Gang of Five

by Douglas

Chapter 7

If lying out naked under the California sun was impressive -- actually sliding into the water in Zach’s pool was, well, stunning.  The feelings; the water flowing so smoothly, all over my skin; the freedom, the sensuality, the RIGHTNESS.  It was so, so comfortable . . .

I guess my expression gave me away. Jarod looked at my face and actually laughed; Zach smiled, sympathetically.

“Did you miss this?  A little?”

“Are you serious?”  I pushed forward and took a few more heads-up breast strokes, just for the sake of the feelings, again; then stopped and tread water.  “I’d almost forgotten what it was like.  This is so, so . . . “

“Yeah,” he said.  “Better than the school pool.  Or the Y.”

“Or the University pool.  This is so, so WARM, and so clean . . . and the water feels so smooth . . . ”

“A little less chlorine.  No hair gel,” he said.  “And no suits allowed.”

“Thank God.”  I kicked forward some more, luxuriating in the feelings. 

If you’ve ever been skinnydipping -- swimming without a suit -- you know what it’s like.  Just incredible; so sensual, so free, so PERFECT.  Everybody should try it.  Everybody should do it.  Swimsuits should be illegal.

“Only thing is, it’s hard to do laps.”

I knew what he meant.  I was used, these days, to a daily routine of a bunch of laps; it would have been so cool to be able to do it here, like this.

“Well,” I said, “we used to think it was big enough, once.  Remember?”

“Yeah.”  And something in his face sort of darkened, for a second; or got sort of sad, maybe.  But then he seemed to -- almost shut if off.

This was new, too.

“I don’t care,” I went.  “This is still the best pool I’ve ever been in.”

“Me, too,” went Jarod.

“And me,” from Tim.

Zach shook his head, to get his hair out of his face; and smiled.

*

It wasn’t just the feelings, the emotions, I’d forgotten; I’d forgotten about the visuals, too.  Wet skin, under the sun; the sheer beauty of Zach, or Tim, or Jarod when they climbed out of the water to rest or get a drink, then dove back in -- Zach and Jarod tanned, Tim so beautifully pale.  Tim will always, I thought, somehow look more -- naked -- than the rest of us.

Seeing Zach in the water, again -- I’d forgotten that too.  How graceful he was; how at home he was.  Watching him surface-dive, his beautiful, tan butt breaking above the surface for just a second -- then all of him slipping underwater, so effortlessly, with barely a ripple -- well.  It was like watching a seal, maybe.  Or an otter.

At the same time -- I really could see Zach was a lot more powerful, these days.  Muscular; capable.  He really HAD outgrown this pool, at least when it came to a real workout.

Something about the thought made me a little -- I don’t know.  Melancholy?

Maybe I understood the look on his face, a little better.

*

We played in the water for awhile; splashing, wrestling, swimming.  It gave me a chance to get reacquainted with the feeling of my wet skin against another boy’s wet skin, the feeling of another boy in my arms; all of them, Zach, Tim and Jarod, let me touch them and cuddle them.  And kiss them.

It’s different, touching a boy -- for the sake of touching him.  Not just for sex; for the feeling of it, the comfort.  I mean, actively swimming up to another boy, touching him, petting him, caressing him; not just lying together, in a clump.  Hugging; holding.  The feeling of that living, warm, squirming person in your arms.  The taste.

I was still shy about doing it, at first; even after all we’d done, sexually.  I mean, this was different.  And in some ways, maybe more important; more about us, how we fit together, as friends, as our group. 

They all helped me get over it.  They weren’t shy about touching me, or stroking me, or each other; and the weird, exciting, half-remembered feeling of getting hard, in the water, or wet, in the breeze, out of the water, seemed to come naturally to them.  As naturally as it had come to me, once.

But we didn’t do anything else, yet.  Sex, I mean; I got the impression, there was still plenty of time.

Eventually, we wound up, drifting, more relaxed, on some of the air mattresses and pool toys Zach keeps around the pool house; I found myself facedown on a mattress, feeling the water lapping at my front, as my backside dried in the warm sun.  Admiring the sleek, wet skin of my friends; Zach, trying to balance on a big beach ball submerged in the water, Tim half on a kickboard, Jarod hanging off the front of the same board, stroking Tim’s bare side with a foot; all free, relaxed, natural with each other.

