𝚑𝚊𝚠𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚜 "𝚑𝚊𝚠𝚔" 𝚣. 𝚏𝚞𝚕𝚕𝚎𝚛 (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
homosexuals) wrote2025-07-01 06:36 pm
homosexuals) wrote2025-07-01 06:36 pm
[SALT MEMSHARE]
[TW: period-typical homophobia, slurs, conversion therapy, nsfw content.]
#1: first love
#2: caught
#3: internalization
#4: fuck religion
#5: ww2 + the death of love
#6: soulmate
#7: the lavender scare
#8: the polgyraph test
#9: survival
#1: first love
#2: caught
#3: internalization
#4: fuck religion
#5: ww2 + the death of love
#6: soulmate
#7: the lavender scare
#8: the polgyraph test
#9: survival
JUNE 1936
You're 16 years old.
You're a tennis star with a bright future ahead, white shorts and polos always neatly pressed, shoes absent scuffs where your mother - or probably the staff - polishes them away at the end of every game you play.
Your dark hair is slicked back, cheeks flushed pink from exertion and much more than just youthful excitement glittering in endless blue eyes as you take one end of the massive gold trophy in hand and look over at your doubles partner. His hair is lighter than yours, chestnut brown, christened gold from the sun - an impossibly giddy look on his face that you meet eagerly.
You're 16 years old, and you think you are in love with a boy named Kenneth Ward. Later, when you both kiss each other shyly in the privacy of the locker room in a rush, you think you might have dreamt it - but you're pretty sure he might love you too.
You're 16 years old, and you are happy.
You're 16 years old.
You're a tennis star with a bright future ahead, white shorts and polos always neatly pressed, shoes absent scuffs where your mother - or probably the staff - polishes them away at the end of every game you play.
Your dark hair is slicked back, cheeks flushed pink from exertion and much more than just youthful excitement glittering in endless blue eyes as you take one end of the massive gold trophy in hand and look over at your doubles partner. His hair is lighter than yours, chestnut brown, christened gold from the sun - an impossibly giddy look on his face that you meet eagerly.
You're 16 years old, and you think you are in love with a boy named Kenneth Ward. Later, when you both kiss each other shyly in the privacy of the locker room in a rush, you think you might have dreamt it - but you're pretty sure he might love you too.
You're 16 years old, and you are happy.
SEPTEMBER 1936
You're 16 years old.
You've just spent the best summer of your life, and you don't know how it could ever get any better than this.
You and Kenny are inseparable - on the field and off.
Your mother smiles at you like she knows something you don't, but she always makes sure there is fresh lemonade and jello every time Kenny comes over after practice.
Your father looks at you sometimes like he knows something you don't, but he never says more than a gruff hello to you both in passing before picking up his cigarettes and haranguing your mother with derision at the state of the world.
You finish your homework at the table, diligent as always, before loudly mentioning you have to show Kenny the trophy from the summer's victory - it's just been polished, and it's shiny enough to see a reflection. Dinner is nowhere near done, and your parents are both deep into the conversation that's never really even-sided.
You dare to take Kenny's hand and pull him up the stairs to your boyhood room, never shy about the stuffed animal or the trinkets on your dressers. You close the door quietly, hands shaking as you tell him you want to do something special for him this time. It can't always be furtive kisses and quick tugs of the palm - and when you overheard one of the girls at school talking about it, you knew it's what would show Kenny how much he means to you.
You're on your knees, heart hammering in your chest and nerves alight not from the fear of being caught - but because you're not sure you can contain the love that threatens to consume you whole. Kenny's hand is in your hair, gentle, and his voice is soft and undone. You taste sweat and saltiness, lapping at him like one of the lollipops from time you snuck out of practice early to hit the carnival in town. Your cheeks hollow, fighting the urge to gag as you try to swallow more of him, coughing around it and apologizing with a laugh that it's not as easy as the girl made it sound. You'll get better at it - you just need to practice, you say with an eager grin.
