Dating A Muscle Boy / Part Three: Compassion

I don’t know what made my relationship with Marcus work, or what made it fail. Our conversations were usually marked by disconnect. If he spoke of weather, I reflected about my childhood. If I repeated a good joke I had heard at work, he would tell me about the sorrows he knew in his days as a priest. We were aware of it, joked about it, called it “misconversations.” But somehow the disparity worked, as if subjects that had no common thread in the normal world, belonged together in our misconnected world in a way that even he and I could not comprehend. Our attitude and physical appearances were similarly disconnected. He is tall, muscular, quiet when he speaks. I am short, rounded, and prone to waiving my arms around when I chatter; but in spirit, in the profoundest of our unspoken sentiments, we are the same.

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Marcus called, unexpectedly, unawaited, six nights after our first date, long after I had concluded that I would never hear from him again. I thought the impressions I made on him on our first date were as memorable as last year’s cold.

“How are you?” he asked.

My heart pounded. Is he calling to mock me? “Marcus,” I blurted, “I’m surprised to hear from you, shocked actually!” I was annoyed at myself; my exaggerated voice sounded like a little girl excited by a gift.

Marcus could not follow my surprise; apparently he had no idea our first date was a disaster. “Why be shocked?” he asked. “I told you I would call.”

After pleasant chit chat mandated by the rituals of courtship, we decided to meet for a Saturdate, a rare and precious thing; a Saturday spent together, where you plan nothing other than being in each other’s company. Saturdates do not commence until one in the afternoon, and ideally do not end until one in the morning. For our Saturdate, I was to pick him up at his townhouse, in Shaw, and we would meander from there. That morning, I spent hours planning what to wear, like a teenage girl. In the end, I decided on shorts, to reveal my hairy legs, and a polo short strategically unbuttoned to reveal my hairy chest; very much not like a teenage girl.

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Marcus made it clear from the beginning that he did not want us to jump into bed. “I think this could be something real between us,” he explained, “and I want to make sure that we are in it for each other, and not for the sex” I don’t share Marcus’ attitude in this respect. I think it is perfectly acceptable to be in it either for the person and the sex, or for the sex and the sex. For a man who did not start sleeping with men until he was in his forties, I surely have made up for a lot of lost ground. I won’t say that I’ll jump into bed with anyone, but when I’m dating someone, I want to experience as much sensuality as possible. I respected Marcus’ wishes, reluctantly, and we did not reveal our nakedness for three months; however, we engaged in a lot of kissing and a lot of groping, each trying to figure out what the other was like down there.

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Shaw is the new Dupont Circle of Washington D.C. In the early 1980’s, Dupont was run down, uninhabitable. Only college students and gay men lived there, because of its affordability. Thanks to gentrification, Dupont is now unaffordable and Shaw has become was Dupont was, except even more so. It has many low income housing developments, immigrant families, shelters. Gays are moving in because of the affordable houses, many of them with Victorian architecture. It is not unusual to find a house occupied by a single mother and her six children, unable to make any repairs to the dilapidated home, children playing joyfully on the front steps; next to an abandon boarded up building, up for sale by the City, being used as a crackhouse until it is sold; next to a lovingly restored house, proudly owned by a gay couple, with the rainbow flag prominently displayed next to a heavily shellacked front door. For single gay men, Shaw is ideal for meeting each other, all concentrated in the gay ghetto.

When I travel from the suburbs of DC, affluent and safe, to the heart of DC where there are neighborhoods like Shaw, I feel as if I’ve crossed between parallel spaces that breath and waste the same air and time and yet do not know each other. I feel this same sense of crossing parallel borders when I reflect on my Hispanic values contrasted to my equally strong American values; or when I transition from the straight world to the gay world. It is the same sort of disconnect and connect that I remember as a child traveling from the fashionable downtown center of Buenos Aires to a Villa Miseria.