It was so beautiful.

And, we talked.

A LOT more than we had before.  We talked about everything -- about growing up gay, before we even admitted it to each other; about our parents (Zach didn’t have much to say then, I noticed), and how none of us had come out to them yet; about their high school -- OUR high school, now --

And I told them about me; the real story, for the first time.  About how, while I was sending cheerful emails from London, I was really terrified, and incredibly lonely.  And needy; for them.  I didn’t hide much.  It seemed a little late for that.

But also about how blown away I was by coming to Europe; how every time I went outside in central London I’d wind up tripping over my feet, because I’d be gaping up at buildings and monuments that were so famous, and so OLD . . .   And when we (my family) had gone to Paris, and Berlin, and Florence and especially Venice --

My God.  St. Mark’s Basilica in Venice was almost seven hundred years old when the Declaration of Independence was written.  Just the IDEA of a history that long, that old, generation after generation . . .

“Christian,” said Jarod, a little gently.  “Did you ever think that maybe, you need to focus on what you like about here?  The U.S.?  California?”  Only Jarod can deliver a line like that, while he’s floating on his back.

“Huh?  I like a lot of things here.”  I felt a little defensive; which wasn’t really reasonable, since I’d just spent a long time opening up to them.

“You . . . sound like you miss it,” put in Tim, gently.  From on top of his board, as he drifted, lazily.

“Well . . . I already told you.  I’m a little conflicted.”  I didn’t look at any of them, for a second.

“Maybe,” went Jarod, neutrally, “you should make a list.  What you like about here.  Better than what you like about England.”

“Britain.”

“Or Europe.  Whatever.”

I tried to lift my head, a little; on an air mattress, that just pushes the front down in the water.  I put my head back down.

“Well . . . you guys would be on the top of the list.  One through ten, at least . . .  No, one through a hundred.”

“Thanks.”  Zach drifted into my view, hanging onto his beach ball; he smiled at me, and I felt his fingers trail along my side, sending the air mattress drifting in the other direction.

“No.  I mean it, I so totally do.”

“So.  Besides us, then, “ went Jarod.  “What else?”

“Almost everything.”  It wasn’t hard to think about; it was just hard to put into words.  I looked up, and around, as best I could.  “This place.  It’s just so, . . .  I’d forgotten how beautiful it is.  The light; and the air -- the air is so  CLEAN here, so incredibly FRESH -- and, and the fog last night -- gosh.”  I closed my eyes, remembering.  “When the fog came in last night, it just . . . felt so good.  It was just, like, amazing.  I, like, FELT it.”

I wouldn’t expect anybody to understand, who didn’t grow up here -- around San Francisco Bay, I mean -- but it was true.  You do feel the fog; it’s a sensual experience.   It’s like, it becomes part of you, after awhile.  I hadn’t realized how much I’d missed the fog . . .

“And, and, it’s so beautiful around here.  I mean, you have no idea!  The hills, -- actually being able to look DOWN from hills, to see a long ways! -- and the bay, the ocean, Mount Tamalpais -- I can’t wait to get hiking up around Mount Tam again!  You still do that?”

“WE do,” went Zach.  “Yeah.  We still do.”

“Okay,” said Jarod.  Somewhere along the line, he’d straightened up, and relaxed back against the side of the pool, occasionally kicking his legs up to the surface.  “So, this is a beautiful part of the country -- ”

“Of the world.  Well, what I’ve seen.”

“Of the world.  But -- what about the rest?  I mean -- apart from us, what about the people?  The state.  The country -- ?”

Jarod’s been deciding between law and psychology, for his major, since before I left. 

And he knows that me -- well, I’ve got two academics for parents.  And I really, really love history; always have, always will, it’s such a big part of my life. . . .  And I’m into weird details of International Relations, and the European Union --   I’ll probably wind up a professor, or researcher, somewhere.  Another academic.  And I won’t ever be as good at cross-examination as him.

“What. You want my analysis?”

“No.  Just how you feel.  About here.  Versus -- Europe.”

And with that, I felt a kind of -- electric silence, maybe.  Not as much as on the hill, yesterday, when I came out; but still, a kind of tension.

For one thing, Jarod didn’t look at Zach.  At all.

