The circus tent stood on the edge of town like a giant lantern—its colored fabric patched and faded, its flags shivering in the evening wind. I hadn’t planned to go. I’d seen the posters tacked to walls and lampposts, promising “A Night of Wonders,” and something about their quaint lettering and chipped stars tugged at me. Maybe it was boredom, or maybe nostalgia for the kind of spectacle that no longer fits our century.
Inside, the air was thick with sawdust, sugar, and the faint smell of kerosene. Children fidgeted, parents tried to look amused. The woman with the dogs went first—twelve little creatures in bows and bells, doing tricks as the brass band wheezed out a march. Then came a magician whose top hat looked like it had survived a war. He made paper birds fly, dropped one, pretended it was part of the joke. A pair of gymnasts spun on ropes, all poise and symmetry. Two clowns followed, tripping, honking, spilling a bucket of confetti over an unsuspecting child.
It was charming in its way, but not magic. Until the lights dimmed again and the ringmaster, sweating under his top hat, announced the final act: “The unparalleled art of the funambulist!”
Out of the dark rafters, he appeared. A thin figure, tall, almost skeletal in build, dressed in a black costume that swallowed light. For a second I thought he was a trick of the shadows. He stepped onto the rope—no net below—and the tent went silent. The music thinned into a low hum. He moved carefully, like someone crossing not a wire but a memory.
His face was young but tired, pale under the heat of the spotlights, hair dark and damp, brushing his cheek. Each step seemed to cost him something. Then he began to strip off the black cloth—first a sleeve, then a shoulder, then another strip falling into the sawdust below. Beneath it shimmered purple: a bodysuit tight as a second skin, dusted with silver sparks that caught every light. The effect was breathtaking—like watching something hatch midair.
By the time the last of the black fell away, he was glowing. He stretched his arms, the silver catching fire from the floodlights, and for a moment I thought he smiled. Then there was the sound—sharp, unmistakable—a gunshot. The rope trembled. He froze, staggered, and fell into the darkness below. We heard a loud thud as his body hit the arena floor.
Gasps, then chaos. A child screamed. Someone shouted for help. My body went cold. I stared into the black void under the wire, sure I’d just seen a man die in front of me. The lights flickered out completely, and for a heartbeat, the whole tent seemed to hold its breath.
When the light returned, he lay motionless in the ring. The purple suit looked darker now, almost bruised. Then, impossibly, he stirred. He stood—slowly, shakily—and touched something on his chest. The color changed. The purple began to glow, bleeding into red, then orange, until the entire costume blazed like a living flame. A cloak unfurled behind him—thin rays of light and fabric forming wings. The air itself seemed to shimmer.
And then—he rose.
Guided by an invisible thin wire, he rose, swirling upward in that burning cloak, like the spirit of something refused, reborn. The crowd erupted in noises of fear, awe, and relief. But I couldn’t move. My throat ached. The act was too raw, too symbolic to be just circus magic. I saw it clear as day: the gradual reveal, the coming out, the murder, the rebirth. The death of a man for what he was, and his defiance—turning pain into flight.
When he descended again, now wrapped in a snow-white single piece cloak, he landed softly in the sawdust, and the applause went on forever. He was now an angel: the white cloak, we saw close up, was dusted with golden flakes… The performer bowed with a faint smile, the kind that never reaches the eyes. Even across the ring, I could see it—that loneliness, that private grief hidden beneath glitter and artifice.
I didn’t clap. I just watched, trembling a little. He stayed a moment longer under the light, then disappeared behind the curtain.
There were three curtain calls, like in a theater. He looked almost happy, his eyes finally shone with his sad version of joy. For the last call he did a beautiful solo dance on the sawdust in the center of the arena, and then “collapsed,” and was carried off. The audience cheered for another five minutes.
When the crowd finally emptied the tent, I found myself walking toward the back, past the wagons and cages, toward the patch of tents where the performers lived. The ground was muddy, trampled, full of shadows. Somewhere among them was the man who had fallen and flown and told an entire story without words.