Villa Miseria means, literally, Village of Misery. In other countries, they are called “shanty towns.” The are known as “favellas” in Brazil, or simply “slums” in the U.S. At the beginning of each school year, Mother would take us to a neighborhood at the edges of civilized Buenos Aires, where the Villa Miseria begins, to buy new leather shoes and leather schoolbags. There were many other places in Buenos Aires you could buy such things, but Mother purposely chose the one near the Villa Miseria. As children, we were fascinated by the poverty, and in a perverse but childish way anticipated the trip with eagerness. “Are we going to the Villa Miseria today?” would ask Xavier and Gabriel, in unison and shared excitement. I also felt a pleasant mix of fear and titillation whenever I thought of our annual visit to Villa Miseria. I had a Hansel and Gretel fantasy that I could be lost there, left behind, destined to live in misery.

The houses in Villa Miseria look like something children would make out of cardboard boxes; flimsy structures placed one next to the other to create the appearance of a house but being really nothing more than lines demarking your space of poverty. They are constructed of tin, or sometimes recycled lumber from torn down structures. The entire Villa Miseria suffers an unbearable stench than can be smelled many blocks beyond its borders. Mother would park the car at the outskirts of the Villa Miseria. Together, the four of us (Xavier, Gabriel, Mother and I) would walk around the edges of the Villa Miseria, peeking in to see what life was like within that complex of tin and rotted wood. We did not comment on what we saw, did not make fun or express disgust. Mother taught us to be quiet, and respectful. She usually gave money to people begging for help, but she would do it very discretely so as not to draw a crowd around her. I’m sure that my memories have exaggerated the images, but I visualize Mother with her high heels, her red hair newly dyed, her rouge fashionably applied, her blue carnations perfume barely noticeable above the stench, gracefully dispensing alms to the poor as if she were royalty. “That’s how I was raised by las monjitas (the little nuns),” said Mother, referring to the teachers in the bordering school where she received her elementary and high school education. “Sometimes you have to help.” Her parents sent her to bordering school commencing at age 4. During the summers, she was raised by the house staff. She was an only child.

We saw children with no shoes, empty stomachs distended from hunger, limbs too frail to hold weight. Mother was not one to miss an opportunity to lay on the guilt. “Do you realize now what you have?” she would say to me and my brothers. “The next time that you feel the urge to complain about what I give or don’t give you, think of how they live here.”

After our leather goods shopping, we would rush back to the other Buenos Aires; to the civilized Buenos Aires of the middle classes; the Buenos Aires that does not want to be told that it is part of the third world. We were encouraged not to mention to our neighbors where we had spent the day. “No one wants to hear about that,” said Mother. The message was clear: That third world business, that needs to stay there, in Villa Miseria, where it belongs.

Marcus’ house, in Shaw, was unexpectedly beautiful. Unlike the other houses on his block, which had broken windows covered with sheets of lumber, his house was well painted and maintained. He had chosen purple and yellow colors, to emulate the fascination Victorians had for bright houses, “painted ladies.” When I arrived for our Saturdate, Marcus was outside, watering his small garden of white and red roses. A man who had obviously had too much too drink was passed out on the front steps of the house two doors down. A dog was barking incessantly across the street, tied to a tree.

“Hola buen mozo,” I said. It means hello, handsome.

Marcus flashed me his smile, the one that makes my stomach tickle. He approached me and hugged me. “Welcome,” he said.

I hugged him back. I was still standing next to my car. Marcus noted that I had left my cell phone in the front seat. “You may want to take that out of your car. Someone’s going to break your window to get to that.”

Apparently Marcus’ car had been broken into six times when he first moved into Shaw, “until the neighbors got to know me,” added Marcus. “Now they watch my car for me. I’m part of the hood.”

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The kissing and groping, sans sex, lasted three horny months. I was ready to explode if we did not get into bed with each other. Finally, we made arrangements to spend the night together. We did not explicitly say that we would have sex, but it was understood. We went out to see a movie and grab dinner, and came back to sit and sip beer on Marcus’ balcony, in the back of his house. It faces New Hampshire and New York Avenues, which have very heavy traffic. The noise of cars rumbling, like waves, could be heard clearly from the balcony. We drank Corona beer, with lime. Occasionally heavy trucks would pass and the house would shake. Marcus proceeded to tell me how much he loved sitting on the balcony, “enjoying a cold one,” experiencing the sounds of the City. While he seemed to be enjoying the city racket, I keep my eyes on two hookers at the corner, soliciting business. “Is he oblivious to this?” I asked myself.

