Date: Sat, 28 Feb 2009 20:10:07 -0500
From: bigmoh@post.com
Subject: WHO CAN KNOW WHAT WILL BE?

[Author's note:  This is the second part of a trilogy.
The first part, "One Glorious Weekend," relates how I
met a young man that would change my life.]


CHAPTER ONE: A SURPRISING LETTER

It was two weeks before the end of the spring semester
of my freshman year.  It had been a difficult for a
country boy from Wyoming to adjust to the hectic life
in New York City and even more difficult to manage the
demands of college classes.  I had been able to get
good grades but only because I spent so much time
studying.

It was not as difficult for my room mate in the dorm.
He lived in the Hamptons on Long Island, had attended
a private prep school, and seemed to already know much
of what was taught in the freshman classes.  Our
differences manifested themselves early in the school
year.  He frequently and not too subtly insulted me as
a "farm boy living in Indian Territory," teased me
about not having fashionable clothes, and criticized
what he felt was my lack of preparation for college.
His arrogance was intolerable.  I tried to ignore his
snobbery but it ate away at me until, shortly after
Spring break, I lost my temper.  All the hurt that he
had been heaping on me erupted.  Since that heated
argument, we spoke to each other only when it was
absolutely necessary.  What could have been a
beneficial friendship was anything but.

I had formed no real friendships with other students,
because I had to spend so much time studying.  I had a
number of acquaintances but no one I could call a
friend.  Loneliness and homesickness were my
occasional and depressing companions.

Except for a few days during Spring Break.

I spent three wonderful days with a seventeen year old
boy I met in Riverside Park, a homeless hustler who
solicited me for sex.  As a frustrated virgin
homosexual, I was tempted but couldn't afford his
asking price.  Nevertheless, we shared a bed and an
array of sexual activities for three wonderful days.

Since losing my virginity that weekend, my fist was my
only source of relief.  I would have liked to have
seen Jose again but it was not to be.

Or so I thought.

I picked up my mail one Wednesday afternoon, the day a
check for living expenses usually came from my
parents.  I was surprised to find another letter in my
mail box.  I was even more surprised at the return
address.  It was from Jose Delgado, the young hustler
who had brought so much joy to my life.  I rushed to
my dorm room, confident that my asshole room mate
would be in class and I could read the unexpected
letter in private.

In my room, I tore open the envelope.  A handwritten
letter was inside:

-----------

Dear Ray
I hope you are well.  I'm fine.  I still live
with my customer.  I service his friends and they pay
me good money.  I'm not hungry any more.  I have good
clothes too.
I want you to know how much I appreciated your
kindness.  You treated me like a person.  Not a queer
whore boy.
I'm OK.  But I miss you.  I get all the sex I
want but it's just business.  Not like when you and I
were together.  I think about you all the time.  Even
when somebody is fucking me I pretend it's you.
I guess school is about over and you'll be going
back to Wyoming soon.  I'd like to see you before you
go.  To tell you how much I miss you.  I'd like to
spend some time with you (in bed!)  No business.  No
money.  Just fun.
Please call me at 555-1212 on Friday.  Even if
you don't want to get together I would like to talk to
you.  PLEASE!

Your friend,
Jose

P.S.  Robert (my customer) has gone to Texas.  He'll
be gone until Monday.  I'm here alone.  Does that give
you any ideas?

----------

I read the letter over and over.  It was too good to
be true.  Jose seemed to be happy living with his
customer.  Best of all, he was inviting me to visit
him so we could share our bodies.  What more could I
want?  How could I turn him down?

Time dragged by until Friday, the time when he wanted
me to call.  At ten, right after my first class, I
nearly ran to the corner of Amsterdam Avenue and 114th
Street where there was a phone booth.  (Yes, a phone
booth!  With a door for privacy.  At that time, cell
phones were far in the future.)