You're on your knees, and Kenny is making the most exciting noises you think you've ever heard in your life. Your own cock hangs heavy behind your school slacks, but it doesn't matter - making sure Kenny knows how vast the love you feel for him is. Your eyes slip shut, and you've found a rhythm, one that's conducted by the staccatoed hitch of Kenny's breath and the flex and release of his fingers in your hair. I'm close, Hawk -, he says, and that's okay, because -
"What the hell is this?"
You freeze, scrambling away on your knees like you've been doused in scalding water. Your father's voice rings out sharp, disgusted, his face an angry snarl of disbelief and hatred. The kind you see every time he talks about the state of the world.
You are caught. You want the ground to swallow you and Kenny whole, so you can both escape somewhere else where there is no judgment in your father or anyone else's eyes.
Your own eyes burn with tears as you try to explain, but it's no use. You're exposed - the secret you've been hiding fully revealed to a man who will never understand what real love is, because he doesn't even feel it for your mother.
Your life as you knew it is over.
You don't see Kenny anymore, and you don't play tennis again.
You're 16 years old, and you are devastated.
You're 16 years old.
You've just spent the best summer of your life, and you don't know how it could ever get any better than this.
You and Kenny are inseparable - on the field and off.
Your mother smiles at you like she knows something you don't, but she always makes sure there is fresh lemonade and jello every time Kenny comes over after practice.
Your father looks at you sometimes like he knows something you don't, but he never says more than a gruff hello to you both in passing before picking up his cigarettes and haranguing your mother with derision at the state of the world.
You finish your homework at the table, diligent as always, before loudly mentioning you have to show Kenny the trophy from the summer's victory - it's just been polished, and it's shiny enough to see a reflection. Dinner is nowhere near done, and your parents are both deep into the conversation that's never really even-sided.
You dare to take Kenny's hand and pull him up the stairs to your boyhood room, never shy about the stuffed animal or the trinkets on your dressers. You close the door quietly, hands shaking as you tell him you want to do something special for him this time. It can't always be furtive kisses and quick tugs of the palm - and when you overheard one of the girls at school talking about it, you knew it's what would show Kenny how much he means to you.
You're on your knees, heart hammering in your chest and nerves alight not from the fear of being caught - but because you're not sure you can contain the love that threatens to consume you whole. Kenny's hand is in your hair, gentle, and his voice is soft and undone. You taste sweat and saltiness, lapping at him like one of the lollipops from time you snuck out of practice early to hit the carnival in town. Your cheeks hollow, fighting the urge to gag as you try to swallow more of him, coughing around it and apologizing with a laugh that it's not as easy as the girl made it sound. You'll get better at it - you just need to practice, you say with an eager grin.
You're on your knees, and Kenny is making the most exciting noises you think you've ever heard in your life. Your own cock hangs heavy behind your school slacks, but it doesn't matter - making sure Kenny knows how vast the love you feel for him is. Your eyes slip shut, and you've found a rhythm, one that's conducted by the staccatoed hitch of Kenny's breath and the flex and release of his fingers in your hair. I'm close, Hawk -, he says, and that's okay, because -
"What the hell is this?"
You freeze, scrambling away on your knees like you've been doused in scalding water. Your father's voice rings out sharp, disgusted, his face an angry snarl of disbelief and hatred. The kind you see every time he talks about the state of the world.
You are caught. You want the ground to swallow you and Kenny whole, so you can both escape somewhere else where there is no judgment in your father or anyone else's eyes.
Your own eyes burn with tears as you try to explain, but it's no use. You're exposed - the secret you've been hiding fully revealed to a man who will never understand what real love is, because he doesn't even feel it for your mother.
Your life as you knew it is over.
You don't see Kenny anymore, and you don't play tennis again.
You're 16 years old, and you are devastated.
DECEMBER 1937
You're 17 years old.
You're somehow 17 years old, even though time feels like it passes too quickly and yet not quick enough at all.
You miss Kenny something terribly, but you can't afford to let it show.