I slid myself off of the air mattress, took a deep breath, and looked at each of them, Jarod, Tim and Zach, for a second; then I looked off at nothing, into the middle distance.

“Okay.  Well.  I think about this country -- and I think about how much I love you guys.  Like I said.  And my family.”  I took a breath.  “And I love -- well, the countryside, I guess.  Like I said.  But also, -- the people; they’re really kind, and so OUTGOING, and generous.”

Pause for another breath.  “And I love how, how radical this country is; how egalitarian. I mean, it’s still radically subversive, after two hundred years.  And I love how this country is ruled by law, how anybody but ANYBODY can sue the government, and probably stop something if it’s really bad.”

I was getting warmed up, now, standing in the water, arms resting on top of the air mattress.  “And I love the Bill of Rights, and the Constitution, and, and . . .  I guess the way we always think we’re doing the right thing, all over the world.  A lot of countries in Europe don’t care if they’re doing the right thing, when they do something internationally, or not.  They just don’t.”

Another breath.  “And I love how this country faced up to racism, and how it’s the home of the gay rights movement and the whole women’s movement -- ”

Last big breath, and I was careful not to look at anyone, as I plunged on.

“And the people who are running this country right now are, like, starting wars and torturing people and, and, they absolutely will not, will not, stop until abortion is prosecuted as murder and Christianity is the state religion and gay people like us are locked up in re-education camps, or worse.  And I’m really scared for us all, ” I said, trailing off, a little lamely.

Well, more scared for them than for me, I didn’t add out loud.

I heard a soft splash, and Tim laughing, and a second later, I felt Zach’s arms around my waist, and his body pressing up against my back.

Jarod smiled, kicked himself off the side of the pool, floated over to us, and kissed me gently, on the lips.

“Still the same Christian,” he said, smiling.  “I was a little worried, for awhile.”

“But what . . . do you REALLY think?” went Tim, still laughing.  He kind of dog-paddled over to us, and added his kiss to Jarod’s.  And I blushed.

“All right, I know it sounds a little extreme.  But -- ?”

“But?”  asked Zach; into my ear, between nuzzling on my neck.  Zach is -- or used to be, anyway -- almost as much of a liberal radical as me; he just never really liked talking about it, because his dad is a relatively conservative Republican, and Zach gets upset when they talk politics.

“But.  Did any of you ever read, like, the Texas Republican Party platform from the last election?  Or did you ever hear about Patrick Henry College, or the whole Christian Reconstructionist movement?”

This got another burst of laughter out of Tim; he actually fell backwards into the water.  Even Zach chuckled, and Jarod smiled.

“You think you might be taking some things a little -- too seriously?” Jarod asked, gently.

“Maybe,” I shrugged.  As best I could, with Zach still pressing up against me.  “I didn’t say they’d get everything they want.  But they’re really, really powerful.  And they won’t stop trying.”

“But . . . this isn’t . . . new,” went Tim.  “We’ve always known.  About these people?”  It was more a question than anything; Tim’s just not into politics.  Not like me; or Zach.

“I did a paper for school last year, on the American political system.  You know; red state versus blue state, that kind of stuff.”  I shrugged again, not looking at anyone.  “The more I looked at the -- well, the radical right -- the more scared I got.”  I paused.  “It got to be a really long paper.”

And I gave them a few details.  Like, the Republican senator who thinks the birth control pill is equivalent to abortion, and abortion is murder; the other senator who really, sincerely believes in Christian Dominionism -- that the Christian church will eventually establish theocratic control over all the U.S. states, with state and local laws based on Old Testament values, and the federal government will wither away . . . .

And that senator might be running for President.  He does really well on TV.

And then there are the Republican conservative think-tank people who really, truly believe in re-establishing anti-gay sodomy laws, by stripping the whole issue away from the courts.  They don’t just want to ban gay marriage; they really, really want to punish consensual gay sex, between adults.  Aggressively prosecute it.

And that was just for starters.  I didn’t really go into the ones who want to stone us -- gay people, I mean -- to death.  Not real different that the Taliban, in the end.

It’s not just about gay issues, of course.  That’s just what scares me the easiest.  There’s a whole lot else.  A lot more . . . .

Taken together, if they get their agendas passed -- even just partially, just some of the things they want -- the country will look like nothing it ever has before.