My fingers trembled as I dialed the number.  I grew
more nervous as the phone rang three times.  Then, a
formal voice said, "Sampson residence."

I didn't expect that.  The voice was so formal
sounding.  There was a hint of an accent, very much
like Jose's but it sounded much older than I
remembered.  Perhaps it was Sampson.  Had I read the
letter right?  It said Friday ... but which Friday?

"Jose?" I asked tentatively, holding my breath.

"Ray!  It's you!  You called!"  The exuberance left no
room for doubt that it was Jose as he continued in
rapid-fire bursts of excitement.  "I was worried that
you wouldn't call.  I was afraid you wouldn't want to
see me again.  I miss you, Ray!  Can you come see me?"

"I miss you, too, Jose.  Are you all right?"

"I'm fine.  Really.  Except that I miss you.  Can you
come visit me?  Please!"

In several minutes of conversation, he assured me that
he was being treated well by his host and by all his
customers.  We arranged to meet at five in front of
his apartment building.  He gave me the address on
Park Avenue near 48th Street.  "We'll have dinner," he
said, "And then come back to the apartment."  I knew
what would happen then and almost sprouted a boner
thinking about it.

I mentally calculated how I would have to scrimp in
order to buy our dinner.  But, I quickly concluded, it
would be more than worth it.

In my two remaining classes of the day, I couldn't
concentrate on what the profs were saying.
Afterwards, I showered, put on fresh clothes, and told
my asshole room mate that I would not be around until
Sunday night.  Normally, I would have said nothing but
I didn't want him to report me missing when I was gone
for two nights.


CHAPTER TWO: REUNION

In my eagerness to see Jose, I arrived at the
apartment building at half past four.  Jose must have
also been eager because he was standing on the
sidewalk waiting for me.  He saw me approaching,
rushed up to me, and gave me a big hug.  It felt
wonderful but I worried about what the passers-by
would think.

He had filled out since I saw him a few weeks earlier.
Rather than the scrawny kid I remembered, he was a
healthy looking young man and even more attractive.

"Pretty classy neighborhood," I remarked.

"Yeah," he gushed.  "Not bad for a kid from public
housing in the Bronx."

He led me over to Madison Avenue and pointed to an
Italian restaurant.  "There it is," he said.  "Some of
the best food you ever ate."

I shuddered to think of the menu prices as we entered
but, as I had previously decided, being with Jose was
worth it.  The maitre de greeted Jose warmly.  "Ah,
Signore Delgado.  Good to see you again.  I have a
nice table by the window.  Right this way."

"Thanks, Donato," Jose said.  "But is the booth in the
back available?"

"Of course," the maitre de said officiously.  "It's
still early, you can sit wherever you like."

The booth was more of an alcove with partitions high
enough to block any view except for one end of the
empty bar.  A half-round table and a semi-circular
bench with leather upholstery would comfortably seat
six or more.  Jose slid in to the center of the bench.
I followed.

"No, slide over here next to me," Jose said as he
patted the place next to him.

When I was beside him, he said, "Thanks for coming,
Ray."  He placed his hand on my inner thigh, gave me a
quick kiss on the lips.

Instinctively, I recoiled from his kiss.  In my mind
that was something that a closeted gay must never do
in a public place.  The consequences of being outed
were too dire.  Jose, possibly offended by my
rejection of his bold move, was initially confused.

"Not here," I said.  "Not now.  Let's save it for
later when we're alone."

He laughed.  "It's okay, Ray.  Everybody here knows
what I am and what I do.  They may not approve of my
life but I bring them a lot of business so they
tolerate it ... as long as their other customers don't
see it.  I always check.  Nobody saw us."

His remarks told me two things.  First, he had been
here often with customers.  It was now clear how the
maitre de knew him and gave him preferential
treatment.  That solved a mystery that had puzzled me
since we entered the restaurant.  Second, he had
evolved from the pitiful street hustler I had met just
weeks before; he was poised, confident, and
comfortable with himself.  That was only a mild
surprise because I knew from the beginning that he was
bright and adaptable.

