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Coming out of the closet

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There is a heat in his eyes, attraction on his face. I don't think he looks at his wife that way. Men like him, who aren't out, who suppress themselves and when they are faced with what they do want are so afraid of letting themselves, disappointing themselves, bringing down the mask they have kept up. The looks at the museum, the kiss. I had been thinking about kissing him side I met him. I thought he was some random guy at the beach until I saw him here at the house. Being across the table, making it no secret I'm attracted to him. At the museum, to touch him, a rejection in his eyes, fighting a need of his own. Worried the people around seeing. Its why I looked at the guard, I wanted to touch him, we were so close.

Offering to walk home after the kiss, having doubts of was the right move, he wasn't expecting it, it felt right to him. It was in the hall, having him see my scars. Hardly anyone except family has seem them or asked about them. He didn't cower away from it, he was semi fascinated. His hand following it. Telling him how it happened and him saying o had learned my lesson, like I should have known better. I knew I was attracted to the guy I followed in the bathroom. I've known since I was younger I'm attracted to men, guys. My stepmother's the last person to talk to. She knows why I was there. "Those who disobey God's laws." The times I have heard her say it. Everyone knows why I was there.

Him not standing in judgement of me acting on urges, he hoped the incident would stop me from going off with a stranger. Would he have done the same? Gone off with someone? There had been a look in his eyes, a temptation in touching my scar, touching another mans flesh. Would he be in judgement of himself? Was he already? Or was he jealous? Jealous I had the guts to follow a man into the bathroom? Show my interest. Something he doesn't think he has the guts for. Not exactly flinching away when I touched him. To me it felt like a moment between lovers, telling him I was thinking about him, being near him again. He's not the first guy I've kissed, far from it. He's older, I know its what others see, its not a factor for me. My stepmother is wanting me to be around him, to be around him so I know what a man is supposed to be. She sees it as important.

I gave up feeling guilty a long time ago. Getting stabbed, getting looks about my scarred deformed body made it clearer for me. As shame as it brought my stepmother, it confirmed what I already knew. Being attracted to him doesn't change it either. Neither does his shame.

Its still there on his face but I'm not the one who came knocking on my door close to midnight after my stepmother went to bed. There is shame but he's not leaving. What made him come here in the first place. The look on his face when my stepmother interrupted before, the kiss at the museum still on his mind, like its been on mine. Nerves, on him after he touched my scar are there now. He had thought about wanting more. More than a touch, a kiss. Being close again. These closeted guys are so easy to read.

Opening the door in my shorts, I told him it gets hot in here in the summer. Remembering the cold museum, the stone bench. The air and the bench both felt cool under my hands. His middle finger grazing over the naked skin of my knee. Returning the favor form the museum? Testing himself? His eyes, I tention on his hand. Testing his limits? Side of the kneecap to where it joins my legs. One motion? More than one. I wonder if this is what it felt like for him, it itches but not really.

Eyes on him as his come up to mine. He's struggling, telling himself what his hand is doing is wrong. Moving closer, what I had done in the museum, my lips on his. They are warm, the same as they had been there. At the museum, there had been relief in him, me being brave enough to make the move. His lips starting to move, his hand gripping my knee instead of his fingers. Its not a grip of defense. Stop. As if gripping the face of someone your kissing.

Pulling away, his eyes searching mine as they had at the museum. Searching for what? Answers? He's moving. Moving back. Not in the direction to leave. He had come in here wondering if he should. Debating it with the touch of a knee, a kiss. If he had gone too far to turn back. Of it was still too late to. My body moving, hovering over his. Between his suited legs. He's still unsure, he's never gone this far. Deciding to trust it? My lips on his. There is still fear, there is also wonder. My hands braced on the bed. My knees carrying some of the weight. Feeling him pull back. "Your stepmother?" Afraid she's going to come in. "She won't come around until morning." My words low. The answer is a little reassuring to him.

He's a little like a scared teenager. His suit jacket is already undone, it was when he got here. My arm moving, fingers searching for what buttons to start with. My finger playing with the edges as my eyes fall on him. Searching, if he's going to stop me as my finger maneuvers the button through the hole. His hand moving to the buttons above me, if he doesn't do this now he's never going to. He's lived most of his life with this hidden. Not knowing if he'll have the courage to do this again.

The buttons gone. Hair all over, light in some places, dark in others. Skin, lines, creases. Telling he's lived life. His eyes on me with questions. Will I walk away? Reject him? Just like my scar, it has its own story to tell and like my scar not all of it pretty. Leaning into him, lips on his. I'm not repulsed by any of it. He knew I woulld be, his age and the kind of man he is playing a factor. Showing me, letting his guard down, he's never been this vulnerable.

