“Yours?”
“Better. But I still want sex.”
He snorted. “You can wait until tonight, horndog. It won’t kill you.”
“It might,” I groaned as I rubbed my dick through my shorts. I made sure his eyes were on my hand as I arched my hips. He licked his lips. And then looked away.
Bullshit.
I slid my hands down my shorts and grabbed my cock, starting to stroke up and down, letting him know how good it felt with my voice, how I wished it was his hand, his big strong hands wrapped around me. I reached up and tweaked my own nipple, and I cracked an eye open to find he was watching me again, breathing awfully heavy for one who was planning on saving himself for marriage.
“What are you doing?” he said hoarsely.
“Jerking myself off,” I grunted. “You won’t do it, so gotta take care of myself, you know.” The moan that followed was completely unnecessary, but I could see his resolve crumbling as I stroked the slit with my thumb and brought it to my lips to taste the pre-come dripping from my dick. I groaned again, and Otter lost it completely.
He snarled at me and batted my hand away, and then his mouth was on me, moving up and down as my back arched off the bed. He was rough with my balls as he sucked them in his mouth, first one and then the other, his hand sliding up my stomach and chest and pressing there to hold me down, to keep my from bucking into his mouth. He liked control, my Otter, and I was glad to give it to him. Before long, I was spilling down his throat, a blissed-out grin on my face as he came up and kissed me savagely.
“That doesn’t count,” I reassured him. “You swallowed, but your virtue is still intact. Even if my swimmers are now being broken down by your digestive tract.”
“Fuck tradition,” he growled at me as he reached for the lube.
“Fuck tradition,” I agreed, grinning up at him as he loomed over me.
AND fuck tradition is exactly what we did. The wedding was held down on the beach, as it was the only place that made sense to the two of us. Otter figured that it was a place that started many things for us, both good and bad, and that it was there that we would build this memory as well.
The Kid begged to lead the ceremony and went so far as to go online to try and become an ordained minister. Apparently, it only takes, like, five minutes to do, and I honestly considered it for a moment, before I realized that his sermon would probably go on for days and cover such topics as the Japanese slaughtering dolphins and how he had finally picked out a wig to go with his stage name, Minerva Fox. He disagreed with my assumption, telling me that he would promise to keep things short and sweet if I allowed him to, at the very least, wear his new I THINK THEREFORE I AM
VEGETARIAN T-shirt, and would allow him two minutes to educate the guests about the wonders of donating to PETA. I countered with no. He came back with what if he could just write a poem that he’d dedicate to Otter and me? Then he gave me that wide-eyed dazzling grin face thing he does so well, and I fell for it again, reminding myself that next time would be the last time.
We decided against having anyone officiate the ceremony, deciding that we’d just say our own things and go from there. After that, we’d register as domestic partners (gag!) with the state of Oregon. The Kid told us daily how the tide was changing and pretty soon we could get married for real. I couldn’t tell him that I wouldn’t care about that, that this was real enough for me, that the following week, we were going to have our last names changed over to Thompson.
And I couldn’t tell him I was terrified.
Don’t give me that look. That terror had nothing to do with doubts or earthquakes or oceans or any other metaphors that I’ve ever thrown in. It had nothing to do with my infinite neurosis. No. I was terrified because I was going to be standing in front of my family, and I would have to open my mouth and say words that were meant to be sweet and binding and everything else that was in my heart and soul? Are you fucking kidding me?
I remember staring at Otter when he said we should just write our own vows, but my ability to speak had fled, and he’d taken my silence as consent and two days later had come to me and let me know that he was finished already. I asked to see his, hoping to just copy his down and maybe change a couple of the words. He told me there was no way in hell. I told him I wanted a divorce. He just laughed.
So I thought about what I was going to say, okay? I really did. I even wrote down a few things to try and get my mind going, to get something out on paper that would be even remotely doable. But everything I wrote turned into a laundry list of why I thought Otter was hot and made me sound like I was the most superficial asshole in the world. So I thought and thought and thought some more.
