And we'll all feel gay when Johnny comes marching home

Author’s note: This is based on incidents that have been reported over the past several years about the problems the young, young men in particular, face when their parents are both gay. There is no intent, though it may seem like it, to editorialize, just comment. As many of you will recognize, the title is taken from the lyric of an old, Civil War Era, folk song. It seemed appropriate here for, one wonders, if sung as it has been for over a century and three quarters, the description of all feeling gay might run into “social justice”.

If you have YouTube, there’s a nice musical version of this without words which, in a way, reflects attitudes; The song, which could not be sung without the inclusion of the phrase, has  been emasculated to spare the feelings of anyone who may have an opinion on the word ‘gay’ and its contemporary meaning. So, as with many of us, who have been emasculated by a society that is afraid to see the obvious, the tune is without words. Or to quote a lyric from a Broadway show, “Tenderloin”, “Condemn the fires of Babylon with passion, but skip the sins next door”. This story is about what, to some, may be the sin next door.

After a day seeing clients who have no case but, spurred by the “Judge” shows on television, believe they have, come to me, wanting redress-read money-for the sin committed by the neighbors’ Cocker Spaniel when it crapped on their brand new green lawn. They’re quite specific about the color feeling, I suppose, that verdancy gives it Veritas. They even have pictures of the offending offal and one, a Christmas Card, from their neighbors which includes the pooping pooch as part of the happy family. I’m perfectly willing to listen, at two hundred bucks a half hour,  then tell them they have no case, at least no case I will file and, after they leave in a huff (a leaser known brand of Serbian automobiles) I do make some marginal notes then hand it to Flo, erstwhile secretary as well as co-listener of lunacy, to be filed in what we call the “Judge Judy” file and continue on with real problems had by real people.
By adroit scheduling, we can keep the number of these frivolous and foolish potential cases to one or two per month. Okay, the only reason they even get in is if whoever has done the pre-interview thinks they’re sufficiently loony to have some amusement value. THAT’S HOW I SEE THEM, THEIR LAUGH VALUE. Hey when you deal with death-in a sickening number of ways, taxes and real problems, you need this sort of interjection to remind you that law is not always dead serious. Or ever serious. Some days, when I go home, the normalcy of life in suburbia seems almost...quaint.

Dinner. I assume Dex is upstairs and that’s a no brainer as there’s a trail of stuff-it varies with the day, the season, the usual youthful variables, leading up the back steps. Tho I deny it, yelling for him to come down for dinner has upped my lung strength so that when I  need to make an exception or injection or objection in court, my voice will be heard. Today, however, there’s the silence that, with any kid, probably presages...something. No way of knowing and I’ve learned not to guess. Back to the steps, I’ll give it my seriously annoyed ‘OBJECTION’ volume. “DEXTER, Dinner, now.” Assuming even the neighbors have decided it’s time to dine I park my tired ass at the table and wait. And wait. Finally, the shade, the spirit of my elusive son winds his way in and sits, face almost in his plate. I wait.

He looks up and I see what we’re going to discuss, but I’ll let him bring up the black eye and knot on his forehead.

“Uh, Dad, uh, I got in a fight at school and….”, he hands me a crumpled envelope which, I’m sure, contains information I will not like. But we’ll get to that, time, and I mean it, to play concerned parent.

“What happened, who hung the shiner on you…? Want an ice pack?” There’s more to this as, for a young man, he’s 15, God how they grow, who usually requires a tranquilizer gun, he’s too solemn, too...wistful. Although I wish it were otherwise, we’re about to visit an old issue.

Ever wish you had a kid who had your interests at heart? That’s my Dex and, unfortunately we’re about there. Again.

“Some guy called you a fucking queer”.

“That the best he could do? No fag, no butt fucker….?”

Suddenly he’s by me, arms thrown around my neck, tears on my collar..

“This envelope, you get expelled?”