Before I could apologize, the waiter brought our
menus.  One glance at the menu induced panic.  The
price of one meal was nearly my weekly budget for
food.

"I know what you're thinking," Jose grinned.

"Oh?"

"Yes.  You're worried about the prices.  Don't be.
This is my treat.  You bought me several meals.  I'm
returning the favor."

"But the meals I bought were from McDonald's and a
cheap diner," I objected.  "This place is ... well ...
extravagant!"

"Don't think of price, Ray.  Think of value.  You
bought my meals when I really needed them.  The cost
of those meals doesn't begin to equal how much I
appreciated them.  I know you couldn't afford them but
you paid for them anyway.  Your generosity was
priceless."

"But..." I continued to object.  I wanted to ask if he
could afford it but couldn't decide how to ask without
being condescending.

"But nothing," he interrupted. "It's a lot like the
service I give to my customers.  They're horny and
frustrated.  I give them satisfaction.  Back when we
met, I was hungry.  You fed me but the food was
nothing compared to the satisfaction of being treated
with kindness and respect.  In that weekend we spent
together, I wasn't a queer whore boy.  I'll never be
able to repay you for that."

I looked at him with an increased sense of admiration.
"You're an amazing young man, Jose."  I glanced out at
the dining room.  Seeing no one, I gave Jose a short
but meaningful kiss.  He grinned appreciatively.

As I studied the menu, he said, "I know what you're
thinking."

"Again?"

"Yes.  You're wondering how I can afford to bring you
here."

"The thought had occurred to me," I confessed.

"My customers pay me very well.  And they keep coming
back for more.  I have very few expenses.  So don't
even look at the prices; just order what you want."

After the best meal I had had since leaving Wyoming,
Jose signed the check and we walked back to the
apartment building where Jose lived.  He greeted the
doorman by name and we took the elevator to the tenth
floor.  The apartment could only be described as
elegant: luxurious furnishings, obviously expensive
art work on the walls, and a commanding view of Park
Avenue below.  He led me to his large bedroom.
Against one wall was a king-sized bed with a mirrored
headboard.  A love seat and armchair was in one
corner.  Built-in cabinets along the length of one
wall housed a large-screen TV and component music
system on open shelves and who knows what behind
several cabinet doors.

Before I could comment on the sumptuousness room, he
embraced me in a hug with an intensity I didn't
expect.  "I've missed you so much," he said.  "I only
wish that ..."

"You wish what?" I asked.

"Never mind.  Let's get naked."

I needed no further persuasion.  Clothes dropped
carelessly to the floor.  Passions elevated to fever
pitch.  Penises engorged.  The bed hosted not a paying
customer and a service-provider but two young men who
yearned to express their feelings for each other.

Was it because I had once experienced the joy of
sexual intimacy and then had to live without it?  Or
had Jose's skill improved?  Whatever the reason, the
next hour was a fabulous mixture of sensual delight
and physical satisfaction.


CHAPTER THREE: DILEMMA

As we lay in an embrace, recuperating, Jose asked,
"Are you happy, Ray?"

"I'm deliriously happy, Jose.  I can't begin to
imagine what would make me happier.  What you did ...
no, the way you did it ... was simply awesome."

Jose grinned and said, "I try to do my best with
customers but that's to keep them coming back.  With
you, it's different.  I tried to do my best with you
because I wanted to make you happy."

"I hope your customers recognize your extraordinary
talent," I said.

"They always come back for more and sometimes give me
a generous tip.  I guess that means they're pleased."

I had to know so I asked, "Are they good to you?  Do
they treat you with the respect you deserve?  Or do
they just use you for their selfish pleasure?"

"They're not mean to me if that's what you want to
know.  I don't really know what they think of me but I
can tell you that all of them are just customers to
me.  I try to make them happy but it's business.  It's
not like with you.  I want to make you happy because I
like you."