Your softness is gone, replaced with something numb and tired and raw, not even angry, because angry means you care. You cannot care in the face of the rumors that have started - the ones you aren't even sure how they escaped.
Your father can barely look at you, and your mother only sneaks her sympathy in when he isn't looking. You don't feel judgment from her, but it's not enough.
You are suffocating, day in and day out in that house.
It's freezing before the holidays, but your school wants to take you all on a trip to Washington DC. Your father protests, accusing you of using it as an opportunity to engage in homosexual deviance with that boy whose name he can barely even utter. Your mother insists it will look even more suspicious if you do not attend, which is how you wind up on a bus - listless and avoiding attention from your classmates. You pointedly sit in the back, ignoring Kenny's look when you pass by the seat he has vacant in the aisle.
Surprisingly, you do find some interest in visiting the capital. Seeing the men in their crisp suits with smoke wafting from their lips and phones perched on their shoulders as they talk fast and smart seems powerful. Rewarding. This is where change happens in the world.
You look idly at souvenirs in the gift shop, but it's the commotion on the way out that pulls you out of a lull.
"What kind of girly shit is this, Ward?"
You look up and see the boys razzing Kenny, who is holding a paperweight in his palm - cherry blossoms around the Jefferson Memorial. They keep it going the whole way to the bus, and then on the whole ride home. You see Kenny meet your gaze, trying to tell you something - trying to ask you to step in, maybe - for some reason your word still counts. You turn to the window and close your eyes, pretending to sleep.
When you get home, your mother unpacks your bag and pulls out the very same paperweight, telling you it's a beautiful memory. You wonder how it got there, and how it's possible for it to hurt your heart this badly.
You're 17 years old, and you know that you still love Kenny, but you also know that he shouldn't love you.
You're 17 years old.
You're somehow 17 years old, even though time feels like it passes too quickly and yet not quick enough at all.
You miss Kenny something terribly, but you can't afford to let it show.
Your softness is gone, replaced with something numb and tired and raw, not even angry, because angry means you care. You cannot care in the face of the rumors that have started - the ones you aren't even sure how they escaped.
Your father can barely look at you, and your mother only sneaks her sympathy in when he isn't looking. You don't feel judgment from her, but it's not enough.
You are suffocating, day in and day out in that house.
It's freezing before the holidays, but your school wants to take you all on a trip to Washington DC. Your father protests, accusing you of using it as an opportunity to engage in homosexual deviance with that boy whose name he can barely even utter. Your mother insists it will look even more suspicious if you do not attend, which is how you wind up on a bus - listless and avoiding attention from your classmates. You pointedly sit in the back, ignoring Kenny's look when you pass by the seat he has vacant in the aisle.
Surprisingly, you do find some interest in visiting the capital. Seeing the men in their crisp suits with smoke wafting from their lips and phones perched on their shoulders as they talk fast and smart seems powerful. Rewarding. This is where change happens in the world.
You look idly at souvenirs in the gift shop, but it's the commotion on the way out that pulls you out of a lull.
"What kind of girly shit is this, Ward?"
You look up and see the boys razzing Kenny, who is holding a paperweight in his palm - cherry blossoms around the Jefferson Memorial. They keep it going the whole way to the bus, and then on the whole ride home. You see Kenny meet your gaze, trying to tell you something - trying to ask you to step in, maybe - for some reason your word still counts. You turn to the window and close your eyes, pretending to sleep.
When you get home, your mother unpacks your bag and pulls out the very same paperweight, telling you it's a beautiful memory. You wonder how it got there, and how it's possible for it to hurt your heart this badly.
You're 17 years old, and you know that you still love Kenny, but you also know that he shouldn't love you.
FEBRUARY 1938
You're 18 years old.
You've been transferred to another school your final semester of your senior year, and your father insists it will be good for you. That you can repent by learning the Jesuit ways, by taking on something more stringent than comfortably Protestant or outright atheist.
You miss the familiarity you grew up with elsewhere - and you miss being able to see Kenny, even if you didn't dare speak a word to him.