“Yeah but...he started it”. Of this I am certain, no doubt, and I hate like hell that our son feels he has to fight our battle alone. He’s not alone in this, beyond Francois, my partner, lots of people, some our neighbors have said, first quietly but then publicly, picking on a kid because his Dads are gay is wrong. Then there are those who feel we brought this problem on him when we adopted him, we knew what we were, the authorities who permitted this knew so the continuing crap that our kid gets is just...wrong and, increasingly, some blame the school. As one of our neighbors said at a meeting, protection for all sorts of minorities is guaranteed...shouldn’t protection for our children, the students whatever their circumstance, be guaranteed? This is not, well, you can guess, the attitude of all but probably a majority. At least hope so.

What’s important now is that I’ve got a damaged kid and one, I fear, both physically and, maybe, mentally. He’s got to be as tired as we are of the fights, the squabbles, the snide back voices….not to mention the insults, to him, and, yep, us. I’ll say this, hearing all the crappola has prepared him for whatever career he might choose in which verbal abuse is just part of the daily routine. Maybe he doesn’t even really hear it, something repeated just  becomes noise, unpleasant elevator music.

In the kitchen, making an ice bag, I suddenly wish my idiot, crazy, wonderful French man, my partner were here. This is a moment for the Gallic way of over reacting, fist pumping, swearing of oaths-in several languages (I kind of hope Dex is learning some of these, never know…) I also wish he were here, not to back stop me or Dex but because after he’s sufficiently worked up, ripped off his uniform and, subsequently, everything else, he’s one fired up frog of a French one, whether he’s fucking or wants to be fucked, whatever dumped his adrenaline….he’s full bore or maybe boar, tusks ready to stick  into whatever needs sticking. Me included.

Not that his frenzies are ridiculous, that’s just how he is, same with sex; There came a time, well, because the noise frightened him so he came to our room, when we had to explain to him that…..the noise he heard was just our expressing our affection for one another. He bought it, for about two months when, in class, the subject of affection-some kid had surreptitiously brought their new, much loved kitten to class-came up so he volunteered about how affection in his in  his home was expressed...that won me a visit with a school counselor-Francois was in, hell, I don’t know where he was, just not available. Knowing his volatility, I pretty much took over dealing with school; There is a God and he’s the one who made my man a senior Captain for an International airline so, when I said he was in wherever I thought sounded likely, true or not, I was believed. Indeed after a year or two, no one asked for him. (I fell to my knees in gratitude...and also to blow him-there’s a reason so much is made of French cuisine, no matter the source or who cooked it up.)

I had Dex laid on the couch so he wouldn’t drip while I fed him dinner and, with the other hand, fumbled with the envelope, ripping out the contents.

“Dear Mr. Patterson-

Again your son has involved himself in violence on another student. As you will know this is not the first instance, indeed, these occasions have become so frequent that I regret we must ask that you remove your son from our school permanently.

In conversation with our school counselor, she has made me further aware of his home situation which, often, is the genesis for his problems.

I will be glad to discuss this with you at any time mutually convenient but, until such time, I must insist that Dexter not attend classes.

Phillip Einbinder, Ph.D.
Principal.”

“Bounced, huh?”

“Yep, you’re on permanent holiday for awhile.”

“Okay with me, those chicken shits (I let that one pass figuring he’s entitled),

peut alleer se faire foutrre, connards.” Did I mention his other Dad is French?

I stand behind the importance of leaning a foreign language and, with Francois, he has even if I’m not entirely sure what he’s learned will be in all circumstance either wise or well chosen, just in French. Worse, Papa, as he calls him, Gallic for Dad, was born on Martinique, same as the Empress Josephine although that has nothing to do with anything, so his French is more of a patois and, I’ve discovered is littered with ‘unfortunate’ expressions. One thing for French, said with a beatific smile on your face it can mean, uhm, not what one might think it means; I live in the same house, sleep in the same bed as the prime French Instructor and while I know not everything Dex has been taught would terrify the Academe Francais, no one can argue that he hasn’t learned French. Sort of.

With Dex in my lap, and my cock and balls being chilled from a dripping ice  bag, I don’t know what to do. Will I make an appointment to see Einbinder? Does a wild bear shit in the woods? but...this time I’m not going along. Our son’s well being can be squeezed in between Tokyo, Rio and hell. I know Francois cares but his damn job doesn’t permit him the laxity of time. Sure, he gets time off between flights, but they’re always at the other end of the flight. While he’s on the phone whining to me about how chilly it was on the Palermo golf course  in Buenos Aires, I’m dealing with a plumber, a backed up sewage line and snow crotch deep. I’m not sympathetic to his Argentine problems.