"And I like you, Jose."

"For more than the sex?" he asked with half a grin.

"For much more," I replied.  "You're courageous,
bright, considerate, ambitious, ... I could go on and
on."

"Do I make you happy?" he asked.

I didn't think he was fishing for more compliments.
There was a very serious tone to his voice.  There
seemed to be something behind his question.  I didn't
know him well but well enough to sense that something
was bothering him.

"You make me very happy," I replied while wondering
whether I dared probe into what might be troubling
him.

He was quiet for several minutes before he said, "Do
you think that ..."  He didn't finish the sentence.

"Do I think what, Jose?"

He hugged me more tightly.  I felt his tears falling
onto my shoulder.  I gave him a few minutes but when
he remained silently crying, I said. "Talk to me,
Jose.  Tell me what's bothering you."

He rose off my shoulder and sat on the edge of the bed
wiping away his tears.  I rose to sit beside him and
hug him.

"I've got it good here, Ray.  But I'm just a whore
boy.  I want to make something of myself.  I want to
finish high school.  Maybe go to college like you.
But most of all, I want to love somebody and be loved
back.  I enjoy sex with my customers but it's empty.
There's no feeling.  Not like when I'm with you.  I
wish ..."  He stopped talking and dropped his head to
his chest.

"You wish what, Jose?"

He stiffened and seemed to be pulling away from my
hug.  "I wish for the impossible!" he forcefully
exclaimed.  "I wish that we could be together.
Forever!  I wish that you loved me as much as I loved
you.  But that's impossible!  You're in college.  I'm
a whore boy.  You will graduate and go back to
Wyoming.  I'll be here sucking and fucking and hoping
that Robert doesn't throw me out.  I'd be out on the
street again.  There!  I've said it!  If you want to
go away and never see me again, I wouldn't blame you.
You don't need a queer whore boy complicating your
life."

I was stunned by his emphatic outburst.  I never
suspected the depth of his affection for me.  The way
he degraded himself by continuing to see himself as a
whore boy disturbed me.  I admired him, I worried
about him, and, yes, I cared for him but I had never
considered a committed relationship.

I put my hand under his chin, raised his head, and
said, "Look at me!  Let's get a few things straight!
First of all, you're not a whore boy.  You're a
resourceful young man who escaped from a bad
environment.  Sure, you sell sex for money but you
have the good sense to want something more.  Second.
I'm not going to walk out on you.  And that's not
because you're good in bed.  It's because you're a
somebody -- a somebody with intelligence and ambition
that deserves help.  And finally, I'm flattered that
you love me.  But I have to be honest with you, Jose.
I haven't even considered a committed relationship.
You'll have to give me some time to think that
through.  In the meantime, I want to be your friend.
I want to do whatever I can to help you.  I want to
see you as often as I can.  And not for the sex as
good as that is.  I want to be sure that you don't get
hurt."

He looked into my eyes for a moment, then threw his
arms around me, and laid his head on my shoulder.
Through his tears, he said, "That's why I love you,
Ray.  When you look at me you don't just a see a cock
and an asshole.  You see me as a somebody."

We laid back down and cuddled for a long, quiet time.
My mind was racing.  Beyond the pure bliss of holding
a handsome young man in my arms, I was overcome with
his confession of love for me.  Simultaneously, I was
deeply troubled by thoughts of his future.  He had the
intelligence and initiative to be successful but he
lacked the resources and opportunity for an education
that would make it possible.  Most significantly, I
was conflicted over the prospect of the committed
relationship that he said he wanted.  I would welcome
it but realistically knew it was highly impractical
and therefore unlikely.

My torturous thoughts were interrupted when Jose
whispered in my ear, "I know what you're thinking."

"Not again!" I exclaimed.  "This time, I'll bet you're
wrong."