And I was still thinking when I was walking down the hill on the sand, everyone watching me as I made my way down to the beach, my tux flapping in the warm breeze, my feet bare and digging into the sand. I passed through the chairs on either side of me, vaguely aware of the people there: Erica, Eddie, and Georgia (the Custody Trio, as I referred to them), Stephanie and Ian Grant (looking way too happy considering how their daughter’s former boyfriend was getting hitched to a man right in front of them), Jordan and the bar gang (and weirdly, Isaiah and David Trent were practically in each other’s lap, which was pretty hot, if you like that sort of thing—I don’t), Alice and Jerry (Alice already sobbing and Jerry leaking a tear or two), Creed and Anna (Anna looking as big as a house, getting ready to pop any second), Dominic and the Kid (Dominic’s arm on the Kid’s shoulder, the Kid grinning from ear to ear).
There was one empty seat, one that would not be filled, at least physically. I passed by that last chair and paused, just for a moment, telling Mrs. Paquinn quietly that I loved her and that I hoped God let her drive stock cars like she always wanted.
But it was him I saw the most. The gold and green were as bright as they’d ever been as I stood in front of him, my hands trembling as he took them in his own. He watched me for a moment, and then he proceeded to make everyone cry like a little bitch with his wonderfully thought out, totally manipulative speech. I could see the glint in his eyes as my lower lip trembled when he said, “You are my soul mate.” I saw the way his lip curled into a half smile as his mother started sobbing when he said, “I’ve always known that I would love you.” He was trying to hold back his laughter as his father broke down as well when he said, “And I promise to take care of you, because you are my family, and I will protect you with everything I have.”
By the time he finished, even stoic Dominic was wiping his eyes.
And then it was my turn.
I didn’t know what I was going to say.
That’s never stopped you before! it laughed. Just go with it!
So that’s what I decided to do.
I opened my mouth to pledge myself to this man… and a seagull shit on my shoulder.
I kid you not. I was staring into his eyes and was ready to pour out my heart and soul in front of our friends and family when something wet and hot landed on my suit coat. Otter’s eyes went wide, and everyone in the audience suddenly found themselves no longer crying, but gasping, their jaws dropped. I looked over on my shoulder and saw the grossest pile of crap that I’d ever seen in my life. My shoulder began to get warm and my eyes narrowed, and I looked up to see a lone seagull floating on a breeze overhead.
But not for long.
As if it could feel me watching it, it lowered itself toward the earth and landed on a table next to where we stood. Right on top of the food. Right next to the candles flickering in the breeze. Right next to the stereo softly playing music of no importance. This… I’d been here before. Déjà vu, and I knew what was going happen.
“You,” I snarled. “You son of a bitch!”
I ran over to the table, desperate to finally kill the bird because I knew it was the same one as before, that my nemesis was back to exact its revenge on me for not allowing it to eat the food from that night so many months ago. I didn’t understand how a bird could have memory, much less be vindicti
ve, but it didn’t matter, because we were now at war, it and I. I heard everyone start cracking up behind me, and I heard Otter say astutely, “That bird really hates your guts, Papa Bear,” before he dissolved into his own mirth, and I told myself that once I was done ripping the seagull’s head off, I would turn around and give a speech so saccharine that even Eddie wouldn’t be able to console them when I was finished. I would destroy them, and they would drown in an ocean of their tears.
But first the seagull.
Of course, I failed spectacularly.
The seagull saw me running toward it with my hands waving above my head, trying to make myself look bigger than I was. I’d seen at least eighteen different nature shows with Mrs. Paquinn to know that you always want to make yourself bigger to scare things away. It squawked angrily at me, and until the day I die, I will insist that at that moment, right when I knew I had the upper hand, the bird looked me straight in the eye, lifted a single wing, and pushed over a candle onto the tabletop.
