When the clock struck 1:30, we all cleared out of the club and continued the party at a friend’s house in the Castro, one of those beautiful converted Victorian flats with high ceilings & molding on the walls & bay windows, a place with a king size bed & a palatial bathroom with a giant clawfoot tub. In the hallway between the bedroom & the living room, he came up behind me and cupped my breasts in his hands, ran his fingers through my hair & pulled, held me by the throat. I was putty in his hands, I was a goner, this sweet leatherfag I’d wanted to fuck for years, my dear kind friend who’d taught me so much about writing & sex, work & community, the power & anguish & joy of our bodies.
There is a deep & profound power in fucking your mentors. Everybody always worries about the younger person getting exploited, and those worries are undoubtedly legitimate in many situations, but shit, I did not feel preyed upon. I felt lucky, happy. I was honored that he deemed me worthy to share himself with.
His chest was pressed up against my back. He led my hand to his cock, which I couldn’t see because he was still behind me. “You feel how hard I’m getting for you, pretty thing?” he said, and I sucked in a breath, nodded as my fingers curled around his dick. But not even 20 seconds after I’d started stroking him, he crumpled. “Oh, fuck, I’m so sorry, I hit a wall, I’m having a pain spike, I need to sit down, I need to take a pill…”
“It’s okay, love,” I said, and we disentangled.
He slumped back against the wall of the hallway, slid down to sit on the hardwood floor, fished the silver pill case he always carries out of one of the many pockets of his crumpled flight suit on the floor. He made a sad little animal noise, a noise that I recognize in myself sometimes. I curled up next to him, and we spent the rest of the afternoon cuddled up against the wall, watching people romp in the king-size bed through the doorway of the bedroom, holding each other, talking, sometimes kissing.
When I leaned in for a kiss after he took his pill, at first he stopped me. “I taste like narcotics,” he warned, “I’m all bitter.”
“I don’t care,” I said. “Happy Birthday.””