Marcus’ balcony is above a little garden that he has planted for himself. He has adorned it with a statue of St. Francis, and he has placed a plastic waterfall in a tucked away corner, the type you can buy at a K-Mart, operated by battery. “I love the soothing noise of the falls,” he told me. I, in the meantime, studied the empty lot next to his house, littered with garbage and little grey creatures who love to scurry around. Rats. “Yes,” I told myself. “He’s oblivious to his surroundings.”

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We chatted about Marcus’ garden. I admired his roses, and asked how he grew them. He was able to give me very precise instructions on watering, and cutting, and hoeing and planting and seeding and soil analysis. . . , but I was not listening. I only like the looks of flowers; I have no idea or intention of growing them.

“Your neighbor across the street has a nice garden also.” I noted. “He has very pretty tulips.”

“Don’t be so sure,” answered Marcus. “Those are plastic tulips he’s growing.” His name is Roger. He’s an 85 year old African American who has been living here most of his life, and certainly longer than anyone else on this block.”

“Do you know him well?” I asked.

“Yes,” said Marcus. “He’s one of the members of the church I attend. ”

Marcus’ church is predominantly gay, and very active in providing services for the indigent and elderly in Shaw. Marcus is the self appointed coordinator of charity for his church. He serves meals, arranges for medical needs if possible, organizes trips and activities for people who would otherwise have nothing to do.

“Does that take a lot of your time?” I asked. He confirmed it did. “It’s practically a second job, and sometimes it eats into how much physical training jobs I can take. However, I wouldn’t give it up for the world. I think it’s what God wants of me.”

I suppose that physical trainers can make a lot of money, but by his own admission, Marcus spends more time on his charitable works than he does at his gym training job. I don’t understand how Marcus can afford to maintain the house that he owns in Shaw. Someone had spent a lot of money renovating, repairing and updating his house. I had to ask him about. “Marcus, this house is in excellent condition. How long have you been living here?”

Marcus explained that he and his partner of twenty years had bought and refurbished the house together. “John Abrams,” said Marcus. “That was my partner. Do you know him?”

I don’t know anyone, but I know of John Abrams. He is a local politician in DC, with a lot of support in the gay community. His picture appears on the front pages of the gay weekly rags, and he is quoted on television news whenever there is discussion of a gay civil rights issue. Marcus and John had separated two years ago. According to Marcus, they had already stopped having sex five years prior to their eventual split up. The process of ending their relationship appeared to be excruciatingly slow. They still share expenses, and even own a summer house together, in the mountains. “I can’t really afford living in this house by myself,” explained Marcus, referring to his splendid house in Shaw. “John helps me. He pays for two-thirds of the mortgage each month. But I can’t allow him to keep doing so. I’m going to have to find a way of paying the debt myself, or I’ll sell this place.”

Sometimes I get annoyed with people like Marcus; people who have a great story to tell but don’t know how to milk it. If I lived in a house that I had bought with my partner of twenty years, and my partner was a prominent politician, and I was in the verge of having to sell the house because I could no longer pay the mortgage, I would tell the story to the whole world (or at least anyone who would listen) with Latin American anguish, lots of colorful details and exaggerated language. I would wave my hands for emphasis, gasp for dramatic effect, and shed a tear for punctuation while dropping John’s name, “the prominent politician, you know.” Marcus, to the contrary, speaks without emphasis and without excitement. He does not seem to be the least worried by his economic situation. “Everything will be ok,” he says with confidence; and he believes it fully.

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We sat in the balcony for an hour, enjoying our misconversations accentuated by New Hampshire and New York Avenue traffic . Marcus spoke about life in the City, I spoke about Ray Harryhausen’s monster movies. (Marcus: “You never know what to expect hereabouts. I love the edge.”) (Me: “I love the mechanical owl in the ‘Clash of the Titans’ movie. Do you remember it’s name?”) All the while, I kept thinking, “When are we going inside? I’m tired, if you know what I mean. Time for bed, perhaps?”