You hate it here, and you hate the fact that none of these adults understand the hypocrisy that comes with a God who is supposed to encourage love, but cannot forgive - who would make anything wrong in the first place. What's so wrong about what you and Kenny had?
Nothing.
You do well because you must, because doing well means you can escape to Penn. You're almost free, except it's not really freedom, is it? It's just a different sort of cage.
You're 18 years old, and you're moving on.
You're 18 years old.
You've been transferred to another school your final semester of your senior year, and your father insists it will be good for you. That you can repent by learning the Jesuit ways, by taking on something more stringent than comfortably Protestant or outright atheist.
You miss the familiarity you grew up with elsewhere - and you miss being able to see Kenny, even if you didn't dare speak a word to him.
You hate it here, and you hate the fact that none of these adults understand the hypocrisy that comes with a God who is supposed to encourage love, but cannot forgive - who would make anything wrong in the first place. What's so wrong about what you and Kenny had?
Nothing.
You do well because you must, because doing well means you can escape to Penn. You're almost free, except it's not really freedom, is it? It's just a different sort of cage.
You're 18 years old, and you're moving on.
AUGUST 1945
You're 25 years old.
You've grown up into a handsome, desirable man - a man who leads, a man who has earned the title of Sergeant and is respected by your small squadron of men in Europe against the horrors of the Nazis. Every day your Italian gets a little better, and you think you could see yourself settling down here after a career in politics.
You've become good at bullshitting, at sweet talking and playing up the charm - of knowing the exact right thing to say, the right person to know. You got lucky in college, meeting a then-Governor Wesley Smith and his perfect children - Lucy and Leonard. You were practically adopted in, your father relieved that a man so well-respected doesn't see the stained veneer of your queerness and that it meant you didn't have to come home for the holidays and spoil his mood.
You're smoking a cigarette and playing a hand of poker when the letter comes - handwriting that gets a little shakier every time from your mother. You tell the boys to wait a minute, deal you back in after you finish reading it.
It's your friend - Kenneth Ward. He didn't make it in Luzon. I'm sorry, Hawkins.
You crush the paper, telling everyone you need to take a leak outside and get some air. No one sees that your eyes are glassy and the ash is gathering at the end of your cigarette, and no one knows that it's not the reason your lungs feel tight. No one can taste the choke of smoke that isn't from nicotine and tobacco paper because no one else is choking on the guilt that they got their best friend - their ex-lover killed.
You know Kenny joined the military to stay close to you. You know it's your fault he died.
You're 25 years old, and you have it confirmed yet again: love is a dangerous liability.
You're 25 years old.
You've grown up into a handsome, desirable man - a man who leads, a man who has earned the title of Sergeant and is respected by your small squadron of men in Europe against the horrors of the Nazis. Every day your Italian gets a little better, and you think you could see yourself settling down here after a career in politics.
You've become good at bullshitting, at sweet talking and playing up the charm - of knowing the exact right thing to say, the right person to know. You got lucky in college, meeting a then-Governor Wesley Smith and his perfect children - Lucy and Leonard. You were practically adopted in, your father relieved that a man so well-respected doesn't see the stained veneer of your queerness and that it meant you didn't have to come home for the holidays and spoil his mood.
You're smoking a cigarette and playing a hand of poker when the letter comes - handwriting that gets a little shakier every time from your mother. You tell the boys to wait a minute, deal you back in after you finish reading it.
It's your friend - Kenneth Ward. He didn't make it in Luzon. I'm sorry, Hawkins.
You crush the paper, telling everyone you need to take a leak outside and get some air. No one sees that your eyes are glassy and the ash is gathering at the end of your cigarette, and no one knows that it's not the reason your lungs feel tight. No one can taste the choke of smoke that isn't from nicotine and tobacco paper because no one else is choking on the guilt that they got their best friend - their ex-lover killed.
You know Kenny joined the military to stay close to you. You know it's your fault he died.
You're 25 years old, and you have it confirmed yet again: love is a dangerous liability.