I wasn’t sure what I’d say if I found him. Maybe nothing. Maybe I just wanted to see if he was real.
A figure emerged from the shadows, tall and broad as a door. The strongman. I’d seen him earlier in the ring, lifting a woman in each arm like feathers. Now, without stage lights, he looked even more massive, his shoulders wrapped in a patched coat, his beard catching the glint of an oil lamp.
He noticed me instantly. “Show’s over, friend,” he said, not unkindly, but firm. “No visitors backstage.”
I stammered something about the funambulist, about wanting to thank him. My voice came out shaky, too high. “I just— I wanted to say how much it meant to me. The act. I… I think I understood it.”
He raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. “He doesn’t take visitors.”
I nodded, turned as if to go—and then the whole weight of the evening hit me. The wire, the shot, the fall, the impossible flight. The loneliness in that man’s face. Something cracked open inside me, sharp and hot. Before I knew it, I was crying, the sound low and ugly in my throat.
“I have to see him,” I said. “Please. Just for a minute. I won’t bother him. You can see it matters to me. I just need to know if—if what he meant was what I think it was. Otherwise I won’t—” I stopped myself before saying too much. Before saying who I thought he was speaking to.
The strongman shifted, uncomfortable. He scratched his beard, looked toward the line of tents, then back at me. Maybe he recognized something in my face; maybe he’d seen others come to the camp with the same tremor in their voice; maybe I, a gray-haired guy in a suit and expensive glasses looked like I meant it; maybe it was my tears.
He sighed, heavy and resigned. “Wait here.”
Then he turned and called into the darkness, his voice carrying like a bell.
“Marv! Someone’s to see you here.”
A sharp metallic voice replied, tense and tired: “Who?”
“I don’t know. He says he needs to talk to you.”
“Nah.”
The strongman turned to me.
“You heard him.”
“Please, sir, please talk to me,” I called into the dark air. “Please, it’s for me, I know you performed for me! It’s my life, too! Please!”
A big sigh reached me, and in a few seconds the tall thin man in a simple shirt and jeans stood before me.
He seemed terrified when he saw a man with silver streaks in his hair standing in front of him crying like a child.
“No, no, no,” he said hastily. “Don’t cry. You misunderstood. It all ends well!”
I heard such gentle care in his voice that my tears flowed even more freely.
“It’s about coming out,” I blurted out. “And the betrayal of a friend. And a murder; then resurrection and forgiveness, heaven, white clouds, a spirit. He was first black with sadness, then purple and sparkling when he came out, the red with blood, then he burnt like a phoenix and turned into a white spirit. It’s all about me, too.”
I covered my face with my hands, and sobs filled the silence.
“Come,”, said Marv’s voice, his strong hand clutched my arm, and we started walking.
***
We sat in Marvin’s own caravan; not your big luxurious one with a bedroom, a living room, and a kitchenette. It was a cramped trailer on wheels, little more than a bed and a dresser, with two rickety chairs around a folding table. It smelled of sweat and loneliness. Marvin sat in front of me and looked at me with his hands folded under his chin. There was endless tenderness in his eyes.
“What’s your name, friend?” he asked quietly.
“Auguste. But please call me Augie. And you’re… Marv?”
He laughed almost noiselessly.
“I am Marvin, please never call me Marv.”
“Okay, Marvin.”
Silence fell.
“You are different,” Marvin said.
“In what way?”
“When people come to see me, it’s to gawk,” Marvin said. “Look, Bernie, it’s that clown guy…”
“You are NOT a clown,” I said emphatically. “You are a funambulist.”
Marvin nodded.
“Oh, you even know the proper word,” he said and smiled. “Sure am. Come from a circus family but my parents died in a car crash when I was three; I was in the backseat. I don’t remember. I grew up with Mel, the guy you saw who called me Marv; he is my sworn big brother. His wife and his kids are my family… but you’re right, you’re right about my show. It’s about my coming out at first…”
“Gosh, I am afraid to ask about what came next,” I said.