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The inside of Marcus’ home was modern, ample, and well designed. He and John had kept the Victorian look of the house on the outside, but the inside design was sleek, with lots of open spaces. The kitchen sported granite countertops and restaurant style appliances. “I don’t really like to cook,” said Marcus. “But John was fascinated by it.”

I tried picking little things to comment on, to let Marcus know that I like his taste in furniture, or his choice of fabrics, or his interesting collection of what-nots. Unfortunately, I couldn’t connect since everything I mentioned had a John story behind it. I noted that the furniture was stream lined, recently bought, expensive. “Not really my style,” said Marcus. “They are all things that John bought and has let me keep.” I found out that the paintings on the walls were “bought by John when he was in Paris.” The decorations on the bookshelves were “from John’s college days.” The color schemes, the curtain, the fucking mat on the kitchen floor were all “chosen by John.”

I started to think, “Good grief man! Where does Marcus exist in this house?”

Finally Marcus pointed out a small table off to the side, almost hidden behind a couch, with photos of him and his family. Marcus playing football; Marcus and his father; Marcus and this two older brothers.

“You played football in high school?” I asked.

“Yes,” he answered. “I was a quarterback and the team leader.”

“And what happened with that,” I asked, expecting a nonsense answer in reply.

“Actually, I was pretty good. My team was State champion and I was recruited to play college ball. My father was furious when I decided to go into the Church instead.”

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We were sitting in the balcony, and I had drunk too many beers. As usual, I overdo everything. I was lecherously admiring Marcus’ beautiful physique, his torso unreasonably sculptured, making him appear more like a Greek statute than human flesh. But it is flesh, and I wanted to taste it. Clumsily, I reached for Marcus’ crotch, and kissed him passionately. I forced my tongue back against his tongue. “Not here,” said Marcus, gently. “Let’s go inside.” He took my hands, like a child leading his friend to play, and we went into the bedroom.

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For our Saturdate meanderings, Marcus and I decide to go to a gay pride parade. Neither one of us frequents parades, and we are too old and straight laced to fit well into the young crowd. However, Satrudates are precisely for doing things you don’t normally do. I feel excitement walking from Marcus’ house to where the parade will pass. It is a long walk, and I am glad of it. I want to be seen in public, walking with my man. “Hey everybody!” I am screaming inside. “Look what I’ve got myself. I’ve got me a quarterback! Not bad for a nerdy guy like me!”

We decide to sit on the curb at the corner of 17^th and P. We have a good view of the oncoming spectacle. Fortunately for us, a Midwestern couple (very popular as tourists in DC) is sitting next to us. I don’t think they had planned on this event.

“Lord, Elma!” says Jason in the polyester shirt. “What on Earth have we gotten into?”

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Before bed, Marcus knelt for prayers. This was unexpected; I had never seen a grown man pray before. I felt awkward, not knowing if I should join him or observe reverent silence. I opted to pretend to be reading, on top of his bed. Of course, all I was really thinking was, “Hurry up and finish with that stuff. I’ve waited three months!”

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Marcus and I are having fun watching the parade, and watching Elma and Jason watch the parade. We can’t decide which is more entertaining.

“Why did your father get upset?” I ask him. “Did he want you to play college ball?”

“No, that wasn’t it. He was just very surprised that I would chose to go into the Church after everything that had happened to me. Besides, after my last game, the idea of going into football was not an option anyway.”

A Jennifer Lopez impersonator is standing in front of us. At least I think it’s Jennifer Lopez, or Paris Hilton, or Madonna, or someone famous. I don’t know anyone. In any event, someone impersonating someone recognizable is standing in front of us with a ghetto blaster. She turns on her music and starts dancing an erotic dance, directed at Marcus, or me, or perhaps both of us. A crowd gathers around us, and starts applauding. Marcus and I ignore it. I am anxious for the dancer to move on, so that I can find out from Marcus what happened in that last game. Poor Elma and Jason are trapped next to us. Jason is turning so red that I think he’s going to pass out. When she finishes her song, the impersonator kisses Marcus passionately on the lips. Marcus is unfazed. “I’ve seen everything now!” says Elma, making fun of her own provinciality.