NOVEMBER 1952
You're 32, and you're on top of the world.
Well - you're on top of the world you created for yourself: hands in every pocket, still operating enough in the shadows not to attract too much attention. A nice title that still earns respect and requires discretion, but not picked apart the way the man you idolize, your mentor and second father figure: Senator Smith, has to watch out for.
You're at another boring election night party, and even though you know voting is a waste of goddamn time, you've got to tease and schmooze and pretend like you aren't surprised or disappointed when Eisenhower's name gets announced the winner.
You're waiting to get a drink before they finish the final tally, and you're struck in the eye by a roving spotlight: illuminating tousled chestnut hair, thick-rimmed glasses and an ill-fitting brown suit. You can't tear your eyes away from the young man desperately trying to get noticed at the bar, trying to wave the bartender down.
You laugh incredulously when he tells you he wants a glass of milk.
You get it for him, and you offer him a cheers across the table before you depart.
You're 32, convincing yourself you aren't immediately smitten, and you know it's a lie.
You're 32, and you're on top of the world.
Well - you're on top of the world you created for yourself: hands in every pocket, still operating enough in the shadows not to attract too much attention. A nice title that still earns respect and requires discretion, but not picked apart the way the man you idolize, your mentor and second father figure: Senator Smith, has to watch out for.
You're at another boring election night party, and even though you know voting is a waste of goddamn time, you've got to tease and schmooze and pretend like you aren't surprised or disappointed when Eisenhower's name gets announced the winner.
You're waiting to get a drink before they finish the final tally, and you're struck in the eye by a roving spotlight: illuminating tousled chestnut hair, thick-rimmed glasses and an ill-fitting brown suit. You can't tear your eyes away from the young man desperately trying to get noticed at the bar, trying to wave the bartender down.
You laugh incredulously when he tells you he wants a glass of milk.
You get it for him, and you offer him a cheers across the table before you depart.
You're 32, convincing yourself you aren't immediately smitten, and you know it's a lie.
APRIL 1953
You're 33, and you're still living underneath a mask.
Executive Order 10450 has been introduced by Tailgunner Joe, the same man who everyone knows lets his hands linger too long on sweet-faced boys. You listen as he tells everyone he wants to root out deviancy from the government, to ban these colluders and easily-influenced charlatans from corrupting the morals the United States upholds. You think it's all a goddamn joke, but people are running scared.
You are approached by George Bauers at a party, and he's shaking. You haven't seen him in a while, preferring the Cozy Corner to his choice in haunts, and you apologize for losing touch. He looks like he's seen a ghost, and when he begs you for the name of someone he can turn in - you ask if he knows the name of any of his tricks. He says he can't even stand to look at them, that he'd never give the name of anyone at work - he'd never turn you in. Would you do that to him?
You would, but you don't tell him that. Instead, you tell him you'll work on it.
You're given an easy answer a few days later: Eddie Kofler. A pimply blond you picked up in Lafayette Square's public toilets months ago for a rough fuck. You ignored him when he asked for your name and number. He catches you outside of work, trying to spark something, and you pretend you don't know him, but you have to fix this. You're caught off guard, but you've got George's answer.
You circle around twice in the building until he's gone, pretending you're working clear across the way just to see someone else. You pick up the phone once you're safely in your office, dialing George's number, and you give him Eddie's name.
You think it's over, and you're wrong - because none of this can ever be simple again.
You get another call from George, begging you to meet. You pick a quiet monument after hours where McLeod's spies won't be looking - won't see you associating with a disgraced member of government. Your name was a success: he's been asked to retire quietly, no fuss. They won't tell his family.
"What's the problem?" you ask, confused. This is the best he's gonna get.
"That kid tried to kill himself."
Eddie.
Fuck.
You tell him to stay away, to go home to his family and be grateful for what he still has. George asks how he's supposed to live with himself - how the hell should you know?