He chuckled and said, "We'll see!  You're thinking
about me.  And my future.  That's why I love you, Ray.
You care about other people.  Well, don't worry.  I'll
be fine.  I can look out for myself.  You're also
thinking about us.  You're wondering how you can tell
me that we can't be together forever.  I already know
that.  So don't let it bother you.  I'm sorry I said
anything."

"You're only half right," I said as if I had won the
bet.  "You're right that I worry about you but you're
wrong about my not wanting to be with you.  The simple
truth is that I can't think of a better person to
spend my life with.  I'm not going to walk out on you
because it would hurt me as much as you."

He kissed me and said, "I don't want you to leave but
I'll understand if you do."


CHAPTER FOUR: A PLAN AND HOPE

Much later that evening, we shared a highly erotic and
satisfying sexual experience before turning out the
light to go to sleep.  Jose was nestled tightly
against me when he fell asleep.  I couldn't sleep for
a long time trying desperately to resolve my concerns
for the young man and sort out the depth of my
feelings for him.

The next morning we showered -- together and with the
inevitable sex play -- and ate breakfast in the nude.
During breakfast, I hatched a plan that just might be
possible.

"Jose, I've done a lot of thinking since last night.
I've come to the conclusion that I care for you more
than I realized.  I've respected you from the day we
met.  I've wanted to help you and felt frustrated that
I couldn't do more.  That much I've known all along.
Now, it's different.  I really care for you, Jose.  I
don't know if it's love because I've never been in
love and I don't know what that's like.  But I was
serious when I told you that I can't think of a better
person to spend my life with."

He grinned.  "Even though I'm a whore boy?"

I pounded the table with my fist and shouted, "STOP
IT!  RIGHT NOW!  You're not a whore boy!  You've got
to stop thinking of yourself that way!"

My flare-up seemed to frighten him.  Very meekly he
said, "I was joking, Ray.  I'm sorry."

"Okay," I said more calmly.  "But it's not true and
it's a bad joke."

I leaned over and kissed him by way of apologizing for
my outburst.  Then I continued with my fanciful plan.
"We both know it will be difficult but I have a few
ideas and I want to know what you think of them."

"I'm listening," he replied.

"First, let's talk about your education.  You can get
your high school diploma.  There's something called a
GED.  You study and take a test given by the state.
If you pass the test, you have your diploma."

"Gee, I'm not sure I can do that.  My grades were good
but I missed most of my senior year in high school."

"That's the second part of my plan," I said.  "I can
help you study over the summer so you'll be prepared
for the test next fall."

He looked confused.  "But you'll be in Wyoming and
I'll be here.  I don't see how you can help me."

"That's the tricky part of my plan," I replied.
"Suppose you were in Wyoming with me.  I really don't
know if that's possible but there may be a way.  First
of all, you'll have to buy a bus ticket.  My parents
will send me money for my bus ticket but it won't be
enough for both of us.  Do you think you can buy your
own ticket to come with me?"

"Maybe.  How much does it cost?"

"About a hundred dollars," I replied.  [Author's note:
Remember, this happened in the mid-1960's when
Greyhound busses were common and the fare was a
fraction of air fare.]

"Easy!" he exclaimed.  His excitement was visibly
increasing at the thought of spending the summer with
me in Wyoming.

"Settle down," I cautioned.  "There's one more problem
to solve.  I have to clear it with my parents but
here's my plan.  I'll tell them that you will work on
the ranch in exchange for room and board.  There's a
lot of work that has to be done and maybe -- just
maybe -- they'll welcome the help.  It's hard work,
Jose, not at all like what you have here.  You'll get
dirty, you'll get tired, you'll probably have a lot of
sore muscles and blisters at first, but if you're
willing to try it, it means we can spend the summer
together and you can get ready for the GED test."

He looked at me for several moments, possibly trying
to digest the opportunity.  Finally, he grinned and
exclaimed, "YES!  I'll do it!"