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Prayers over, I thought surely my turn had come. Marcus surprised me however by electing to read out loud a short story he had written. It was hard to follow. It involved a man who had been spurned by a lover and betrayed by a friend, so he plots to murder both of them. Aside from it being poorly written, I was particularly surprised by the subject matter. Since when do ex-priests turned muscle boys go around writing murder mysteries?

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After the parade, Marcus and I decide to go for a walk. “I broke a rib during that game,” says Marcus. “Except I didn't say anything. I just kept playing, even though I was hurting and I knew that something was wrong.”

We are trying to maneuver our way through the crowd. Marcus has long legs and a fast pace, so I have to trot in order to stay up with him. He’s talking very fast, almost incoherently. “Right after the game, I collapsed. In addition to everything else, I was dehydrated and suffering internal bleeding I spent two months in and out of the hospital. I did permanent damage to my kidneys. For a while, they thought I was going to die.”

We’ve arrived at the Spanish steps. They are at 21^st and Swann, in Northwest DC. Few people know of this park. It is very quiet, and frequented by couples trying to fall in love. I’ve bought Marcus a cold coffee from Starbucks. Marcus loves coffee.

“Why did you keep playing in that game if you were injured?” I ask.

“Don’t know. Haven’t figured that out yet. I was angry. People do stupid things when they are angry.”

“My brother, Gabriel, almost died once,” I tell Marcus. “We were on vacation in Córdoba, in the center of Argentina . Mother and Father were in the hotel, taking a nap. I’ve subsequently learned that taking a nap was their code name for having sex. Xavier, Gabriel and I were told to play outside in the pool. Mother and Father must not have realized that the pool had been drained for cleaning. But as we had our bating suits on, we decided to play in the pool anyway. Without water. We started out swimming in pretend water, laying in the bottom of the empty pool and stretching out our small arms and legs like injured frogs. We proceeded to pretend dive, jumping from the edge of the pool, shallow end, into the cement, feet first. No one was hurt. There was a slide into the pool, obviously meant to be used only when the pool was full. I used the slide first, making sure I landed on my feet when I hit the end. Xavier followed, also landing on his feet. Gabriel, however, got lost in the moment. He forgot that this was still part of pretend swimming, and that the pool was empty. He decided to land on his back, as if the water would catch his weight. When he landed, I laughed, but Gabriel did not move; my turned to fear. “¿Gabriel, estás bien?” Are you alive? Are you dead? You better not be dead or I’ll kill you!

A man in his mid thirties grabbed Gabriel and wrapped him into a yellow towel. The back of Gabriel’s head was bleeding profusely, like a smashed pumpkin. The towel and the man’s pants turned bright red. The man put Gabriel into his car, and drove away. I didn’t know the man’s name. I assumed he was taking Gabriel to the hospital.

I had to find Mother and Father, and tell them what happened. Mother dropped a glass she was holding; I heard the ice cubes roll unto the floor. Neither of them said anything. They got into their car, to the hospital, I guess. I did not see them until the following morning.

Gabriel was hospitalized for a week. He broke a bone at the base of his brain, and had some internal head bleeding which required surgery to prevent brain damage. Every day of that week, I prayed to the Virgin Mary. I don’t know why I chose her. In my young mind, I envisioned her with a floral embroidered crepe dress, like Mother’s favorite hostess outfit, and Mother’s shade of crimson red lipstick. “Don’t’ take him,” I said to the vogue Virgin Mary of my mind. “If you want blood, take mine.” My prayer was really nothing more than old fashioned bargaining, the type meant to appease angry gods who must have their victim, one way or the other; to satisfy their insatiable lust for human misfortune.

When I was finally allowed to visit Gabriel in the hospital, I was angry at him. I was angry for feeling that I almost killed him. I was angry at him for almost dying. I was angry at him for making me bargain with the Virgin Mary. Gabriel was glad to see me. “Guess that wasn’t such a good game,” he said. I slapped him in the back of the head, hard, too hard; his eyes spun from the pain. The second I did it, I was afraid for what I had done. Gabriel said nothing. He didn’t turn me in. “Guess that wasn’t such a good game,” he repeated.