I guess I should be more worried about the torture.  And the chances for more wars.  And the whole, I-can-declare-you-an-enemy-combatant-and-disappear-you-forever thing.

Come to think of it -- I am.  More worried about that, I mean.

“But still,” Jarod was saying, mildly, kicking lazily again at the side of the pool, “these are the extremists.  Nobody takes them seriously.  That seriously, anyway.”

“Extremists,” I repeated.  I was tired of talking about it, by now.  “Senators, and Congressmen, and whole State governments.”  I pushed myself against Zach a little more.  “I’ll send you the paper.  You can follow the links in the bibliography.  Decide for yourself.”  I paused for a second, trying to think of the right words.  “I think maybe, sometimes, it helps to -- look in from the outside.  Get somebody else’s viewpoint.  I think,” I went on, “we’re maybe a little worse off than we realize.”

“I think he’s right,” said Zach, softly.  “If there’s another 9/11 . . . ”

THAT made Jarod and Tim go quiet.  I’ve always been the pessimist, the worrier; Zach’s the realist, the level-headed one of us.

We floated for a minute, not saying anything.  Me, I just leaned back against Zach’s body, relaxing, feeling his arms around me; trying to let the rest go.  I really don’t like getting worked up.

Zach’s arms felt so GOOD; and I kind of dimly realized, this was the first time it’d been just him and me, together, cuddling, like this, in a long, long, time.

Jarod wasn’t done, though.

“So,” he said, eventually.  Still lazing; still kicking his legs, slowly.  “It’s really about -- politics?”  He shrugged.  “I guess that’s understandable, the way things are going.  But -- things can change.  Politically, I mean.”

“Remember Mar . . . garet Thatcher,” put in Tim.  Surprising me more than I can remember him doing, before.

“Please!”  I lifted my hands out of the water.  “I’m having a wonderful afternoon, I’d really rather not.”

“Oops,” Tim laughed.

“Poor thing,” I said -- meaning Mrs. Thatcher -- and stopped.  It was exactly what my mum would have said, and it kind of spooked me, for a second.

Come to think of it, my mum HAS said it.  After Denis Thatcher died.  I remembered.

“So?” went Jarod, after a second.

I tried to think how to put it.  This was getting into dangerous territory, again.  Really dangerous territory.

And I was still really unsure about my feelings, anyway.

Especially with these friends that I loved so much.  And maybe didn’t know so well, any more.

“No, you’re right.  It’s . . . not about politics,” I said, finally.  “Well -- not just about politics.  And God knows, Europe isn’t perfect, way far from it.  A little less screwed up than the US is right now, maybe, is all.  No, it’s . . . I don’t know.  A lot of things.”

I felt so lame.  Inarticulate.

“Oh-kay,” said Zach, behind me, after a second.  His arms held me tighter for a second; then I felt his hands start moving over my chest, my torso.  Comfortingly.

“See -- it’s the place.  Something about it just -- feels right.  Britain, I mean.”  I took a breath, tried to figure out how to put it.  “It’s like, the people; the way they talk, what they say, to each other; how they act.”  I took a breath.  “And it’s like -- you know.  The culture, there.  Movies, books, TV.  The newspapers -- well, the Guardian and the Independent, anyway, the other ones are pretty bad -- and, and, the BBC.  I’m really going to miss the BBC . . . ”

God, I still sounded so lame, even to me.  “And -- like I said, my friends.  I’ll miss them a lot.”  I didn’t look at anyone; it’s awkward, talking about one set of friends, in front of another.  “And I’ll miss my grandfather and grandmother.  And my Aunt Jena.  I’ll miss them a lot,” I said, and as I said it, I realized how true it was. 

I took another deep breath; before saying it. 

“And, you guys know, I spent, like, a lot of summers back there, with my family, when I was really little.  Before I met any of you.”  I shrugged.  “It all . . . kind of came back to me.  That, and the rest of my family, and the last three years . . . maybe that’s why it just -- kind of feels right to me, there.”

There was a thundering silence, for a moment.  Zach squeezed me once, and pushed himself away, off to one side.  I felt cold, without his body against mine.

“Well,” said Tim.  Long pause.  “That narrows it down.”

“Would you want to move back?” Jarod asked.  Really pointedly.  “Where would you rather be?”

I could tell he still wasn’t looking at Zach, at all.

