Free The Sensual Mirror by Marco Vassi Page B

times when I miss her, frankly, it’s such a goddamned great relief to be alone, that I have trouble imagining putting my neck back into that noose. Living like a teenager again. Home every night right after work. Tied to one another’s schedules and moods. Resenting the way she cuts in on my liberty, and even hating the way I cut in on hers. And there’s nothing to do about it. All that emotional baggage, the fear, the jealousy, the insecurity. Taking two adults and reducing them, through a process of pressure that would make a prisoner-of-war camp seem like a playground, to nagging, sulking, seething monsters who are unable to feel the slightest impulse toward unstructured pleasure without having to swallow a bellyful of guilt.”
    “My Lord, but you sound bitter,” Robert interjected. “But then, so did I after I broke up with Norman.”
    “Norman?” Martin repeated, his eyes opaque with sudden stupidity.
    “We lived together for five years, and it was the same thing. For the first three years we thought it was sex, because we were both so possessive. But then we got over that, and each of us could go out tricking whenever we wanted without any hassle on that score. Sometimes we even brought our good fortune home to share. But beyond sex lay the problem of unstructured time, which isn’t all mapped out by the unrelenting presence of another person in your life, night and day, forever. Oh God, what a nightmare that was! And the worst part was that we still loved each other. But there wasn’t anything we could do. So he finally left, didn’t tell me he was leaving, did it in classic style with a note on my pillow—tear-stained pillow, I might add. I didn’t think I would take it so bad, because we both knew it was coming. So I went out, and partied and did this and that, but I was miserable. And maybe even ready to do myself in. And that’s when I met Babba.”
    “I didn’t realize you were homosexual,” Martin said. “I’m sorry.”
    “Oh, no need to be sorry,” Robert told him. “My mother has quite accepted it.”
    The transposition of keys went by a bit too quickly for Martin to grasp, so he let the implications flutter by and went on with his train of thought. “I mean, I’m sorry if I led you on. I was just being friendly, accepting this invitation, and didn’t want to give you the wrong idea.”
    Robert looked at him with wry affection. What a dumb hunk, he thought. The Lord sure had a sense of humor when he put that conditioning in that body.
    Martin squirmed about in his chair as though he were about to stand up and leave.
    “Well, you can relax,” Robert drawled. “I promise not to fling myself at your knees and beg to wail on your dangling wang. My intention was also friendly. If there was any ulterior motive it’s that I’ve been sensing that you are troubled, and I wanted to talk to you, to get you to talk, to see if it would make you any clearer about whatever it is. And I wanted to bring you to Babba. He saved my life, as melodramatic as that sounds. And I thought that, if he was in a good mood tonight, he just might save yours.”
    Robert’s rapid switches from sincerity to sarcasm left Martin a bit breathless in the mind, but that was a sensation he found highly exhilarating, much like skiing down a very fast slope and coming upon rock outcroppings all of sudden, and having to swivel, pole, kick, and shoot past in a single fluid motion without a trace of hesitation for in that would come immediate disaster. He was never that quick cerebrally, but because he was an adept on the physical plane, he could recognize mastery in others on other planes.
    “I guess I must sound a bit stereotyped,” Martin finally admitted. “But that, uh, homosexuality, is about as familiar to me as workings inside the Kremlin. It just makes me nervous.”
    “It makes me nervous too,” Robert said, and they both laughed, past the first hurdle, already having shared a moment’s uncertainty,