Sometimes people don’t act the way you want them to, or the way you expect them to. Sometimes you expect kindness, and you receive anger instead. Sometimes you expect indifference, and you receive whole hearted support. Sometimes people are evil, disappointingly unsupportive. Sometimes, even I or you are contrary to the way we should or want to be.

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Of course, I told Marcus that his murder mystery story was marvelous. He kissed me gently on the lips. I caressed his head, his soft hair, once blond, now tinted practically yellow. I stroked his muscular arms, his enormous chest, his giant calves that look like cylenders; he squeezed firmly and tightly across my chest and back, joyfully taking my breath away. Lazily, we undressed each other. His sculptured body is totally smooth, no body hair, not even in his private parts. Obviously he shaves. His organ is small, disproportionate to his oversized arms and legs. His rear is well rounded, more like that of a woman than a man’s. He sat on top of me, using his hands to squeeze my firm enlarged penis.

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Marcus and I have been walking for a while. We’ve arrived at a coffee house, where they serve sandwiches and beer at night. It’s part of a chain, so there’s nothing particularly spectacular about it. It is, however, located at Connecticut and R and has outdoor seating, so people like to hang out here and watch the city go by.

We’ve been talking about the Church, and its mysticism and pageantry. Both of us admit unabashedly to have once loved all the hocus pocus and glamour. For many years, Marcus was an alter boy. He loved feeling that he was part of the mass, making a miracle happen every week. His joy began before the service, when he helped the priest put on his robes. He was attracted to the lace, to the black and white cloth, to the smell of mothballs, staleness and candle wax combined. One of the pleasures of being an altar boy is that you learn all the behind the stage stuff, which makes you realize how much of a show the ceremony really is. For example, the priest tells the altar boys that if he falls asleep at any time, then one of the boys should drop a book, loudly, to wake him up. The biggest secret kept by altar boys, however, is the pouring of the wine. The wine, once consecrated, has allegedly been transformed into the blood of Christ. This means that if there’s any wine left over after communion, the priest must drink it since it may not be wasted. At the beginning of mass, the altar boy will do a head count for the priest, to let him know how much wine to pour out for consecration. Marcus’ priest, like many others, would purposely miscalculate the amount of wine required. He would aim to pour about one extra goblet of wine, sometimes even two. After communion, when they were clearing up the altar, the priest would visually savor drinking the remaining wine. His mood became quite different then, almost even amorous.

“The climax of being an altar boy was to be chosen to service Christmas Candlelight Mass,” explained Marcus. “Only the good boys who had performed particularly well during the year were selected for this honor. We were the chosen ones; the priest’s favorite boys. We were told, ordered, to arrive an hour before the service, in order to obediently light the candles. The church was completely dark, except for a single light bulb in the utility closet where the matches were kept. There were twenty four windows, forty eight pews, the altar, the choir cage, the organist chambers. All of these were flanked with tall, firm candles to be lit. The five chosen ones wandered through the Church, with an erect lighting pole, a small flame at its end, touching fire against wax to light the firm candles. I savored the sensual, intimate process by which the Church transitioned from darkness to bright light, one candle at a time. After the service, even though we were exhausted, the five chosen altar boys were ordered stay for another hour, putting out all the candles with a bell cupped over the flame, like an affectionate embrace, reverting the process, bringing the Church from light into darkness, again one candle at a time, completing the orgasmic process. Semen collected at the end of my sweet penis with each candle lit, each candle blown own. I jerked off afterwards.”

Granted, Marcus did not use the above words, exactly. No doubt you, my dear reader who know me so well by now, will note my Latin American exaggerations. You can take the British boy out of Argentina, but you can’t take Argentina out of the British boy. The sentiment, however, in its purest essence, is exactly what Marcus meant to say, had he had the words to say it with; it is what his profoundest inner spirit conveyed to me.