You go home to the safe in your closet behind neat lines of pressed shirts and suits, oxfords and glimmering cufflinks, pulling out a wad of cash. You stuff it in an envelope, writing Eddie's name on it. You pull on a hat and a trench, making sure no one is following you on the way there or waiting in the street. You remember the building but not the unit, stopping to check the mailboxes until you find his. You leave the wad of cash at his door, tamping down the guilt that should be eating you alive, but it's easier than it used to be.
You're safe from this, and that's all that matters.
You're 33, and it's every man for himself.
You're 33, and you're still living underneath a mask.
Executive Order 10450 has been introduced by Tailgunner Joe, the same man who everyone knows lets his hands linger too long on sweet-faced boys. You listen as he tells everyone he wants to root out deviancy from the government, to ban these colluders and easily-influenced charlatans from corrupting the morals the United States upholds. You think it's all a goddamn joke, but people are running scared.
You are approached by George Bauers at a party, and he's shaking. You haven't seen him in a while, preferring the Cozy Corner to his choice in haunts, and you apologize for losing touch. He looks like he's seen a ghost, and when he begs you for the name of someone he can turn in - you ask if he knows the name of any of his tricks. He says he can't even stand to look at them, that he'd never give the name of anyone at work - he'd never turn you in. Would you do that to him?
You would, but you don't tell him that. Instead, you tell him you'll work on it.
You're given an easy answer a few days later: Eddie Kofler. A pimply blond you picked up in Lafayette Square's public toilets months ago for a rough fuck. You ignored him when he asked for your name and number. He catches you outside of work, trying to spark something, and you pretend you don't know him, but you have to fix this. You're caught off guard, but you've got George's answer.
You circle around twice in the building until he's gone, pretending you're working clear across the way just to see someone else. You pick up the phone once you're safely in your office, dialing George's number, and you give him Eddie's name.
You think it's over, and you're wrong - because none of this can ever be simple again.
You get another call from George, begging you to meet. You pick a quiet monument after hours where McLeod's spies won't be looking - won't see you associating with a disgraced member of government. Your name was a success: he's been asked to retire quietly, no fuss. They won't tell his family.
"What's the problem?" you ask, confused. This is the best he's gonna get.
"That kid tried to kill himself."
Eddie.
Fuck.
You tell him to stay away, to go home to his family and be grateful for what he still has. George asks how he's supposed to live with himself - how the hell should you know?
You go home to the safe in your closet behind neat lines of pressed shirts and suits, oxfords and glimmering cufflinks, pulling out a wad of cash. You stuff it in an envelope, writing Eddie's name on it. You pull on a hat and a trench, making sure no one is following you on the way there or waiting in the street. You remember the building but not the unit, stopping to check the mailboxes until you find his. You leave the wad of cash at his door, tamping down the guilt that should be eating you alive, but it's easier than it used to be.
You're safe from this, and that's all that matters.
You're 33, and it's every man for himself.
DECEMBER 1953
You're 33, and you're spending Christmas strapped to a goddamn polygraph machine.
You spent the last few nights practicing, after the best pre-Christmas celebration you could have asked for passed. After you gave away a piece yourself to a boy that's worth risking it all for, even if you've been careful.
You are asked dozens of demeaning questions, an extra bit of intended humiliation after the test of manhood they already gave you days ago. Walk across the room, read a controversial passage - your mother could pass it given how ludicrous it is.
You think about the corporal in Velletri, the Cozy Corner - you think about Tim Laughlin on his knees ready to worship you. You hold your heart rate steady because you know you have nothing to feel guilty for - you've done nothing wrong.
You pass with flying colors, but no one knows that every single question was answered with a lie.
You're 33, in love, and you know this won't end well.
You're 33, and you're spending Christmas strapped to a goddamn polygraph machine.
You spent the last few nights practicing, after the best pre-Christmas celebration you could have asked for passed. After you gave away a piece yourself to a boy that's worth risking it all for, even if you've been careful.
You are asked dozens of demeaning questions, an extra bit of intended humiliation after the test of manhood they already gave you days ago. Walk across the room, read a controversial passage - your mother could pass it given how ludicrous it is.