He jumped up off his chair, threw his arms around me,
and said, "I'd do anything to be with you, Ray."

"Hold on!" I warned.  "There are still two problems to
solve.  First, my parents have to agree.  I'm not sure
they will."

His grin faded to what looked to me like an expression
of disappointment.  I suddenly regretted raising his
hopes and then crushing them.  "There's no guarantee,
Jose, but I'll try my best to convince them."

"Okay," he said morosely and then asked, "What's the
second problem?"

"That's a problem I want you to solve," I said.  "If
my parents agree, I want you to tell your parents
where you're going.  I want you to write to them often
to let them know you're all right.  Have you contacted
your parents since you left home?"

He saddened and admitted, "No.  I lied to them about
going in the army.  I just can't tell them what I've
really been doing.  They would be upset and ashamed of
me.  As ashamed as I am."

I understood his dilemma.  Perhaps expecting him to
contact his parents with the truth was too much to ask
of him.  "Let me think a minute," I said.

I didn't want to demand that he do something he
wouldn't or couldn't do.  But I was bothered that his
parents had lost one son, another was in prison, and
they couldn't help but be worried over their third
son.  After wrestling with the problem, I said, "It
seems to me that you have three choices, Jose.  And
the choice has to be yours to make.  First option: you
could not contact your parents.  They are no doubt
wondering and worrying about you.  That's got to be
very hard on them.  Second option: you can contact
them and tell them the truth -- that you lied about
the army and have been selling sex to customers.  You
know best how they would feel about that but I suspect
they would be very disappointed.  Third option: you
can contact them and assure them that you're all
right.  That would be a relief to them but you'll have
to make up a story to explain why you haven't
contacted them for several months.  I don't like the
idea of lying to your parents again but it might be
justified.  It would ease the hurt they must feel
about not hearing from you."

Jose sat staring at his empty plate while he weighed
his options.  Then, tears came to his eyes as he said,
"I really do love my mom and dad.  I miss them a lot.
I'd like to see them again and tell them I'm all
right.  But how can I do that?  They'd want to know
about the army.  They'd want to know what I'm doing.
I can't tell them that; I just can't do it."

"Then that leaves the third option," I said.  "Call
them.  Better yet, visit them.  Tell them you love
them and miss them.  Make up some story about why you
haven't contacted them."

"What kind of story?" he asked.

"I don't know.  Maybe ... this is just an idea ... you
could say that the army rejected you because of your
age or something.  Then you got a job ... let's say on
a fishing boat.  You've been out on the boat and just
got back."

"I don't like that option either, Ray.  It's telling
another lie.  They would ask why I didn't call before
going out on the boat.  And if they ever found out
what I've been doing, the lie about it would only make
things worse."

"Okay," I said.  "So far, you have three bad options.
Let's take some time to think about it."

Jose nodded in agreement but his expression revealed
how perplexed he was.  We cleared the table and washed
the dishes in silence.  When that task was done, he
said, "Can we go back to bed?  Not for sex.  I just
want you to hold me."

"And I want to hold you, Jose."

We cuddled for a long time in bed, hugging each other.
Jose, no doubt, was struggling with his sincere desire
to see his parents, my insistence that he do so, and
what to say about his prolonged absence.  Meanwhile, I
was hoping that his decision, whatever it might be,
would be the right one.

Finally, Jose said, "I know what I have to do, Ray.
But I might need your help.  I'm going to go home to
visit my parents.  I'm going to tell them that the
army rejected me, that I couldn't find a job, and what
I've been doing.  I'm going to apologize and hope that
they forgive me."

"Are you sure that's what you want?" I asked.

"Yes.  I hate having to do it but they deserve the
truth.  Besides, if my wish comes true and we live
together, the truth about being queer will come out."

"Okay," I replied.  "But don't say anything to them
about going to Wyoming.  Not until I talk to my
parents."