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Marcus takes turns squeezing and letting go of my member, giving me pleasure and pain in alternations, the opposites and companions of sex. Discretely, my hairy and firm penis plays with the entrance to his anus. I kiss his underarm, tasting his musky masculinity. I grab his head, forcefully and unforgiving, while my penis crosses his lips, and enters his joyfully wet mouth. I turn him around, briskly, and slowly mount his sweet rounded ass. Marcus is very quiet, very still, like a sacrificial lamb. He does not move, but while I take my pleasure against his pink feminine buttocks, he lets out a soft sigh, like a wounded child, an unexpected whimper.

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Marcus and I are sitting outside the coffee bar, enjoying some beer. It has been a very slow Saturdate, where we have exchanged stories without any poignancy. We are both forgiving of the other, not expecting to be entertained or amazed. We simply enjoy the sound of our conversation, the easy exchange of our miscommunicated words.

“I’m in therapy,” says Marcus, a propos nothing. “Have been for years now. I think it is helping a lot.”

I am drunk from the beer sitting in my empty stomach, and not in the mood to play psychiatrist. “Is it the football thing?” I ask, invoking my compassionate voice. Even with a beer buzz, I can tell from Marcus’ eyes that something saddens him, although it annoys me that he does not stop smiling.

Marcus takes another baby sip of the beer he has been nursing for an hour, against my four tall ones. “That,” he says, “and the thing with the priest.”

Marcus’ voice has become very low. It is almost inaudible. I recognize this voice; it is the same inner voice I use so often when I’m feeling in stress. I know from the voice that Marcus will tell me something more powerful than I can share with him.

“I was raped by my priest,” says Marcus.

He does not give details. My head is spinning, but I am aware of what he has said. I am frozen by confusion. Eerily, Marcus smiles when he says the word “rape.” I force myself to visualize a little boy sodomized, to sense the horror. Why would a priest do that to a child? Where is God in man when such horrors take place?

I am brightly sober and inner tears have been turned. However, I don’t want to ask too many questions; I don’t want him to think that I am shocked, that somehow his life is beyond the believable; that would not be the reaction I would want should he know my secrets that I will not share with him. I wish to the fucking Virgin Mary that I knew what to say for Marcus; something brilliantly constructive, something that will magically make the pain go away.

“I’m sorry, Marcus,” I say, idiotically. That’s all my small brain can think of saying.

Instinctively, I hold his hand tightly and caress his forearm incessantly.

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After sex, we took showers in turn and silence, saying nothing throughout the process. I don’t know if words were unnecessary or if the moment was awkward. Marcus did not get dressed.

“I sleep in the raw,” he explained.

“That’s ok,” I told him. “I sleep with underwear and a tee shirt. Should I turn off the lights?” I asked him.

“Wait a second,” he answered. “I have to turn on some music.”

“How’s that?”

“I can’t sleep during the night, unless I have music on. I need noise to placate my constant thoughts during the night. I actually don’t sleep much. It’s more like intermittent moments of rest. I close my eyes for a few minutes, wake up, listen to the music, then go back to sleep for a few more minutes. I count the hours through the night. I hope it does not bother you.”

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“My two older brothers found me,” says Marcus, mater-of-factly, as if he were reporting yesterday's news. “I was bleeding, so they took me to the hospital. After they brought me home, we never talked about it.” Now Marcus tone changes, sounding more like the inner voice, speaking in hushed silences to be heard by no one. “We stopped going to Church. That was my biggest sorrow I don’t care that nothing happened to the priest. I don’t even care that everyone acted as if nothing had happened. But what I am still angry about, the injustice I cannot let go, is that we stopped going to Church, and I could no longer be an altar boy.”

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I don’t understand why Marcus did not mention his sleeping problems before. I, unlike him, need absolute silence when I sleep. Any movement wakes me up immediately, and ruins my slumber. I am sure that I will not be able to rest with the sound of the music blaring in the bedroom.

“No problem, Marcus,” I tell him. “I can sleep under almost any conditions.”

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After he told me he was raped, Marcus was quiet for a long time. I asked very few questions, for I could tell he had told me as much as he could manage that night. We would speak about it other times during our courtship; not often, not incessantly, but as needed. The first night of revelations, all he needed was me to listen, and that I switch the subject quickly once he hade made his confessions.

