel, and the soundman assisted John in removing his. The reporter felt awkward, but he also felt proud of himself. He’d asked the question - about the elephant in the room - and although he never got a straight answer, the quick wrist squeeze Paul had given John to calm him down had told it’s own story. No, it wasn’t evidence in the strictest sense of the word, but for the person who witnessed it, it appeared to be a very husbandly thing to do. The reporter couldn’t really blame them for not wanting to talk about it publicly. What would happen to their legacy if they ever acknowledged it? Most of their fans were older, and probably more conservative about such matters. In a way, they had shown a lot of courage to sit there and not lie. It could have been so easy to say ‘no’ and move on. But they didn’t. They’d always been brutally honest about themselves in the almost four decades of their fame, and the reporter had a fugitive admiration for their choice: so much more honest to say, mind your own business, than to lie - which would have gotten most of the monkeys off their backs.
As the door closed behind the reporter, and when all the crew had left the room, John fell back in his chair and groaned, “Oh my fucking god that was every bit as horrible as I thought it would be!” It came out without stopping or punctuation, almost like the first verse of Lucy in the Sky With Diamonds.
Henry said, “It wasn’t bad at all. You had a good number of strong interviews there for your album and tour. And you stood up to that last guy really well.”
John was not in a forgiving mood. “Yeah, which we wouldn’t have had to do, if you hadn’t put the Advocate on the interview list!”
Henry felt the rebuke, but responded honestly. “If we’d eliminated him from the draw, he would have written that we’d deliberately excluded him and suggested that it was because you knew he’d be asking about your relationship. At least this way you have plausible deniability.”
Paul said, “That’s a charitable interpretation of what just happened,” but then he sighed and got up. “Come on John, let’s get you home. You’re ill, remember? We have to play the game until the bitter end.”
John did get up, but he was heard to mutter, “My life is not a fucking game!”
*****
Two Weeks Later
Fiona’s Office
“I was really shook up by those interviews we did,” John told Fiona.
“Why is that?”
“I was terrified they were going to confront me about my relationship with Paul, and one of them did.” John looked seriously bummed.
Fiona cocked her head to the side. The devil’s advocate role was her burden in life. “I don’t know how many times I’ve heard you say that you wanted to be open about your relationship with Paul. You used to be very upset that Linda was getting all the attention as Paul’s spouse. What’s changed?”
John looked irked that Fiona had remembered his comments from years ago, and was equally irked that she had reminded him of them. He said with a pout in his voice, “That was before it was possible for it to happen. Linda was like the dam that kept the water back. We had to keep it secret so she wouldn’t be hurt. It never occurred to me that I was actually grateful that she was there as an obstacle.”
Fiona considered what John had said. “In truth, what was bothering you was that you couldn’t be the one and only in Paul’s life. It wasn’t the public acknowledgement of it, so much as the private reality of it.”
John looked at Fiona directly for several moments and then said, “That’s a good way to put it. When it comes down to it, I wanted Paul to myself, and the only reason I wanted everyone to know was that I thought this would make it so. But now that it really is so, I don’t need that fantasy of exposure anymore. It’s really weird.”
“How does Paul feel about the idea of coming out?” Fiona asked.
“Don’t use those words ‘coming out.’ It makes it sound like we’re gay, and we’ve been living in the closet all these years.”
Fiona was silent. She waited while John’s words could echo in his head for a while. Finally she said, “Well, maybe you’re bisexual, but your relationship with Paul has been in the closet for some time, wouldn’t you say?”
“It’s more complicated than that,” John argued. “When I met Paul I was attracted to his being - his aura, his beauty, his body language, his talent, his intellect, his sense of humor - it was the package that attracted me. I didn’t see his private bits at first; I saw this beautiful human package. It wasn’t male or female to me. And that is how it has been for me ever since - I’m attracted to a human package, and then after I’ve been attracted to their gestalt I notice their private bits. Like, ‘oh! He’s got a cock!’ Or, ‘she’s got a pussy!’ It’s kind of a surprise to me. I don’t particularly care what parts they have. So it is more complicated than you make it sound.”
“Sounds like a perfect definition of ‘bisexual’ to me,” Fiona said, defending herself.
John paused and said, “Yeah, well, Paul is different. He was meant to be straight.”
“We’ve talked about this before. I feel as though I should challenge you on that. Would a straight man fall in love with someone of the same sex and maintain a decades’ long sexual relationship with him?” Fiona was honestly curious about John’s response.
“Well, I don’t know the answer to that as a general matter, but I can assure you that Paul did exactly that. He’s not attracted to men; he is attracted to women. It took me years of scheming to get him to see me as a sexual object, and then I suspected he was just humoring me because he didn’t want to lose my partnership, and thus the band. The band was fucking everything to him back then.”
“But when you walked back into his life later? He was happily married with children. Why do you suppose he succumbed to your seduction then?” Fiona knew she was pushing John, but it was time he understood that he wasn’t alone in his bisexual yearnings. When it finally dawned on him that Paul, too, obviously had at least some bisexual yearnings, it would no doubt help John to cement his sense of security in the relationship.
John shook his head. “I know he loves me. But I’m an anomaly to him. For him, it’s like there are men, women and John Lennon. I’m like a third sex to him in some way. I guess ‘cuz I got ahold of him when he was so young.”
“But weren’t you afraid he was having an affair with another man? What was his name?” Fiona fumbled with her notebook.
“Rob.” John said the word as if he were saying “hell on earth.”
“Yes - Rob. Would he have been attracted to this other man if he wasn’t also bisexual?”
John again shook his head. “He told me about that. He was feeling terribly hurt by the crap I was putting him through. I was going through a kind of nervous breakdown after the cancer, and I was horrible to him, and then I ignored him, and then I disappeared for several weeks. I even had that horrible sexual encounter with another man while I was away from him. Rob was literally stalking him, seducing him. And the thing was, Paul could never cheat on Linda with a woman. He just would never go there, period, because he had promised her. So Rob seemed like a possibility to him.”
Fiona listened politely and then asked, “Why is it so important for you to think of Paul as straight as opposed to bisexual?”
John was left speechless. He hadn’t expected the session to take this weird turn into an area he had never examined before.
“I don’t think it is ‘important’, Fiona,” John said slowly, with some irritation. “I just believe it to be true.” John stopped for a moment, and then his face lit up with amusement. “Or, maybe it is important for me to think he is utterly straight because he found it so easy to resist my charms for so long.”
Fiona chuckled along with John, but felt that John had again escaped from facing an interesting insight through his sense of humor.
*****
Later That Night
They were in bed, they had fooled around, and now they were lying quietly beside each other. John’s head was nestled on Paul’s chest, and Paul’s arm was wrapped around John’s shoulder.
“Paul?” John asked in a subdued voice.
“Hmm?” Paul was half asleep.
“Do you think you are straight, or bisexual?”
That got Paul’s attention. His eyes flew open. “What?” He asked.
“You heard me. It came up in my session today.”
“Whether I’m straight or bi came out in your session today?” Paul couldn’t quite imagine how this topic could possibly have come up in John’s session.
“Fiona seems to think I have some need to think of you as straight.”
“Well, John,” Paul said after a very long moment of silence during which he had been carefully selecting his words, “you do know that I have sex with you, don’t you?”
John snickered. “Of course.”
“And that I thoroughly enjoy it?”
“Glad to hear that,” John responded.
“Doesn’t sound very straight to me,” Paul pointed out. He waited a few seconds and then added, “Just sayin’.”
*****