CHAPTER FIVE: COMING OUT

Later that day, I phoned my parents.  They were
surprised that I wanted to bring a friend home for the
summer.  I didn't say anything about how we met or our
real relationship.  That should be said in person
after I got home.  They were not enthusiastic but were
agreeable to having some extra help around the ranch.

When I told Jose the good news, he exploded in a fit
of delirious delight that I couldn't have imagined.
He said that he had a regular Tuesday night customer
but on Wednesday he would visit his parents.

"Are you still sure you want to tell them the truth?"
I asked.

"Yes," he replied with no hesitation.

"You said you might need my help.  What do you want
from me?"

"After I tell my parents about me -- if they don't
throw me out -- I'd like them to meet you.  I know
they'll like you.  I just know it!  They'll feel
better about my going to Wyoming if they know you are
looking out for me.  Will you do it?"

"That's a good idea," I said.  "I'd like the chance to
tell them what a wonderful person you are and they
should be proud of you."

We spent the remainder of the weekend enjoying each
other's company and, of course, lavishing affection on
each other in bed.  Sunday afternoon came all too
quickly and I had to return to campus.  It was a
tearful parting for both of us.

By that time, I was almost ready to acknowledge that I
loved Jose but I was reluctant to admit it to myself.
There were very serious practical considerations: my
schooling, my dependence on my parents for financial
support, his finding a job and possibly a place to
live in the fall, and the unfavorable odds of two
young homosexuals forming a lasting bond.  Surpassing
those severe problems, however, was the magnitude of
making an emotional commitment.  I cared for Jose.  I
wanted very much to help him.  But how much of my
attachment was due to the fact that he had been my
first and only sexual partner?  Was I letting my
sensual needs trump my reasoning?

For the next week, I tried to keep busy preparing for
final exams but thoughts of Jose frequently intruded
into my concentration.  He had decided not to tell
Robert Sampson that he was moving out and leaving for
Wyoming until just before we left.  Rightly, I think,
he was afraid his host would feel betrayed and evict
him on the spot.  He regretted the deception until I
reminded him that even though the old man had provided
a place to live, his only interest was in selfish
sexual gratification.

Just after supper on Friday night, I was studying for
my last final exam on Monday when I heard a knock on
my dorm room door.  My asshole room mate opened the
door and I heard Jose say, "Is Ray here?"

"Who wants to know?" he said sarcastically.

Before Jose could answer, I pushed past my room mate
and said, "Let's go somewhere."  Glaring at my room
mate, I said, "I need some fresh air."

We walked around campus for almost an hour during
which time Jose told me of his visit to his parents.
They were, of course, delighted to see him.  When he
worked up courage to tell them the lie about being
rejected by the army and the truth about what he had
been doing, they were shocked.  His mother cried; his
father turned coldly silent.  Jose then broke the news
that he was going to Wyoming for the summer to work on
a ranch with a friend.  Naturally, they wanted to know
who the friend was and Jose explained how we met and
that I had treated him with respect and kindness.
Upon questioning from his father, Jose admitted that
he loved me and that we had had sex.  During nearly
two hours of discussion, his parents calmed down.
They disapproved of what he had been doing but finally
agreed that working on a ranch was far better than
selling sex.  But they definitely wanted to meet me.

"Can you come and meet my parents?" Jose asked.

"Of course," I said.  "When?"

"Tonight?" he asked.  "I know you have to study but it
would mean a lot to me and my parents if you could
spare the time."

"Let me change clothes and we'll be on our way," I
said.

We took the subway to the South Bronx.  We couldn't
talk much on the way because the train was crowded.
When walking from the station to his apartment
building Jose grew visibly nervous.  For that matter,
so was I.  The neighborhood had seen its best days but
seemed to me to be a borderline slum.  Adults, teens,
and children on the street eyed us suspiciously as we
passed.  I was increasingly happy that I was helping
Jose out of his unfortunate environment.

