The Twenty-Third Century: Nontraditional Love

Chapter 2

The First Man, or the Consequences of Male Friendship

The possibility of not seeing my daughter every day reshaped my entire life. At thirty-five I had become used to restraint; I had learned to manage my emotions, to hide my feelings, to play the hypocrite, to dissemble. From the moment, I had finally realized that I belonged to the handful of people with nontraditional sexual orientations condemned by society, my life had become a theatre where I excelled; I had transformed myself so well that no one could suspect what was hiding in my cerebellum, which was responsible for my sexual dissipation. But what could I do now, when Liza was happy, and I was back where I started, alone and forlorn?

I thought of reporting to the police that Liza had treacherously taken my child, thereby depriving Liza of Hanna for the sake of senseless revenge; it was a good idea, but only to dream about while I was sitting and gnashing my teeth. Such a confession would immediately have a boomerang effect on the accuser. The disclosure would become common knowledge, and I would be the object of disgrace and public humiliation; I could forget about my career and my privileged life. In the end, I could live with the disgrace. When it came to my daughter, no career could tip the balance of the scales. But I already knew what the result would be – no one would return Hanna to me – and this prevented me from carrying out any rash actions.

I would wait for Hanna outside her day care, and when Liza brought the child, I would get out of the car and turn up next to them, as if by chance. The first time Liza reacted calmly to my appearance. However painful it had been for me, we had not parted as enemies. Hanna welcomed me as a friend, as a neighbor from home she was used to seeing almost every day. She told me the day care news. Liza did not interfere with our contact.

Hanna told me cheerfully:

“I fed my doll today.”

“What did you feed her?”

She spread her fingers wide

“I gave her cereal from this finger, milk from this one, and juice from this one.”

After a week of “chance” meetings, Liza called and invited me to meet her at Starbucks. I gladly agreed. I confess my feelings had not changed. I was excited by the smell of her body, her supple breasts and thighs, which were worthy of having stanzas dedicated to them. If I could leave my autograph on them, there would be no blank spots. As soon as we met at the coffee table, she “grabbed the bull by the horns.”

“I understand your situation, but that’s life. It’s unfair and idiotic, but we didn’t plan it that way.”

I listened attentively, trying to figure out where she was going with this. Had she broken up with Richard and wanted to return? She finished unexpectedly.

“And it’s time for us to stop meeting. Hanna should not have to grow up with a split personality.”

“What do you mean a split personality?”

“Sooner or later she’ll guess the truth. She looks like you.”

Liza was right. I was proud of the fact that Hanna had my eye color, the same oval face, thick wavy hair and smile. There would be no need to conduct additional tests. It would be enough to compare photographs to ascertain that she was my daughter.

“What’s so bad about that?” I protested. “That didn’t bother you before.”

“Believe me, it bothered me. And that was one of the reasons I left you.”

“Explain.”

“I don’t want her to lead the same underground life we do. If I can do it, I’ll try to have a medical certificate issued for her.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. You know how it will all turn out.”

“I know. But we’re not talking about today. We have about thirteen years to spare. Maybe by that time the laws will become less discriminatory, and maybe fortune will smile on me and I’ll be able to get her documents.”

“So much the better. Why did you have to break up the family ahead of time? We could have lived the way we were until times got better.”

“It wouldn’t work, darling. She’s a copy of you. She’ll realize this a lot sooner than her eighteenth birthday. If she doesn’t sense her identity herself, the people around her would point it out. There are plenty of ‘well-wishers.’”

“The world has no lack of ‘good’ people,” I remarked sadly.

Liza regretfully confirmed this.

“The day care teacher happened to see the three of us on the playground and told me, ‘Your daughter looks just very much like the man I saw you with on Friday.’ Can you imagine how this could turn out if she reported it to the police? Of course, I will transfer her to another day care to spare her from further troubles. But when she starts school? If someone else notices the two of you, and they start tormenting the child – you know how cruel teenagers can be – we could lose our daughter.”

She was right. Tears caught in my throat. Disregarding the danger, Liza placed her hand on my palm, touched my ankle with the tip of her shoe, and whispered:

“I still love you. And right now I have the same feeling I did the first time, you remember, when we were alone for the first time?” I silently nodded. Her eyes became moist, and she completed her phrase with difficulty: “My knees are shaking.”

I could not contain myself and burst into tears. The customers stared at us in amazement. Liza became frightened and ran out of the café. I got myself under control, screwed up my face, growled “I have a toothache,” and covering my eyes, went out into the street.

