It's funny. I love watching Ryan; I have ever since we met. At
first it was a combination
of admiration and fascination: how such a tall, awkward-looking
man could possess
such a graceful and innate knowledge of his physical self. He is
always aware of what
his body looks like onstage, and he is completely free of any
self-consciousness that
might temper his dramatic movements with restraint. Later on, I'd
catch myself watching
him when I knew he wasn't looking: taking a few moments to allow
my affection for him
to come right to the front of my mind, behind my eyes, and settle
there. I used to think it
was a hallmark of a good friendship, that sometimes I had to stop
and just take him in.
Those moments always gave me the tiniest pinch of guilty
pleasure, although I'm sure
that I never let myself think about what that might mean--not
then.
But I used to watch him whenever he managed to drink himself to
sleep during a flight,
or when he was ensconced in a chair in my hotel room absorbed in
a script--and
especially when he was performing. He was--is--radiant on the
stage, bursting with
concentration and energy. When I'm not up there with him, I can
allow myself to feel
some of that--it's intense but contained, since it's not aimed in
my direction.
It's only recently that I've felt the full force of Ryan's
presence, and it's like my safety net
has been yanked out from underneath me. I think that this is why
I've stopped looking,
why I'm suddenly frightened to.
We've been lying on a big double bed--one of my many
"rentals", as Ryan tends to refer
to them, for almost an hour. We're ostensibly watching
"Naked Gun: 33 and 1/3", but
what we're really doing is killing time. Or I am, at least. Ryan
seems as comfortable as
ever, although he's very hard to read--the man has the best poker
face I've ever
encountered. But I know that personally, once again, I am
awaiting the credit roll with
trepidation; the moment where there are no more distractions and
we'll have to
concentrate on words like "each other" and
"together."
It's funny--it was never this hard in the beginning. Well--the
very first time--that was hard.
As much as we'd always flirted with the issue in the past, with
the fact that there was a
more than healthy dose of attraction between us, there was always
a barrier that we
didn't go beyond. Now that I look back on it, it makes perfect
sense that we broke
through that barrier on stage--as paradoxical as it sounds,
that's the only place where we
are always completely safe, where nothing we say or do has to
have any consequences
unless we want it to. It's much better than being drunk, although
to be fair, drunkenness
was part of the final equation as well. After Ryan kissed
me--admittedly in character, in
front of an audience, and on national TV, I guess we both decided
that we were too
curious about the consequences to hold back any more.
The situation should have been romantic and climactic after all
the years it took us to get
to that point, but we really just slid into it like it was the
most natural thing in the world.
After the show ended we headed back to my hotel, raided the
mini-bar, and somehow
got up the nerve to lean in towards each other and close our
eyes. The rest, as they say,
is history.
Ever since that night, though, I've been feeling progressively
more uncomfortable around
him, rather than less. And around other people, too. It's been
just about two months
since we first slept together. I shouldn't still be in LA; Deb
expected me home three
weeks ago, when the taping ended. I told her I'd landed a spot of
temporary work here
and that I'd be back as soon as it was over. But she suspects
something; I'm sure I
couldn't keep the change out of my voice. It's the same way
around the "Whose Line"
guys, and our mutual friends. Ryan is stoic. Maybe he stands a
little bit closer to me
now, touches me more often and with more familiarity, but if
anyone's noticed they've
given no sign. He was quietly amused when I tried to talk to him
about the consequences
of people suspecting we're together. "People have been
suspecting that we're together
for years, Colin. If they did find out, it would probably settle
some bets."
The thing is, I don't know what I would do if people were to find
out about us. In one
sense, it would be an affirmation. When he's asleep, when I can
still allow myself to look
at him without the wary restraint I've developed over the past
few months, I know
where I want to be. I couldn't care less about what the media
would think, or our fans,
or our friends--it feels right for me, and right for us, and
that's the only thing that matters.
But when we're together in public, or apart, it seems like I'm
constantly dodging arrows,
as if every derogatory phrase downtown LA can regurgitate has
suddenly been aimed at
me. Fag. Pansy. Cocksucker. Flamer. Every time I pick up a
newspaper, it seems like
there's a story about the damage that homosexual parents have
done to their children.
Every time I turn the TV on, Jerry Springer or Ricki Lake are
haranguing some hillbilly
couple's son and his "friend" in front of a jeering
crowd while the tearful and enraged
parents threaten to disown. Society and popular culture seem
suddenly obsessed with
getting a good laugh or a dirty thrill at the expense of gay
couples and the associated
stereotypes. It doesn't matter who we are when it's so much
bigger than both of us, and
I never wanted this stigma. I have a wife, I have a child, I have
a normal life where no
one passes judgment on anything but my hoedowns.