Doing what I know to do, and to try and dry off, I call dispatch at the airline, find out where my wandering man is, have them get a message to him and, sneaky me, find out when his  next AT HOME layover will be. I have no doubt he’ll want to help but I just want to assure myself of his availability.

When it’s quiet and I’m by myself I think or I don’t want to think that, of course, Francois is the more interesting Dad/Papa. What do I do? I’m an attorney, don’t bring home souvenirs. Papa, usually has very nice ones (as he, uh, bulged, Francois brought him two very minuscule bikinis from, where else? France.) I don’t do much, don’t understand all that he does, I try but...even though I’m not in the left seat of a 777 welcoming passengers, I am in basement doing laundry or the kitchen or the market or...I know as a father I’m not much by comparison but I love my son, I’ll do anything for him, anything….what I do have is his presence, his running up and down stairs, his dropping things in the pool that plugs the drain, his wild enthusiasm for things that didn’t exist when I was his age. I’m truly sorry I can’t work a computer or a cell phone except at the very basic level. I’m colorless, probably to him, just the man around the house, the man who tries to hold him, comfort him, put cold compresses eye and…because I love another man  may again be the cause of his troubles….

Oh, yeah, I pretty much gave up something I like, sex, so he could fly a plane, get the glory of being a Papa…

Dex is using this enforced leisure to getting rid of an offensive tan line. Okay, I don’t have one myself...any more, turns out that was one father/son activity you could do. And, because we used a little pressure with our thumbs, he’s been great about going to the gym, for 15, I go with him, which doesn’t hurt my aging body but more because he’s getting too much attention from guys I know about and they aren’t paying attention to make sure he’s properly doing a curl. Then there’s the showers. Fine, clean, but...the moment someone offers to scrub his back, strange, a father shows up who, thanks the man, but points out he’s the prime back scrubber. I know that as he grows older, there’s no way I can or Francois be right by him at all vulnerable minutes and that’s just the trouble with guys. In the past four or five months, I’ve answered the phone to find some giggling girl wonder if she could speak to Dex? Sometimes she can and sometimes she can’t; Now I’m not only Dad but a sort of ad hoc wing man, a role I do not easily play. For one thing, this should be obvious, I never went through the ‘giggling girl’ stage...okay, my parents did get a certain number of adenoidal calls for me but, then, they just thought it was a school chum who needed help with Trig. Sometimes it was.

Sometimes...then there was the French exchange student, name of Francois. First time he dropped by I wondered if I was going to have to take the dish sprayer to Mom. Apparently the French breed those who will be sexy early, only reason I seem to know that is, well, look what I’m partnered with and, from what I can see, genes or not, he’s turning our kid in to a Colonial Version of a French Stud.

Finally ‘Papa’ came home and after he slept off a twelve hour non stop from some place or other, and when Dex was carefully stowed at the films. I showed him the letter. At least the windows didn’t blow out. I didn’t understand much of what he said but it seemed better to let him blow it off, than allowing some of his anger to be channeled elsewhere, I got myself a nice French plowing plus a suck job and then another plowing; I almost had to sleep it off. As he’s gotten older, while a modicum of flexibility may have gone, that’s about all: he still likes to hold me by my ankles, while I almost pass out, and suck each of my nuts, one at a time, then go for the main attraction. Perhaps you can see why Dex heard considerable; The good thing about his growing up was that we could, carefully, explain the physical part of what we did. Once, and we both shuddered, after we’d told him something that was edgier than usual, he said, “Holy shit, guys, can you teach me to do that?”

Papa almost said, “well, I don know, eet’s a leetle advance but...what you think?”

I could do this one in French.

“Absolument, Non.”

And they say I’m not bilingual.

The next day, early, I called the school, got Einbinder’s secretary and requested an appointment, explaining the situation but also that his other father worked for an airline and did not have a vast amount of time; This was something her boss had suggested so….at some point in the next two days would have to work for him as it would work for us, even, I pointed out, if I had to cancel an appearance in court. After an exceptionally long period of being on hold, she said that, he’d fiddled with his schedule and could see us the following afternoon at four but….there was a codicil….he was very busy and she hoped we’d be prompt. I could have guaranteed it in blood.