“About the gunshot?” Marvin said quietly. “No, this part is artistic license. But there was something else. One time after a show…
***
…Marvin sat in his trailer when there was a knock on the door. He jumped off the bed and opened the tiny lock because back then it was quite safe. In the darkness there stood a blond man about his age.
“Good evening,” he said. “You are Marvin Hutchison, son of the Hutchison & Hutchison Duet, right?”
“Yes,” Marvin said cautiously. “And who are you?”
“I am Michael,” the man replied readily. “Michael Thorne. I am from here, a local artist. I was at your show today. I just HAD to see you. I know what your show is about. It’s about coming out as gay. There you are in the beginning, white as snow, and then you peel parts of you away beginning with the heart, and beneath is this bright blue smoothness, showing EVERY BIT of you. And you celebrate. And people applaud. Lucky you to have such understanding viewers.”
Marvin invited Michael in. After a shot glass of tequila, Michael told Marvin about his own coming out, how he was thrown out of the house by his religious mom and her third husband, how he lived in the shelter and how he learned to paint from another homeless guy, and how he discovered his talent. Now he had his own gallery, and was quite happy… but still alone, still sad… and then he saw Marvin’s act, and he thought he had found a kindred soul.
That night—and it was a long night!--they had a lot to drink, and Marvin found himself getting closer and closer to Michael, and it felt warm and cozy, and Michael smelled so good… and then came the first kiss.
Marvin had never kissed a man before, so, without a word, Michael taught him. First, he just brushed their lips, no pressure, only the soft hover of skin and shared breath. Marvin felt the tiny hairs around his mouth stand up, every exhale tasting of copper nerves and citrus tequila. He realized he’d stopped breathing—tight-rope habit, hold still, survive—until Michael’s thumb stroked his cheek and coaxed a trembling inhale that fanned back against his own lips. In that feather-light circle Marvin discovered kissing was balance, not force; the ground swayed like canvas in wind but he stayed upright, anchored only by the warmth drifting between them.
Next came the slow savor. Michael sealed their mouths properly, then eased the tip of his tongue along the closed seam of Marvin’s lips—once, twice—patient as a man testing ice. When Marvin uncertainly opened his mouth, Michael slipped inside just enough to tease the edge of teeth, then retreated, inviting pursuit. Marvin followed, tongue sliding shyly forward, meeting Michael’s in a slick, cautious slide. Then the kiss turned liquid, as if an ocean tide rocked the trailer. Marvin felt the wire walker’s instinct flip: lean into motion, trust the sway. His hands unclenched, found Michael’s shoulders, and let the rhythm teach him how surrender could keep him from falling.
Finally Michael nipped Marvin’s lower lip—quickly, decisively—soothed the sting with a firm press, then dove deeper. Lips sealed tight, he tilted Marvin’s head and claimed his mouth space in steady, thrusting beats, tongue sweeping the palate and the sensitive inner flesh before retreating to start again. The sound was obscene—wet clicks, soft groans—and each pulse rocked the old fold-out bench, the metal legs tapped Morse against plywood. Heat stormed Marvin’s spine; knees buckled, hips rolled forward without permission, seeking friction. He tasted his own heartbeat on Michael’s tongue, felt the kiss turn into a current that dragged him off the narrow line he’d walked all his life and spilled him, dizzy and alive, into open air…
Michael’s belt clattered to the floor, then jeans, and soon he was naked—a short muscled figure with tufts of blond hair on his chest, his thick log of a dick sticking forward over a tight dark sac. First he was calm though insistent, then urgency took over—he yanked Marvin’s sequined top off, popped the button fly, dragged trousers and briefs down in one pull. Lo and behold, there was Marvin’s dick: a shy two-inch nub nested in dark, damp curls. Michael stared, barked a single loud laugh that cracked the hush. “Well, look at this little tent peg,” he crowed, fingers pinching the soft shaft, giving it a rough tug upward. Each pull stretched delicate skin; pain sparked behind Marvin’s eyes, cheeks burning hotter than the bulb overhead. He wanted to vanish, to re-mount the wire and disappear into spotlight glare—but Michael kept tugging, half-tease, half-demand, and the sting mixed with a confusing pulse of heat that left Marvin breathless, caught between mortification and a traitorous flicker of want.