Navigating this new aspect is difficult for him. Wondering where he can touch. Can he? If he should? He's letting me navigate because this is uncharted territory. Pulling away, moving to his neck. Feeling the creases of warm skin as my lips touch it. I've thought about this all day. Doing this. Feeling the creases change as his head and neck move. He's never had someone make him feel this way. A hand at the back of my head. Applying just enough suction for him to feel, not enough to leave a hickey. Even thought the idea is tempting. A reminder to himself and me. I don't want my stepmother to see and question.

I don't want him to be uncomfortable. His breathing faster. To get his jacket and shirt off. Moving, pushing his jacket, landing on the wood floor. Fingers on the cuffof his shirt, he wants to get the off quickly and its making it harder to. Relief as they go. He's in fairly decent shape. His body hasn't been my main focus.

I barely know him and I feel I've known him longer than a couple days. Is it his type? I've known about guys like him out there. So scared to do what they want. Feel what its like to be free. He's envied me that. So open despite criticism. Lips on his as shoes are moved to the floor. Hands on the bed as his body finds it. My hands want to touch him, like they did at the museum and earlier. Feels like a teenager make out session, warm flesh against flesh.

He's not one who has been pent up all his life and wanting to do it in a hurry. When I had my hands on him earlier, this is starting to feel like that. My hands are on him, his neck, chest. A lover discovering the other's body. His skin giving, moving with me. The kiss hungry. He's been holding back. Not just our lips, our bodies. I'm not hovering anymore. Right next to each other. Hand on the back of my head.

I have wanted him to feel my body since his hand followed my scar. Hands starting to move down my back. Him wanting to feel. I moan into the kiss, my approval. Its not the youth of it he wants to feel, its a body against his, its not a woman. My eyes searching his. For a man who has never kissed another man he's doing pretty good. His have questions. How far he's willing to go. Like any make out session it can stop here. He can be glad he got this far. Should he? What will my reaction be? What will his be when they get there? My kin bending as he stops. Not out of fear. Waistband of my shorts. This is his destination. My eyes haven't left his. Still questioning my reaction. Flesh on flesh. His hand is where he wants it to be. Lips on his. I approve.

He needs approval from hi!self, trying to follow his instincts after they have been muted for so long. Following them and questioning if they are right. Laying with him, remembering it all, keeping me from sleeping. He's asleep, all that repressed energy, his first time with a man. We were quiet, not that I didn't see it all playing out on him. Relief, need and feeling everything else on top of it.

I know I'm only setting myself up if he decides or has already decided last night was it. I knew he was different when I saw him. I'm in love with him. I've never felt so drawn to someone. I know he felt it too. He's stirring, his breathing and his eyes are starting to open. Eyes questioning where he is, seeing me for a second. "What time is it?" Voice thick with sleep. The sun is starting to come up. "After 5. My stepmother will be away soon." Getting up to make breakfast for the house or keeping an eye on me. "I would have to get fully dressed here or my room." The problem in front of him, risk doing the walk of shame.

The bed moving as he starts getting up and pull his clothes on. Getting my shorts from the floor. I can see what way this is going to go. "I know we need to talk." He's stating. Do we? Seems like he he has made up his mind already, worried about being seen by my stepmother, barely acknowledging me in bed. Is he trying to ease the sting of rejection? Turning to see him, just his shorts on, his clothes in his hands. "You better go." He wont have long before she's out of her room as he open the door to mine. The sting already happening.

"Sebastian" I hate it when she calls me that. Thinks she has the right to since dad left. Her door shutting as his is shutting. "Mr. Carver I'll be starting breakfast if you would like to join us." Delight on her face at the thought of a guest. "I was just using the bathroom. I will, thank you." His paranoia setting in. She's nodding at the door. "Will you out some clothes on?" She's not out of range of the door. "Not until I use the bathroom." Walking in that direction. Wanting me to hide my scars and it's the proper thing to do.

Silverware hitting plates and the smell of coffee. Biscuits, gravy, sausage and hashbrowns. Her obsessive talking since he got to the table. Fresh clothes since last night. His head down, so she won't see his eyes. I've learned to keep quiet. She hopes her talking will get through to me. I've been able to keep my own. "I'll be going to the store. Will you be needing anything Mr. Carver?" Her delight of this job, I get being hospitable to the house guest but it's not her reason. "No, thank you." If he's just as annoyed at her question as I am or if he's just being polite I can't tell.

"But I will insist on doing the dishes." Clean up from breakfast. Holding back a laugh, first time he's really spoken since getting down here. "I'm going out too." I inform before she can volunteer my services. Her hand on the table out of protest. "I'd like to show you some of the texts on the paintings we saw yesterday." His first words to me since my bedroom. "Oh, that sounds lovely." My stepmother coos. Like the mere idea of it would be appealing to her. "Up to you." I state to him as I pick up my dishes, leaving the table. If I'm being roped into cleaning up, I might as well get a head start.