Liza was waiting for me at the corner. When she saw that I had seen her, she turned around and slowly walked towards the park. Keeping my distance, I followed her. From time to time, she turned around to make sure I hadn’t disappeared in the crowd. We walked about half a mile. Finally, she found an unoccupied bench away from people’s eyes and sat down – a sign that I could have a seat beside her.

“Don’t torment me and yourself,” Liza babbled nervously. “Is it our fault that we were born heterosexuals? A curse on this ill-fated world with its restrictive laws! But we must sacrifice our love for the sake of our daughter’s happiness. You must not meet with her at least until she is of age. That is the sacrifice we both must bear. Believe me, it wasn’t easy for me to go off with Richard. But I forced myself. Forgive me, but this was the only way to get you out of the house.”

I had no desire to continue the conversation. I got up and walked off without saying goodbye. Liza was right. As the Chinese proverb says, “You can only cut off the cat’s tail once.”

The next morning I woke up with the idea of making a radical change in my life and becoming a normal man – a gay. True, I had not yet figured out what my upcoming role would be. There were many sides to a union between men. But I decided to leave it to fate. Many outwardly contented homosexuals get married not out of love, but because they are guided by the hypocritical principle: this is what must be done when we reach marriageable age. They calmly fulfill the conjugal duties as husband or wife that have fallen to their lot, without irritating their partners in any way, and without a moment’s hesitation about the subtleties of feelings. I was no worse than they were. All I had to do was play my role, a major or minor one depending on the circumstances; I would register my marriage officially at the city hall, and then order a child from a surrogate mother through Dr. Hansen’s office. I was willing to endure any sacrifices in order to obtain a son through legal channels.

My decision had been made. I was not the first, and I would not be the last. Now I needed to calm down and prepare myself psychologically for my new life, and without rushing into things, I would start looking for my other half. Where? On the World Wide Web of love.

I placed my trial ad on the Internet page “New York at Night”: “Thirty-five year old homosexual, romantic with a tender soul and a keen sense of humor, ready to be a husband or wife depending on circumstances, seeking an intelligent partner in life. I have no problem with children from a previous relationship. If the desire is mutual, I am ready to raise a family with several children.”

I had no idea that once my ad was published, I would be inundated with a barrage of letters. Not just from New York, but also from Canada, France, Trinidad… I got scared, and I didn’t respond to anyone. My cowardice was easy to explain: it was my first step, like a space walk. I wanted novelty, but I was restrained by my fear of the unknown.

I began my psychological training by reading popular scientific literature. My next step was to study educational video cassettes, placing myself mentally in the roles of the main characters. I acquired the “Guidebook for Young Homosexuals,” which had become the standard manual, replacing the Bible in many families.

The one who finds his way out of the labyrinth is the first to be trampled. Could this wise saying refer to me? I was morally prepared to take the step that would change my life radically, but I was using any excuse to put off the beginning of these changes. Until Mr. Opportunity came to my aid. But in order to make it easier for myself to adapt to my new life, I offered to let Daniel buy my half of the house and moved to Brooklyn.

My first male partner was to have been Jacob. We met by chance in Manhattan, at the “Paris at Night” restaurant during a friend’s birthday celebration. I was sitting at a table by myself; the guests were dancing to the stirring Latin American music, and I was openly bored. I had no dancing experience with men, and I was through with women. My heterosexual past was obliterated and cut off from the present by an insurmountable ditch.

The man who approached me was not from our group.

“Why aren’t you dancing?” he asked politely.

“No one invited me.”

“Would you allow me?” he gallantly rose, clicked his heels and courteously extended his hand.

I stood. The man held me by the waist and led me to the dance floor. Judging by the way he escorted me, easily placing his hand on my thigh, I surmised the role that would be allotted to me in the dance. Well, if this was to be, I would not let the opportunity slip by. I had to overcome my fear and trust my partner. I hoped he would understand my situation and be delicate and well-mannered.

As we danced, I managed to have a look at him. He was nearly twice as old as me, just under seventy, balding. His face was open and attractive.

He leaned towards my ear and introduced himself.

“Jacob. A lonely romantic.”

“Robert,” I introduced myself, reacting to the intimate word “romantic.”

The man’s hand slid below my waist.

“Are you lonely?”

I blushed deeply, not knowing how to react. Should I allow this or become indignant? “Be bold,” my inner voice encouraged me. “You have also been unceremonious, high-handed and pushy with women, and you were pleased when they submitted to your desires.”

The man repeated his question, pressing his cheek against me: “You didn’t answer, are you lonely?”

“Yes,” I forced the word out with difficulty.

“Will you allow me to call you?”

With a sinking heart, I said “yes” again, feeling that my shirt had become sticky from perspiration.

“Excuse me, I need the rest room,” I made a feeble attempt to escape from his hands.

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