And of course the tablecloth caught on fire. Which led to the balloon strings and given how fast they burned, you would have thought they were soaked in gasoline. Which burned up to the helium-filled balloons surrounding us. Which led to all of them exploding in such rapid succession that it felt like we were in some war-torn third-world country being attacked by enemy insurgents. Once I picked myself up off the ground (only because I tripped, obviously not because the balloons exploding around me made me think the helium inside would burst and light everything on fire, including me—I tripped, okay?) the seagull had already taken off and was again floating lazily above us, calling down to me, mocking me. I screamed up at it that one day, and one day soon, it would be on my barbeque, its little feet sticking straight up into the air, and I would eat the fuck out of it. The Kid looked sufficiently scandalized and invoked Mrs. Paquinn for a moment when his hand went to his throat and he muttered, “Well, I never.”
And then, “Oh, shit.”
Creed, in hysterics: “Dude, Anna laughed so hard she literally pissed herself! Oh my God, I am going to make fun of you forever for this! No one will even remember that time I said I kinda wanted to fuck Bear! It’ll be all, like, ‘Hey guys, you remember that one time when Anna wet her—’”
“My water just broke, you moron!”
“Ha, ha! That’s what I’m saying! Your water bro—wait, what?”
And then we were all running.
It was seven hours later that Creed returned to all of us in the waiting room, decked out in scrubs, looking shell-shocked and worn. But then a crooked smile so much like his brother’s bloomed on his face, and he told us that he had a son. Joseph (God love him) Jean Thompson. JJ, for short.
Seven pounds four ounces. He said that the little guy looked squishy and why hadn’t anyone told him what placenta was, because sure as shit, that was the grossest thing he’d ever seen. And then he fainted in the middle of the waiting room at Mercy Hospital.
Out of everything I remember about that day, out of all the happiness, the sadness, the sadistic seagull, and the fact that I was now married, there’s one thing that’ll stick with me for the rest of my life. No, it’s not when Otter and I finally kissed and made it official there in the waiting room. No, it wasn’t when the Kid landed in my lap, following that kiss, and hugged me until I thought my face would fall off. Those are important, yes. But there is one thing that I’ll remember above all others. It was the moment when Otter held Joseph in his arms for the first time, the little hand wrapped around one big finger. The look of wonder on his face shredded my heart. He leaned down and kissed the baby’s forehead, and that’s when I knew that regardless of what I wanted, regardless of what I thought on the matter, I’d give anything to Otter that I could. Including this.
Fuck me, I thought. Maybe the Kid will get a little brother after all.
SO THAT’S it.
Okay, that’s not really it. How can it be with so much to look forward to? I’m almost twenty-three years old. I’m married to the one person I want to spend the rest of my life with. I’m the guardian of the smartest ten (!!)-
year-old ecoterrorist-in-training in the world. Of course there’s going to be more. This isn’t it, not by a long shot.
I don’t know, however, that I believe in the idea of happily ever after. It seems clichéd to end this on such a trite note. Will we live happily ever after? I don’t know. Maybe. It seems naïve to think that everything will be perfect all the time. You know what, though? I’ll make you a promise: I promise you that we will be happy. I promise you that we will live. I haven’t come this far to let everything fall by the wayside now. And you can hold me to that promise.
I’ve learned a lot in my lifetime, learned things I don’t think a man my age should ever have to learn. I wouldn’t change any of it, but I still wouldn’t wish it on my worst enemy. And if there’s a few things that I hoped you learned from all of this, it would be the following: first, seagulls have long, long memories. Don’t fuck with them. I’m being serious. I don’t go back to our beach without keeping an eye on the sky, because I’m afraid that that fucking asshole will go all kamikaze on my face. He hasn’t gone for me yet, but he’s waiting for the right moment, I just know it.
The second thing?
