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I closed my eyes and let the words flow, let the story I never told surge out of me.

“When my father found out I was gay he stopped talking to me, stopped looking me in the eye, and, I guess, stopped loving me. He hated that I was gay. Hated
me
for it. His work had a lot to do with what people thought of him. He's always been seen as this conservative man. He didn't think he'd survive the scandal of having a gay son. He told me to keep it to myself, asked me not to say anything. I was a kid. I didn't want to hurt him. I did what he asked.

“He told me it was a phase— that I'd get over it. That one great lay with a woman, and I'd forget about my sexual experiments.” The last remnants of my earlier chuckles escaped my chest. “My senior year of high school, he offered to buy me a hooker. He couldn't accept it— couldn't accept me. But they were still my parents. They came to my high school graduation. They helped me get into college. They even paid for school at the start. My mom would call me, but I rarely saw my dad once I left for college. He wanted nothing to do with me. I thought we'd ignore each other. I thought he'd leave me alone. I guess I didn't know him.

“My freshman year, I fell in love with my roommate. I'd slept with other boys in high school, but Tim was the first one I cared about, the first one I loved.

“Right before final exams, my father came to my dorm room. I don't know why. It didn't matter. What mattered was what he learned after a few minutes in our room. He looked at Tim and me and knew we were more than roommates. He didn't say a word, just turned and left. Two days later, he came back.”

I said the rest and was back at college again, reliving every moment...

"Tim. Don't stop."

"No. This will go on, Luke. I won't let it stop."

I opened my eyes at his words. Did he mean them the way they sounded? I didn't get a chance to ask.

The strong scent of a familiar cologne washed over me. At first, my brain couldn't reconcile the vision. It was in such contrast to what my body felt.

But there he was. My father stood next to my nightstand.

I retreated up the bed and dragged Tim with me.

Tim stared down at me, his face contorted in a mix of passion and confusion until he caught sight of my father. His dick slipped out of me, and he scrambled to my side.

My father whirled his arm upward. He jammed a cool metal object against my face. A handgun. The barrel dug into the flesh of my cheek.

"Don't move, son.” The smirk of his lips and the rage in his eyes kept me still, not his words. “You"— he tilted his head to Tim—"get dressed. Your parents are waiting downstairs."

"My parents?"

"They want you to come home for the weekend. They need to talk to you."

"I'm not going anywhere without Luke."

My father inched the gun to my temple, scraping my skin, pressing harder. I scurried backward until he had me wedged between the gun and the headboard.

"Stop.” Tim got off the bed and grabbed my father's arm. “Don't hurt him."

My father backed up and spun the gun toward Tim. He held the stance for a moment then aimed the gun at me again. “If you don't go downstairs and talk to your parents, things will get painful for Luke. I'm disgusted with what I just saw, and I really don't care what happens to me if I shoot his ass."

Rapid breaths spilled out of Tim. He held up his hands. “Okay. I'll go talk to them. I'll be right back.” He threw me a look I took to mean, I have a plan. Please be careful. He dressed and came back to the bed. My father scurried closer and shoved the gun in my face again.

Tim reached out and touched my calf. “I'll be right back.” He squeezed. “I love you."

I met his gaze. “Love you too."

My father scoffed. The gun jabbed into the hollow of my cheek. My mouth opened in a protective instinct to make room between my face and the gun's barrel. Had my own father not been holding me at gunpoint, I'd have laughed at the realization I looked like I was about to suck someone's cock.

Tim backed to the door, keeping me in his sights as long as he could.

My father watched him. “Close the door behind you."

Tim stepped into the hall and did as instructed.

My father didn't flinch. He didn't speak. He didn't look at me, and I didn't look at him. The cool steel of the gun was our only contact.

Finally, he stepped away. He pointed at a picture frame on Tim's dresser. Tim with his parents. “I take it this is his side of the room?” His back to me, he grabbed a gym bag off the floor and opened Tim's closet.

I shot off the bed and reached for a pair of jeans. “What are you doing?"

"Packing your lover's clothes. He isn't coming back."

"What are you talking about?"

"His parents need him home right now. They believe God has a better life for him than you."

My gaze flew to the door. “But—"

He swung around. “But nothing. I told them I'd send his things.” He smirked, turned his back to me again, and stuffed more clothes into the bag.

I sprinted for the door. I didn't care if he raised the gun. No shot rang out, and I kept going. I took the stairs two at a time to the first floor lobby. No Tim. I went outside and scanned the parking lot. Nothing. I asked around. No one had seen him. I pushed aside the panic and stormed back to our room. I wanted answers.

My father was gone, and so were most of Tim's clothes.

I collapsed onto the bed. What the hell was I going to do? Call the police? Call my mother?

A few hours later, I called Tim's house. No one answered. The next morning, I borrowed a friend's car and drove the four hours there.

When his father opened the door, his first words were, “He's gone."

"Where?"

"He agreed to get some help. Someplace you should go, if you ask me."

"What did you do to him?"

"We didn't do anything to him. You did. He was a good boy before he met you. And the Free Yourself Ex-Gay Ministry is going to remind him of that."

"No. They'll—"

"They'll help him get things straightened out. They'll help him find God's love again. Now, get off my property. And stay away from my son.” He slammed the door in my face.

I made it two steps toward the car before I fell to my knees. “Tim.” The misery of my own voice terrified me.