My stepmother left ten minutes ago. Working in complete silence. Silverware and glasses are done, I've been directing him around the kitchen on where these go when they are done. Handing him a clean plate. "I've been thinking about the fall semester. And the holidays." I thought this would happen, not speaking even with that line he fed my stepmother. Leaving was a better option. Hate to say I told you so. He's placing the plate in the cabinet just behind him. I don't see why he bothers if he's just humoring me. "What have you come up with, Professor?" A twinge on his face, almost a grimace. He doesn't like me calling him that. Drying another plate I've handed him. "I think a trip might be in order." He concludes.

During the holidays. "Christmas, its an awfully long wait." Side glancing him. But after a summer trist having a holiday visit might be whats needed after a long drought. Him putting the plate away. Working on a pan now. I don't know why I'm bothering with this conversation. Let him say the words, hear himself say them. It's bordering if it's even worth it. "I know it would be a relief for me." He informs. A relief from his obligations at school? At home? To have a distraction? Of his straight life?

"You know you didn't have to use the museum to get me alone. And you don't have to draw this out. Build this up. Use it as way to have a fling during your holiday break. Yeah it was fun during the summer, why not again. He's just a young dumb kid who happens to be gay." Not realizing how angry I've been about all of this. Dropping the pan in the soapy water, soap going across the sinks. Turning to walk away, a hand take hold of my wrist. To stop me.

"I wish I had been as brave as you at your age." Releasing my hand, my hand taking hold of the counter. Is he going to give me 'it was a different time' crap? "And I wish I could say with age comes experience." Hes saying it because he doesn't think he's much smarter now. "I got married, it made sense to. Carrying these feelings, when I would see a man across the room I pushed it down. No man could be seen with another. I have a wife, children." My hand holding onto the bar rim, holding me in place. I was being selfish. I really am according to my stepmother.

Doing things her way, the proper way, drive me nuts. There's no run around if I do it mine. No ulterior motive. Hers, always in some for to get me to see sense. Get a job, get married and possibly have a family. It's all contradictory to wondering what she would do if I ever left her. Wanting !e to grow up. Cast aside my childish ways, it's how she sees me being gay. It's why my father left. He likes men and found out late in life. The guy in front of me has known all his life and never acted on it. Not until last night. He didn't like it when I used professor because it was scolding. He used the word teacher instead.

I want to apologize somehow. His hand is leaning on the counter, not out of balance but reason. "I've been there fore years." His words trailing off. My hand on his. He's looking over at them. "I'm sorry." My voice calmer and a lot lower. I hardly ever apologize. What's strange to me is I care about him. Who would have ever thought that was possible. He has a life back there, work, people he knows. "I've known how I have wanted things to go. How they have gone. What has been expected of me. Living comfortably." My hand moving away from his. Nodding. If I care about him I would let him go.

"Until last night." A frown on my face, not understanding his words as I look up at him. "Thinking has always been the way I've done things. Gone about my life with the best option. Last night was sorely based on instinct." It's a foreign idea to him. Don't think, just act. It was hard to go about doing one without the other." I know. It wasn't something he could get out of a book. "Something occurred to me this morning and it scared me." He's turning, walking. Coming to stand in front of me. My back to the sink. "You know me." My eyes searching his, it terrified him. "What to do. What made me comfortable. I married because I thought she knew me and I knew her. Birthdays, when we got engaged, special occasions."

"The struggle I went through last night to act or not act and to just follow my instincts. Even at the museum you acted on yours. You knew I was attracted to you. Not to bury it. Waking up this morning felt different. It also had me questioning everything." It's what I saw and heard in his voice. If I was it meant something. I'm in love with you." Now I'm the one having trouble. Breathing. I knew he had felt something last night along with a lot of other things but to hear him say it. "This isn't just a fling, John." Him saying my name. My real name. " By the holidays I can have things settled at college and transfer here. It means a few things will have to be worked out. One asking my wife for a divorce." Now I really can't breathe. "I can find a place here once I get things settled there." The holidays were his goal.

It also means getting some talk from my stepmother. "I'll get work." The words are out my mouth before I have fully thought about them. But they aren't really something I have to think about. The words have surprised him. "There will be talk about this." He states. He means about us. I've taken them talk about my scars. "You not doing this alone." He won't be a solo provider. He won't be a solo anything. "I'm an expert on the subject of romantic love." His words at the museum. "So am I." Mine to him. He's leaning in. Lips on mine. Last night gave him the courage he needed to do this. He had fallen in love and he couldn't push it down this time. Courage he will need to face what's ahead. I've never had the need to protect anyone other than myself. I do now.