Having heard about Dex’s desire to go tan line-less, he called him downstairs for some nude time also, while they were unclad, maybe it was time to see if his bush needed trimming.

I was inside so they didn’t hear me hitting my head on the under side of a cabinet and say, ‘Sure, check that out, and, while you’re there, why not do a fertility check, get some wrigglers from his tanned hose, use your mouth’...Francois and I had an ongoing discussion about, not so much morality, but whether he represented a more relaxed culture in certain areas. While I wanted Dex to be knowledgeable, my idea as to when that learning should come and mine differed. After the upset about display of affection, he could find no reason not tell him what we did, why shouldn’t he know? He was in the next room?  I suggested we get him a good text book that was generally if not specifically illustrated that had the basis of what we did, as two loving men, but not graphic.

I thought we agreed until I  saw him go into Dex’s room with a brown paper wrapped package saying he had a  book from France, en Francais, he thought he might find interesting. Strategically he locked the door leaving me in our room preparing a major address to the jury, in this case, a jury of one, about appropriateness of what should be showed to the young, when, and, just possibly, perhaps his partner might have been consulted.

The Gallic shrug and I knew, just knew, I’d been outfoxed; He showed me ‘the book’ and while it did have illustrations, it covered all manner of sexual congress, the varying sex of partners, including two men, but was an overview of sexuality, not sex. Was it appropriate? In our forward thinking household, yes, but it wouldn’t have lasted one minute in a school library and, in class that was called, “Life Science” where it should have been welcomed, burning was its obvious fate. For the next two evenings, until Francois headed off for somewhere, we had discussions at the dinner table, answered his questions, pointed out that some of it, well, most of it, was in an area in which we had no experience, we’d try. Jesus, given his questions on gay sex, I almost thought he was going to ask us to demonstrate on the table.

Privately, we did have the discussions about how far we should go, physically, with him. He knew what we did, all  of it...well, most of it...and was sangfroid about it. We agreed on one thing, that it would be okay if the three of us jacked off together. Understand we didn’t just march into his room, our cocks greased, a happy hand getting them up, we talked about this with him-he’d seen us nude since he was an infant so no surprises there. What he decided took both of us by surprise; Thought it was a great idea but...could he do it with just one father at a time and...let him pick the time and the place. We could not have found a better solution had we tried; What might have been almost a guys night out, drinking beer-well, wine in our house-then going back to the frat and having some dumb contest wouldn’t happen. It would intimate, personal and have meaning. Francois, as he was leaving for, hell, who knew, took the first time and reported that they’d both had a great orgasm, he really felt close to Dex, actually had made out with him-a little he was careful to say-and he hoped I’d find something meaningful as well.

It had meaning alright, our moment of sharing this noble father/son sexual experience started at the emergency room where I had my arm X-rayed and put in a sling. Dex, encouraged by his evening with Papa, had staged a daring Saturday morning raid, thinking I’d already be in bed and we could flop out, be men together and flog the log. His initial pounce into the bed caught an arm concealed under a pillow and...X-rays. Pain killing medicine, erection killing medicine but there was some sort of medical afterglow, Dex slept in my bed with me which, to grasp a word from the young, was ‘awesome’. Eventually we did do the deed but after the first attempt, it lacked although, as he put his body across me when we finished, kissed me and said a “Thank You” in a voice I’d never heard, yeah, it had meaning. His affection was genuine made more so if he asked, now that the ‘sex thing’ was behind us, he could occasionally sleep with one or both of us. I agreed but not without some consternation. Later, when Francois and I talked about it, he had the same, not precisely trepidation, but just that we would have to set boundaries. Dex was already curious about what we did with each other-we’d effectively told him-but wanted to make sure curiosity did not turn an attempt at action.