You think about the corporal in Velletri, the Cozy Corner - you think about Tim Laughlin on his knees ready to worship you. You hold your heart rate steady because you know you have nothing to feel guilty for - you've done nothing wrong.
You pass with flying colors, but no one knows that every single question was answered with a lie.
You're 33, in love, and you know this won't end well.
OCTOBER 1954
You're 34, and everything is starting to unravel.
Your future brother-in-law, Leonard Smith, has been arrested for public indecency. You slip the cop you know money to make it go away - for now. You keep him out of jail, and all he does is sneer at you that you're just using his dad's dirty money anyway.
You know this is more serious than it looks.
You go back to Tim when it's almost 5am, pausing in the doorway to drink in how perfect he looks in your bed. This is what you want to come home to every night, if you could. This is who you love, even if you don't and can't ever say it.
This is what will have to come to an end sooner rather than later, even if you're trying to let it last a little longer.
You try to reason with Senator Smith in the coming days. Leonard isn't well - but you're working on keeping it out of the papers. The other cronies on McCarthy's team don't care about that, though, and you just have to beat them to it so they can't blackmail the man you've idolized since you were in your 20s.
You find the perfect solution: a place that will take Lenny, that will lock the door and throw away the key. A place that will make him what he's supposed to be: a straight-laced family man seeking a wife and a white picket fence. They'll burn out the disgusting acts he let himself fall into: being on his knees for a stranger in a dirty public toilet in the middle of Lafayette Square.
Lenny remembers the time you first stayed the summer at their lake house. Lenny remembers when you both pulled out your cocks and stroked them off together, not daring to touch, but looking each other in the eye.
You tell Lenny that's what boys do, but men grow out of it - like you did. You drive Lenny to the institution, and you listen when he says he wants to get better.
You know deep down there's nothing wrong with him, just like there's nothing wrong with you. But you play the part of a spectator in a zoo when you talk to the head administrator of the facility, acting as if you've just deposited a new experiment into one of their padded cells. You slip him extra not to allow for contact in or out.
You know you are sentencing Lenny to hell for however long it takes.
You're 34, a bastard, but you know this is what you have to do to keep surviving.
You're 34, and everything is starting to unravel.
Your future brother-in-law, Leonard Smith, has been arrested for public indecency. You slip the cop you know money to make it go away - for now. You keep him out of jail, and all he does is sneer at you that you're just using his dad's dirty money anyway.
You know this is more serious than it looks.
You go back to Tim when it's almost 5am, pausing in the doorway to drink in how perfect he looks in your bed. This is what you want to come home to every night, if you could. This is who you love, even if you don't and can't ever say it.
This is what will have to come to an end sooner rather than later, even if you're trying to let it last a little longer.
You try to reason with Senator Smith in the coming days. Leonard isn't well - but you're working on keeping it out of the papers. The other cronies on McCarthy's team don't care about that, though, and you just have to beat them to it so they can't blackmail the man you've idolized since you were in your 20s.
You find the perfect solution: a place that will take Lenny, that will lock the door and throw away the key. A place that will make him what he's supposed to be: a straight-laced family man seeking a wife and a white picket fence. They'll burn out the disgusting acts he let himself fall into: being on his knees for a stranger in a dirty public toilet in the middle of Lafayette Square.
Lenny remembers the time you first stayed the summer at their lake house. Lenny remembers when you both pulled out your cocks and stroked them off together, not daring to touch, but looking each other in the eye.
You tell Lenny that's what boys do, but men grow out of it - like you did. You drive Lenny to the institution, and you listen when he says he wants to get better.
You know deep down there's nothing wrong with him, just like there's nothing wrong with you. But you play the part of a spectator in a zoo when you talk to the head administrator of the facility, acting as if you've just deposited a new experiment into one of their padded cells. You slip him extra not to allow for contact in or out.
You know you are sentencing Lenny to hell for however long it takes.
You're 34, a bastard, but you know this is what you have to do to keep surviving.