And I'm in love with Ryan. It's no wonder I feel frozen--I have
no idea which way to
move anymore.
At the moment we're both in our boxers, as the room is warm and
slightly stuffy
(although that may be just an excuse--in my mind, being able to
lounge around in your
underwear is high on the list of the advantages of couple-dom).
For the past half-hour,
Ryan's been rubbing my lower belly--soft, rhythmic, kneading
motions, like a sleepy cat.
This is another thing. There is no denying what he does to me, as
much as I'd like to
sometimes. He barely has to touch me, like now, and I'm aroused.
And when he really
puts his mind to it...let's just say that mind-blowing sex has
taken on a whole new
dimension.
A rumbling baritone startles me out of my reverie.
"Colin," Ryan begins, and then clears
his throat. He is still running his hand along the waistband of
my boxers, and looking
down at my rather obvious erection, so it's almost as if his next
words are addressed to
my penis and not to me. "Are you ever going to forgive
me?"
"What do you mean?" I push myself up on my elbow and
shift my torso just slightly
away from him. He senses the purpose of the motion (too easily, I
think sadly) and
removes his hand. "Forgive you for what?"
"For...this." He waves an arm in a way that I think is
supposed to be all-encompassing
but which only appears melodramatic. Smiling is a bad idea when
Ryan's feeling
morose, as he tends to take everything personally, so I bite the
inside of my cheek.
"For pushing you--well, both of us, I guess--to act on our
feelings. For being..." he
does look up then, trying to catch my eyes. I pre-empt him by
finding a spot on his
forehead to study, and he sighs quietly. "For being the
reason you're with another man."
"Ryan...that's hardy fair, is it?" He shrugs
dismissively. "Why do you feel like I should
forgive *you*? It was as much my decision as it was yours."
"I kissed you."
"Yeah, and then I drove you back to my hotel. On a first
date, no less. Do you really
want to talk about this now?"
"If it were up to you we would never talk about it at
all!" he snaps, and then turns away
from me, scrubbing a hand over his eyes. "I'm sorry. But I'm
having a hard time getting
through to you lately. It feels like there's so much unspoken
between us, still. I thought the
point of this..." he quirks his mouth up in a jaded
half-smile "...arrangement, I guess, was
to finally start being honest with each other."
"I thought it was more about the whipped cream and the
studded leather." I mean this as
a joke, but the words fall flat, and Ryan doesn't even favor me
with a ghost of a smile.
"See?" he says quietly.
I sigh deeply, suddenly wishing that I had more clothes on. Like
there's a point to
arguing when our dress and our posture mark us and draw us in.
"Okay," I reply, "that's
fair. But I don't really know what you want me to say. Are you
asking if I blame you?"
He shrugs. I continue, "You have just as much right to blame
me as I do you, like I said.
I've had just as much of a disruptive effect on your life as
you've had on mine. This is
new...different...for both of us."
Ryan shakes his head. "Not the same thing."
"Why not?"
"You know why not. I've had male lovers before."
Yes, he has. But they were never anything lasting, and I say so.
"Maybe not, but I've been aware of this--aspect of my
personality--for a long time.
You haven't. I'm not as close to my wife as you are to yours. And
I--I guess I have to
say that I don't really give a damn what people think of us.
Maybe it's living in California,"
he favors me with another one of those almost smiles, "but I
guess I've gotten used to
accepting that what I want is not necessarily what other people
would want, or approve
of. I can shake things off. But you--" he touches my face
with his fingertips and manages
to capture my restless eyes, "you take everything in. You
always have."
"What do you want me to say?"
"I guess I just want to know if you're comfortable--and if
you're happy." He clears his
throat. "We knew from the beginning that it was going to be
difficult, Col. But if it's so
hard that it's not good anymore, then maybe...I don't know. You
and I both know that
there's a thousand reasons why we shouldn't be together."
"Whose reasons are they?" I ask carefully.
He shifts just enough for his thigh to be touching mine. Though I
had been shying away
from physical contact just minutes ago, I now find it comforting.
I think he wants me to
tell him that the thought of losing him, and this newfound
intimacy, scares me. I haven't
quite allowed myself to think about it in those terms, yet, but I
press back against him
and give what reassurance I can. We've always communicated better
with our bodies
than with our words, anyway. He smiles at me and then continues.