Going to school day had both of us a combination of mad and nervous. We knew our son had done nothing, really, in all the fights that were referenced, he was either goaded into them or was defending himself. Whether we could sell that to this Einbinder person? Who knew but we were going in prepared to be offensive, politely, rather than defensive; Our main point was that we felt the school had not made sufficient effort to protect him from bullies even though, physically, he was quite capable of protecting himself. A bully is a bully is a bully no matter the stature or the difference. Name calling is name calling plus, under the constitution, and laws of our state, our relationship was perfectly legal, that some may not approve was unfortunate but theirs to deal with. Should they push this form of prejudice on their children, whatever consequences that might happen were largely of their creation. I felt Einbinder had heard this defense in other situations and was prepared to listen, politely, to us, and still say that, he regretted it, but he could not be responsible for the attitudes of others, ergo, Dex, who was beyond the age the state had to legally educate him, was out.

Interesting isn’t it, that take a person out of their uniform, put them in street clothes and they fade into the crowd, just another average Joe. As we sat, Francois grabbed my wrist so tightly I wondered if the lack of blood flow would cause it to die. Strangely, for someone preternaturally chatty, he confined himself to the bare minimum of pleasantries at first, then only yes or no-odd because ‘oui’ or ‘non’ poured out of his mouth...always. There was a dynamic here and I wasn’t in on it, didn’t see it.

Einbinder wasn’t what I expected. Never assume but I had, typical pedant, high school principal, boring, nothing exceptional but that vision got flip flopped. He looked more like a fugitive from a college swimming team right down to his very closely cropped hair. Clothes were almost too stylish; He knew he was attractive and did nothing to conceal it. Easy to imagine many sets of parents coming in, being cowed by his glory, accept whatever he said then left, satisfied or not, they had been in the presence, he had spoken to them. They were made better for this encounter, whether they accomplished what they came for, didn’t matter. He was the sort of person who is in fact sleazy but armed with education, overlays that with a polish that you have to have been around to recognize. What can I say? What did I do? In court, on the stand, I’d have had him cringing, sucking my dick just to release him and we were about to start trial.

Or that’s what I thought. While Einbinder made what I’m certain is a speech he delivers to all the annoyed, the mad, the livid, the puzzled that crop up in his office. During that, Francois is digging in an inner pocket in his suit coat and, succeeding, hands me two visiting cards, of a sort, both are made to open so that a message can be written on the inside. The cover is of a man...more or less nude but emulating Rodin’s “The Thinker” but staring at the camera with glance that doesn’t suggest ‘come hither’ he screams it. Inside the note says he admires the man to whom he’d slipped this, leaves a phone number and offers a fuck if he rings it.

I excuse myself, faking a catarrh attack, go into the next room and dial the number. Somewhere, close by, I can here the odd noise that cell phones make. Just as I step back in the room, Mr. Einbinder is answering his phone. To assist him, I hold up a card….he notices it. Conversation stops plus, he doesn’t bother to answer his phone.

There’s a long pause, we’re willing to wait, while he tries to unsnarl the mess that just flew into his head. To aid him, Francois stands, does a pelvis roll, attractively displaying his Gallic bulge while holding up the other of the two cards.

“Might want to tell your secretary she can go home, this meeting will be extending.”

Amazingly he can rise, although you can sense the weak knees-as he passes me I pat his but and, in a stage whisper, say, “I get first dibs”. You see, in my mind, it’s not a question of if he’s going to get fucked, but only the order. I know he wanted Francois, but he’s going to have to accept, at first, the old buzzard before he gets the French Bird.

He’s seated. Francois, full of memories, now speaks up, his English is astoundingly good proving, what I’ve always suspected, that the accent is for the public. “These cards...you do know, yes?, where I got them and maybe who gave them to me? Non? It was you, M’sieur, at an airport, I was in my uniform and maybe, yes, you came to me sticking your package in my face then, as if I were the street urchin begging for coins, threw these cards in my lap. Does your memory serve you? I think maybe it does, alors, maintenon. This good man is my husband and my lover but this you know as it is our garcon you attempt to have leave your school but now, I think maybe, you have new thoughts, Yes?”

My turn. “Says here your name is Bill Balls….as an attorney I want proof so slide out of your slacks...actually, just strip, save us time.” He seems hesitant.  I dial his number again; He finds that encouraging and peels, to the skin, quickly. “Stand, come here.” There’s a straight edge on his desk which I retrieve so that when he’s close enough, I use it to lift his dick. “Francois...are those big balls, oui o non?”