The anger and fear and sorrow fought a war as I knelt in the snow-covered front lawn of my lover's old home, gripping the edge of a three-feet-tall stone birdbath. I had no idea how long I stayed there. My jeans were soaked through from my ankles to my knees, and the frigid skin never warmed during the ride back to school. When I made it to the dorm, darkness had descended— over the day, over me, over my life.

Tim would find a way to get in touch with me. Once he had convinced his parents he'd changed, they'd let him come back to school. He'd do whatever they wanted to get away from them, to get back to me.

So I waited.

I went to class. And I waited.

I studied. And I waited.

I got drunk. And I waited.

I got drunk again. And I waited some more.

It took three months before I opened my door to find him standing in the hall. I pulled him into my arms. He returned the embrace, but it didn't feel right.

"God, I missed you,” I said and led him to the bed. “Tell me what happened. I know where they sent you."

"I wasn't sure what they told you."

I'd missed him. I wanted to hold him, kiss him.

As soon as my lips touched his, he jerked away. He swiped at his mouth with the back of his hand. His eyes narrowed. “Don't touch me, Luke. Not like that.” He leaped across the room and leaned against the wall. “I want to help you, but if you can't stop touching me like that, then there's nothing I can do for you."

I lurched off the bed and gripped his arms. “No. Listen to me.” He shrugged off the touch. I let him go. “What they've told you, it isn't the truth."

"You have to see what we did was wrong."

"What we did? We loved each other. No matter what they've told you, they can't take that away from us. Or make it seem disgusting."

"It is disgusting.” He slunk along the wall until he could step around me. He walked toward the door but stopped short. “It took me a while to see what we had was never love. Not when we did those things to each other."

"No.” My strangled cry startled both of us. “Stop talking like your parents. Come touch me. Kiss me. Make love to me."

"That will never happen again.” He shook his head. “He was right. Coming here was a mistake."

"Who was right?"

He opened the door.

My father stood in the hall, a smile plastered on his stoic face. Tim left without looking back at me.

My father stepped inside and shut the door. “Are you done yet? Are you ready to find your way back to a normal life?"

"Why are you doing this?"

"I didn't do this. I merely showed him the options. Do you think if he cared about you, he'd have been turned away from you so easily? It took him, what, three months to learn to hate you? To see you as nothing but a fag that wants him for one thing?"

"No. That's—"

"You start living a decent life or"— he stalked closer to me—"I swear to God I will track you down and take away every lover you ever have. I'll make them see who you are. I'll make them hate you. I'll make your life a living hell."

"Why?” My voice squeaked with the one word. I swallowed and tried to sound stronger. “Why do you hate me?"

He dropped into the desk chair and hung his head in his hands. I wanted to beat on him until he told me why. Until he brought Tim back.

When he lifted his head, his eyes were filled with tears. “There are many things I want, son. Ways I can help make people's lives better. I can do great things with my life. But you... you are the one thing I've done that's going to fuck it all up. Tell me, why should my life suffer because of you?"

"My life has nothing to do with yours."

"That's not how the world works."

"Get the fuck out of here."

"I'm not going anywhere until you make me a few promises."

"No.” I shook my head. “I hate you!"

He stood and stepped closer. “I hate what you are.” He went for the door. “I warned you.” He walked out and slammed the door shut behind him.

A chill raced over my skin as I repeated my father's final words, everything he and Tim had said still powerful enough it slashed at the edges of my heart. I shivered.

Richard pulled me closer against the heat of his body, and a low growl sounded from deep in his chest. Matthew's hands kept moving over me as I heard him fight back tears.

My pain hurt them, pained them. It reminded me yet again the kind of men they were and how lucky I was to have found myself wrapped up in them. They held me tighter, and I let my body relax and warm under their touch.

“I didn't see either of them again. My father's had me followed for years, always wanting to know where I'm living, what I'm doing. It's this constant reminder. I knew Tim left me— said those things to me— because of what they did to him, but I still managed to blame myself. I thought clinging to him, wanting him, loving him, had made him hate me. And my father... he hated me because of who I was. I couldn't change that, couldn't change me.

“But I did change. I loved Tim, and when he was gone, I became bitter, angry. I became someone else. I promised myself certain things and made up the rules I've lived by since then. Tim was the only man I've ever been with more than once. Until you two.”

Richard stroked my shoulders and back. “You didn't deserve what either man did to you, none of it. Your dad is a dickhead.”

Matthew nodded. “A big dickhead.”

“He's the one who's wrong,” Richard said. “He's the one who should hurt, not you.”

“I know. Logically, I know that.” I couldn't bring myself to tell them everything— who my father was, that he had loftier plans than being a senator, that he might have been responsible for another man's death.

If they knew it all, they might ask me to leave. They might not want the kind of trouble a presidential campaign could bring— the kind of trouble my father could bring. Not when the whole world would judge us. Not when my father would hate them.

I was still lying to them.
Why can't I give them everything?

Richard pulled back to look at me. “What does it mean to you that your father doesn't approve of you being gay?”

“That he's a conservative prick who can't think past his own needs or wants. Fuck. What do you want me to say? That I can't be worthy of his love because I'm sinful and evil in his eyes? That if the people who brought me into this world can hate me, then anyone can hurt me?” I gripped Richard's forearm. “When I let you tie me up, I wish you'd make it hurt more. I want my wrists to chafe. I want the knots to cut into my skin. I need the pain. But since I've met you two, I haven't had enough. I beg you to make it tighter and you won't. I wanted you to hit me. I needed it.”

The color drained from Richard's face. “I won't hurt you.”

How many times had he said the same words? And every damn time it hurt to hear. “And now you won't tie me up, right?”