"Other people's
reasons, mostly. But that's from my point of view. I need to hear
yours."
"Well..." Here goes. I seem to be choosing my words
carefully, which is funny
considering that I have no idea what I'm about to say.
"Frankly, it does disturb me
sometimes, to think about what our relationship must look like
from the outside. We're
having sex. Sex, Ryan. Two middle-aged, married men. If it got
out, it would be seen as
a mid-life crisis, or a perverted thrill, or two guys who...who
are apart from their wives
for so long sometimes that they decide not to let integrity get
in the way of a good screw."
This last part comes out a bit more harshly than I intended. Ryan
blinks, but looks
otherwise unfazed. If this comment stung him, I won't hear about
it until much later.
"Is that what you think it is?" he asks me. "Just
sex?"
"Of course not. But Ryan..." Now I have to work to
catch his eyes. He holds my gaze,
but reluctantly, like a guilty child. "That's what people
will see. They won't see us, they
won't see you for who you are anymore--I mean, you'll still be
Ryan Stiles, talented
comedian, but I think that the word 'gay' will come first. And I
guess *I'm* having
trouble not looking at you that way--or myself." I smile
self-consciously. "I'm still
adjusting to this, Ryan. To having you in my life
as--my--partner, I guess, or boyfriend."
The words even sound strange to me.
Ryan plays with a corner of the blanket. "You seem nervous,
Col. All the time, now,
when I'm around. You don't want to talk, you won't look at me,
and when I touch you,
you stiffen up." He suddenly chuckles awkwardly and covers
his face with one hand.
"Ah--in more ways than one, I mean." Trust Ryan to
catch the double meaning there.
"I *am* nervous," I admit quietly. "I guess I just
don't know how to take this. I don't
know how to be your lover."
We look at each other helplessly. Then Ryan shrugs and takes my
hand, massaging the
back of it with his thumb. "You've been doing a good job so
far. Um, if it helps...I was...
I was afraid that you were having second thoughts."
"Ryan...of course I am. And so are you." I snort
quietly. "It's like it's been nothing but
second thoughts since we started this thing." At this he
tries to pull his hand from mine,
but I don't let him go. Instead I touch his chest, his
collarbone, the corner of his jaw, his
cheek and yes, even his nose lightly with my gaze before I center
myself in his eyes. Yes,
I have been missing this. "But do you know why I'm still
here? None of them have
anything to do with you."
"Really?" he asks. Ironically, I recall that we started
the conversation with him trying to
reassure me. This is often the way it works, as Ryan, outwardly
so self-assured, has a
deeply insecure center that he almost never shows. I might be
shyer and less confident
on the outside, but I guess I do think of myself as solid. Ry
told me once that I was his
rock, jokingly but with serious eyes, a comment I never forgot.
Most times, like now, I
draw my own assurance from bolstering him, and we both come out
stronger for it.
"Really," I reply with a smile. "This--whatever we
have...with you--us--it's been great,"
I finish in a rush, blushing slightly. I know I've said it badly,
but he's smiling when I look
up at him. Who needs words when this man can speak such volumes
with his eyes?
"Thank you, Colin," he says, oddly formal. "I
think I needed that."
"Yeah. Me too."
"So."
"Well, the movie's over."
"Is it?"
"Mmm-hmm."
"So..." he chuckles awkwardly.
I place my fingers lightly over his lips. "So let's shut up
for a while, huh?" I replace my
fingers with my mouth, and, for a while, we do.
Much later, Ryan lies next to me, flat on his stomach with arms
and legs spread about as
wide as he can get them. He's really not a spooner--he falls
asleep immediately after
making love and then proceeds to take over the bed. At the
moment, though, this suits
me just fine. I'm looking at him--really looking, trying to take
everything in. The way that
his hair is still damp from sweat at the ends, curling up tight
against the base of his neck.
The fact that the bedside lamp makes the skin on his back look
golden and taut, and that
each of his ribs casts a tiny shadow. His lips, which make little
sucking motions almost
continuously while he sleeps--I'd always assumed that Ryan was a
breast man, until I
knew better.
I can't say that having a man in my bed is ever what I envisioned
for myself, or that I ever
wanted it. But I do want him--and that makes all the difference
in the world, I guess.
What I feel for Ryan *is*, and no label can either accurately
describe it or detract from
it, not at its most fundamental level. The world might be bigger
than us, but it can't get in
where we are. I think that that's the safety I've been looking
for.