In a surprise tactic, maybe designed to do some internal research on his nuts, he punches them causing “Bill Balls” to bend double and twist around. Big mistake, that’s when I pop him on the ass with the wooden thing-and it has a metal edge-I picked up.

I begin to undo my pants. “You, Bill, up on your desk, on all fours, face the wall and salute the flag.” There is no movement. “Now” ( My ‘objection voice level, hope his secretary has gone but….wouldn’t it be amusing if she stuck her head in to say….something which, I doubt she would say. You can almost sense the hatred, the loathing, the wishing we’d drop dead or, maybe, that he’d exhibited some charity to the child of some of his brethren.

I’m stripped  from the waist down, ready for action and he knows what the action is. And it will be on film, Francois, such a fan of French cinema verite, is holding his very expensive gadget and is prepared to film or video or whatever the coming action. Bill makes the mistake of looking behind him and sees, oh shit, me. Well, part of me that’s stiffening up and, when finished, will be, or, I suppose we could measure it, but it’s generous size and that’s before I lose girth control. It’s short notice but, what the hell, we’ll use the precum I’m dripping and, oops, looking at this undercarriage, so is he, lube enough for two fucks.

I don’t bother with anything save thrusting it in until I can feel his prostate is behind my prostate. No chance I’m going to work him so he gets off, just that brutal fuck I was shown by a client who had done time in prison. He said, laughing, he knew I’d have a moment when I’d find it useful-how right he was.

Francois was getting all angles, including his stiffening peter so, if he said he was raped, we could show he was a willing participant. Also, to make his day worse, another trick from my con friend, I reached under him, grabbed his balls and attempted to squeeze a load from them. Didn’t work but was certainly worth the effort.

I was through so pushed him off pulling my staff out laterally which hurt him like hell. Laying on his desk, my man and I prepared to leave him, laying there, degraded, cum leaking from his crack and, oops, he pissed on his desk. Fully dressed we said nothing other than to tell him that on the next day, in a hand written note, we would get a reversal of an earlier decision to expel our son as well as a formal letter to the Board of Education handing in his resignation, we suggested he nominate “personal reasons” as to why the sudden action.

It was a quiet ride home, Francois only insisting that we shower so he could thoroughly clean my cock.

Dex was, predictably, waiting and, on the moment we took him with us to shower, fathers often shower with their sons, even at his age. At the gym we did it all the time. He seemed surprised, but pleased, almost flattered. At dinner that evening we told him he had some choices to make but, certainly, for the next little while he could go back to school. I could see the disappointment.

“I haven’t finished getting rid of my tan line….”

“Bon, aujord hui, we all sit by the pool and lose lines...I think maybe school won’t mind your absence.”

Six months later my cases are packed, in the hall ready to be taken to the airport. As we said, we did give Dex a choice, not to mention a film he couldn’t see even on the porn sights. He was silent, put his arms around me and thanked me but...I had to point out, and had the cards to show him, both of us participated. Knowing what he did about school, and, somehow, word about the unexpected possible culture of the school got round, the choice we offered him was to attend the American School in Paris. Francois transferred his base there, acquired a very nice, large, pied a terre just off the Champs Elysee, just right for three men.

Or it would have been. It was one thing for Francois to take Dex but another for me as there was no possible way I could find to practice in France. After they had gone, with my blessings, I sat around our home, suddenly cavernous, dark, Autumn came, I drained the pool, but tried not to remember from room to room what had happened here or there. We call all the time, I know Dex is happy but I also know that Francois feels significant guilt. In sad letters he as told me that he recognizes my sacrifice, what a wonderful man, his man, the man he loves...he tries to reach out and settle on my breast.

It’s quiet in the house. Furniture is covered, I’ve made arrangements to have some guys from the base live here-sorry the pool is empty-and they’ll stay on when I return, nice to have some young life around the place. I am grateful to them.

As I pull away in the limo, I look back at what isn’t my home or our home, just a nice home on a street somewhere in suburbia. I wonder when I’ll come back? Francois finally found a position for me at the American Embassy as a legal adviser, usually dealing with Americans who fucked up and ended up in the Bastille.

So in the end, we’re all happy, together, a family that loves each other wherever we live..

“...and they’ll all feel gay when we come marching home.”