“When we still lived in Buenos Aires,” I said, still holding Marcus’ hands, “Mother would take us to the dentist. Our treat, after having our teeth drilled for hours, was a chocolate bar that Mother would buy at a pharmacy. We would walk from the dentist office to the pharmacy, about a block away, carrying cotton swabs over our filled cavities.”

I remember the walk vividly, because I was always mesmerized by Mother’s dress, swishing in the breeze. I can image the stockings on her feminine but muscular legs, with the firm line in the back, moving crisply as Mother walked briskly in her high heels.

Once, at the corner of the block where the pharmacy was located (the intersections of Avenida Maipú and El Libertador), we saw a woman in rags, head bandaged in hemp burlap, selling peeled potatoes. She kept screaming, “Papas peladas! Papas peladas!” (peeled potatoes, peeled potatoes). As she screamed, she kept her face down, looking at no one. I couldn’t imagine who would buy anything from this woman. She kept peeling her papas with a large knife. I recognized the woman as someone from the Villa Miseria, not anyone in particular, but the type that lived in the slums; her eyes downcast, her stare refusing to meet human eyes.

“Vergonzoso,” said Mother. Not in anger, not in judgment, simply as a statement of fact, “Shameful.”

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Marcus lies down next to my side, his rough fingers rubbing against the ample hair on my chest. He gets close to my ear and whispers quietly, as if there were others in the room who should not hear such things. “That was very difficult for me,” he says. “Thank you for your gentleness.” I don’t know if he is referring to the sex we just had or to the revelation regarding his inability to sleep. I don’t know how to respond.

“Marcus,” I tell him, firmly, “Thank you for your confidence in me. Could you trust me, always?”

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When we came out of the pharmacy, and I was holding my prized chocolate in my hand, a crowd had gathered around the potato peeler woman.

“Que sucedió?” asked Mother.

A man proceeded to tell her that the potato woman had cut a vein on her arm with the knife. The potato woman was screaming, invoking the names of Jesús, Dios Mio and la Virgen Sagrada. Her wails were much louder than when she was screaming out “papas peladas,” but just as ineffective. No one offered any help; people stood aimlessly abut, staring at the peasant woman, as if transfixed, paralyzed by indifference or bewilderment.

Mother forcefully pushed people aside, with the kids hanging on to her hem. “I’m a biology professor,” she announced. “Let me through.” Not exactly the credentials of a doctor, but good enough as far as Mother was concerned.

She tore a sleeve from her poke-a-dotted black and white dress and tied it tightly across the woman’s upper arm. This slowed the bleeding. Mother then walked the woman to her car, threw a blanket on the back seat where she made the woman sit, next to the children, and drove us all to the hospital. She knew it would have been pointless to wait for an ambulance or the police to show up with help for the dark woman; these people don’t exist.

At the hospital, Mother waited with the potato peeler until she was taken in to see the doctors. The whole time, the woman said nothing; she picked away at scabs on her leg. Mother arranged to make payment for the woman’s hospital bills. “Bueno,” said Mother. “Así me entrenaron las monjitas.” That’s how the little nuns trained me.

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I did not sleep a wink that night. I kept dreaming of Marcus’ murder mystery story, imagining a knife being thrust in and out of my body, piercing my veins, keeping pace with the music blaring in the room.

The following morning, when I first opened my eyes in bed, I saw Marcus sitting next to me, caressing my curly hair, offering me a steaming cup of coffee. “Hola buen mozo,” he said. It means, hello handsome.

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“That’s the way it is,” says Marcus, in response to my potato peeler story. “Sometimes people need to step in and help.”

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I don’t know why Marcus and I got along well. I don’t know what things brought us together or drew us apart. I don’t know what fascinated or frustrated me about him.

As strong as he is, Marcus is a delicate creature, a man who silently screams for compassion. I thought I would give that to him, and he to me, and for a while we did. But in the end I failed him, and regrettably (still hurtful to the wick of my soul), the last words he uttered to me before we broke up were “I no longer trust you.”

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It’s one in the morning. Our Saturdate is over.