The second thing is this: family is not defined by blood. It’s not always who you’re born to that you’re stuck with. It’s what you want it to be, what you make of it. It’s the people around you who see you at your worst and are not afraid to pick up the pieces when you fall apart. It’s the people who can call you on your bullshit. It’s tough to hear, but if you do hear it, it means that someone gives a damn about you and chances are you should probably listen. It’s the people who look at you each time they see you like they haven’t seen you in years. It’s the people who you fight for. It’s the people you’d lay down your life for. It’s the scariest thing in the world, but, if you let it, it’s also the greatest. If I could have you remember anything from our time together, it would be that it’s not about where you come from. It’s about who you are.
For better or worse, this is us.
For all of our wrongs and for all of our rights, this is us.
Oh, and in case you’re wondering, Ty finally got to give us his poem that he wrote for the wedding. He was kind of miffed that something as contrived as Anna going into labor would delay the reading of his latest masterpiece. But he did get to read it, eventually, and now it’s framed and sitting on the mantle above the fireplace. He’d be pissed if I forgot to mention it (“What do you mean you didn’t show them my poem? I’m the only reason people started listening to you to begin with! You really think they wanted to stay in your head the whole time? You really think they want to read about your coitus? Gross! Wait till it’s my turn to tell the story!
They’ll be like ‘Bear who?’”) and you know as well as I do that I’d never stop hearing about it.
So here, at the end, I’ll leave it for you to read.
I….
Shit, this is harder than I’d thought it’d be.
Fuck it. Okay, you and I can make a deal. Let’s not say good-bye. It sounds so final and stupid and blah, blah, blah. Even though I told you this will probably be the last time you and I talk like this, I could be full of shit.
Who knows? Weirder things have happened. I’m sure there’s plenty more drama down the road. I’m a gay bug zapper, remember?
So, instead of good-bye, let’s just pretend for now that I’ll see you later.
I think it’s easier that way. For me, at least.
So.
See you later?
On This Day
An Epic Poem
By Tyson McKenna (soon to be Tyson Thompson)
And here we gather, on this day.
Friends and family near;
to attend a wedding so very gay!
(Is it politically correct to say queer?)
I look out at you all, family now and past,
and I really
have to wonder;
how many of you find it crass
that the meat industry is such a blunder?
[Note the Kid wrote in the margins: “Hold for applause.”]
That’s right! You’ve seen the numerous reports
that show this horrific and senseless atrocity!
Why, if those people ever came to my house with a weak retort, I’d be waiting with a shotgun on the lawn of the Green Monstrosity!
By now, I’m sure, Bear’s giving me the eye
and probably trying to signal for me to wrap it up; so I’ll agree to let this awkward moment die
if he just buys me that golden retriever pup.
[Note the Kid wrote in the margins: “Pause and give Bear that look he always falls for. Oh, and name the puppy Minerva Fox.”]
Bear and Otter were meant to be,
Even if I was the only one that knew it.
You should thank God, Bear, that you had me,
Or else you would have choked and blew it.
So now they’re here in front of all of us
Ready to show how they love each other.
And to have us here is to show they trust
those that would call them friend, son, and brother.
[Note the Kid wrote in the margins: “DO NOT CRY!!! YOU’RE
ALMOST DONE!! MAN UP, MCKENNA!!!!!”]
But there is one person here who we can’t see
and it was she who helped bring us to life.
I love you with everything I have, Mrs. P.
May you be in a place that knows no strife.
She would have said that family is all a person needs and it wouldn’t matter if they’re near or far.
All that matters is the lesson we must heed:
to know that this is us, that this is who we are.
Epilogue
Or, Otter’s Perspective, as It Were
(Bear’s Really Gonna Freak)
Six Years Later
FOG in June is going to be one thing I won’t miss when we move. My leg hurts these days when it’s really wet outside, and this morning was no different. The fog came in off the ocean in these great waves, and I felt that old familiar stiffness when I climbed out of bed, trying to keep Bear from hearing the way I groaned when my feet touched the ground. But of course he heard. He hears everything. Without a word, he got out of bed and went to the bathroom, where I heard him rooting around in the medicine cabinet.