We reached his apartment building.  The elevator was
out of service, which Jose said was common, so we
climbed five flights of stairs.  Empty beer cans and
whiskey bottles littered the stairway.  The smell of
pot and urine was noxious.  Little wonder that Jose
felt compelled to escape that environment.

Jose inserted a key and opened the door to apartment
514.  I was struck by how tidy the apartment was
although the furniture was sparse and showed its age.
His mother came out of the kitchen to meet us and
promptly gave her son a long, motherly hug while his
father rose from an easy chair.  Jose introduced me to
his parents.  His mother exuded a warm, welcoming
manner but I sensed hostility and suspicion from his
father.

For more than an hour, I was the target of a barrage
of questions.  Yes, I knew all about Jose's recent
sexual activities but I respected his courage,
initiative, resilience, and ambition.  I emphasized
how proud they should be of his character and
intelligence.  I answered in detail all their
questions about my family, living on a ranch, and the
work Jose would be doing.  I inserted in that
explanation my insistence that Jose write frequently
so they would know he was all right.  They asked about
my future plans.  I had to be honest and reply that I
was majoring in business management but that may
change but I would probably return to Wyoming
permanently after college.

Then came a question that I half-expected and was not
fully ready to answer.  His father gave me a steely
look and said, "Jose says he is marica."  (Jose
interrupted to explain that meant homosexual.)  "He
says you are marica too.  He says you have ... you
have been in bed together.  He says he loves you like
a man loves a woman.  I want to know, do you love him
like a husband and wife love each other?"

I had given that question a lot of thought over the
previous week and had come to no firm conclusion.  I
had trouble separating out two factors.  One, I wanted
to help a young man with potential to rise above his
background of poverty.  How did that affect my
affection for him?  I wasn't sure.  Two, he had given
me the intimacy that I had craved for so long.  Was my
appreciation masquerading as love?  I wasn't sure.
Did I really love him?  I wasn't sure.  But I was sure
that I could give only one answer to his father that
would assure Jose's future.

"Yes, sir.  I love your son.  I give you my word that
I will never hurt him or let anyone else hurt him.  I
promise you that I will do everything I can to make
him happy.  And successful.  I want to share my life
with him."

Jose's father continued looking at me intensely as
though he were assessing my sincerity.  I was
uncomfortable, worrying that my answer didn't satisfy
him.  But then he said, with no change of expression,
"I don't like what you do together.  But I like you."
Turning to Jose, he said something in Spanish, which
made Jose grin and give his father a hug.

"Papa says he gives his blessing to my going to
Wyoming.  He also says that I must never lie to him
again and must write a letter at least once a week."

His father rose from his chair and spoke to Jose,
again in Spanish.  Jose replied, "Si, papa.  Te
quiero."  My conversation with Jose's parents
apparently was a success.

Jose turned to me and said, "I will stay here at home
until we leave for Wyoming.  I'll collect my things
from Robert's apartment tomorrow and tell him I'm
leaving.  Now, I'll walk you back to the subway
station so you can get back to studying."

"That's okay," I replied.  "I know the way."

"No," he objected.  "It's dark.  It's not safe for
you.  I'll go with you to the station."

I appreciated his concern for my safety but was not
aware of his other motive until we left the apartment.
In the privacy of the stairwell, he threw his arms
around me, gave me a breath-robbing hug and a
passionate kiss.  "Thank you, Ray.  I knew my parents
would like you.  But I love you!"

I returned to my dorm room thinking of all the ironies
of the past few months: a "cowboy kid" attending an
Ivy League school; a frustrated virgin homosexual
finding joy and satisfaction with a hustler; a young
man from an impoverished background showing signs of
independence, initiative, and intelligence; parents
who loved their son in spite of his "deviant"
behavior; and, most of all, my rapid transformation
from a frustrated virgin to someone who was on the
brink of making a commitment to a life partner.

There are many unexpected twists and turns in life.

The end.