“Fucking hell, you are pathetic,” Michael said then. “And stinky. Shit, do you ever take a shower?”
“I had no time yet,” Marvin tried to explain. “We have just one shower, and we always let the girls shower first…”
Michael roared with laughter again. “Ha ha, and you call yourself a man with this little worm? Does it get any bigger?”
“It does,” Marvin said in a shaking voice. “I am just scared.”
“Scared?” Michael bent forward, picking up his pants with the briefs inside them. “Impotent, that’s what it’s called.”
“Are you leaving?” Marvin asked, his voice shaking.
“I can’t fuck a dirty guy with a tiny dick,” Michael said. “You are pathetic.”
“Wait some more,” Marvin implored him. “I’ll go take a shower in my turn at 10.30, and then I promise I’ll get hard. I will. I just need time. I like you… love you, Michael. I just need time.”
Michael laughed, and then without warning his little sharp fist hit Marvin’s balls in a sharp upward kick.
“Beg me,” he said.
Marvin knelt and looked up at Michael’s sneering face. He no longer looked attractive or understanding, just an evil laughing grimace. His hand closed around his dick, still hanging out, and he gave his erection no more than ten energetic pumps before…
“I beg you, please stay,” Marvin said. “I need you, I love you… I can’t be alone anymore. It’ll get better…”
A blinding spurt of cum hit his face and made him gag. Another arc blurred his vision. Michael groaned and then gave him a severe box on the left ear. The pain seared through his entire body, and Marvin collapsed sideways.
A zipper hissed.
“Please, please stay,” Marvin cried out, wiping Michael’s cum off his face, and trying to stop him from leaving. On his knees, Marvin followed Michael all the way to the door. “Please, I beg you, don’t, don’t leave me! Michael!!!”
The door squeaked, the cold air hit Marvin’s face.
He screamed so loud, lights came on in several other trailers. Ella the gymnast and Alex the clown found him in a dirt puddle outside his trailer, naked, dirty, shaken, still standing on his knees, screaming, wailing like a wild dog. They didn’t need to ask what happened, Alex rushed with his flashlight to look for Michael but the darkness had already swallowed him…
Alex filled him with vodka to the brim of his throat until Marvin collapsed in a drunken stupor. Ella stayed by his side all night.
***
“Fucking hell,” I said.
Marvin was sobbing in my arms, and I was shaking from head to toe.
“You are so very strong, Marvin,” I said in a shaking voice. “You are a big strong man to carry on after that. To come out like that in your show, to continue baring your heart like that. Fucking hell, man.”
My hand wandered to caress his head on my chest, and he hugged me around my waist. He was no longer crying, listening to what I was telling him.
“You’ll find a nice man,” I said. “You’ll find a funny red-haired guy who will make you laugh. Yes, a circus clown, kids’ favorite, a sunny happy fellow who will love you till the end of time… Just open your eyes and keep looking…”
“You,” Marvin said.
“It can’t be me,” I said with regret. “I am also a peregrine. I travel the world to study cultures, I can’t give that up, it’s the only thing I can do that brings some money. And you live on the road… it can’t be me. But I’ll be your friend. Let’s write to each other and call each other. I’ll always be on your side.”
“Stay the night?” Marvin said tentatively.
I shook my head.
“Oh, God, no, not after this shocking story. I, too, need time now, Marvin. If I stay, it’ll mean I’m using you when you are so vulnerable. I’d be no better than Michael who stayed.”
I kissed him on the cheek.
“Let’s have coffee tomorrow,” I said.
“We are leaving in the morning,” Marvin said.
He looked at me with endless warmth and…gratitude.
“You are right,” he said. “You are right. Go. Thank you for being honest. Let me give you my number.”
I fished a wallet out of my pocket and gave Marvin my business card.
***
No.
Marvin hasn’t yet found the red-haired sunshine boy I’d promised him.
No.
We haven’t met again ever since.
No.
I don’t regret leaving that night.
What did you say? Yes.
Yes.
Yes.
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