Another long pause.  And, yeah; again, it felt like -- going over a cliff.  Again.

“Here,” I said.  Careful not to look at anyone again.  But I meant it.  “I’d rather be here.  Mostly because of you guys.  I . . . I couldn’t stand to leave you all again.”  I hesitated, a second.  “But if it weren’t for you, and my dad and mum . . . I really don’t know . . . ”  I sighed.

Silence, for a second; the sound of a bird, in the trees over the back fence.

“We -- ” started Tim; then he locked.

“Want you to stay,” finished Jarod, at his side.  “Both of us.”

“We want you to stay,” said Zach.  Quietly; softly.  And between the three of them, I felt warmer than if they’d hugged me again.

There was still a lot we weren’t saying.  A lot I know I wasn’t saying; like, the fact that we’d all be going off to college, in a couple of years.  That going to school in the UK or Europe made great sense, for me, for the future; for the kind of academic work I wanted to do.  Probably the kind of postgraduate work I wanted to do.

And that by the time I left Britain, most of my friends -- including Jose -- were planning lives for themselves back in Europe.  School, places to live, where we fit in, some kind of future; it’s just what you do, and I had done it, too, and I could see what my life would be like, there, so easily. 

And that my grandfather and grandmother already said, many times, that I could live with them, if I wanted to go back to the UK for school.  And my aunt Jena -- in her quiet, polite, roundabout way, so completely unlike my mum, had made it clear she’d be unspeakably happy if I did live with my grandparents, or close by them; they were getting frail.

But mostly -- in spite of everything, this afternoon, the hugs, the kisses, the cuddling, the sex, the way we’d begun to reconnect -- mostly, we weren’t really talking about the four of us.  Or five of us.  That they kind of needed to get to know me, again.  And I needed to get close to them, again.  That we’d all grown up a lot, in the last three years. 

And that maybe, rebuilding the kind of close relationship we all had -- doesn’t come easily.  Maybe it takes more than a weekend.

Talking about feelings is dangerous.  Especially when it’s so, so important.

“Well,” went Tim, after a long silence, “Maybe you should think about -- getting dual citizenship?   British, and US?  That might make it a little . . . easier?  Maybe you could do something like that -- through your mom?”

“Yeah,” I sort of half-mumbled.  I looked down at the water, at my feet, all distorted on the bottom of the pool.  “Maybe . . . ”

“Go ahead,” said Zach.  “Tell them.”

“Huh?”  I looked over at him; he had a kind of strained smile on his face; a kind, caring smile -- but it looked like it was taking an effort.

“Tell them.”

I gaped at him a second, my mouth a little open.  “How -- ?”

“I figured it out.”  He shrugged, a little.  “Online.  I looked up the law, awhile back.  It wasn’t hard.”

“Oh.”

“What?” asked Jarod.  His eyes locked on mine; I looked down into the water, again.

“I . . . already have it.  Dual citizenship, I mean.”  I looked down.  “I AM a British citizen, through my mum; she’s a permanent resident here, she never changed her own nationality.”  I shrugged, and glanced over at Zach.  “I didn’t even know, until we got to London.”

“Oh,” said Jarod; his eyes widened, a little.  “Okay.”  He kicked his legs a couple more times, slowly.  “Are you, like -- a REAL British citizen?  Full citizen?”

“Yeah,” I said, looking away.  “Passport and everything.  That’s how I found out; getting the British passport made it a lot easier for us to go to other EU countries.”  I remembered my dad going through long immigration and customs lines, while my mum and I just walked through empty checkpoints; we used to laugh about it.  Not around him, though.

“Which makes you a European Union citizen too,” Jarod said, still looking really closely at me.  “Which means you can pretty much go to school anyplace in Europe.  Or maybe just live anyplace in Europe.”

“Well -- it’s not exactly that easy.  But,  . . . ”

“You could, like . . . move there, tomorrow?” asked Tim.  His voice had a little bit of awe in it.  “Just . . . get on a plane, and go?”

“Well, I’m underage.  And I wouldn’t.  I won’t.”  I glanced over at Zach again, who was looking away.  “But they say I could . . . ”

“ Wow,” said Tim.  He was looking at me like I’d changed, somehow; like I was somebody different.

“That’s -- really cool, for you,” went Jarod, firmly.  Supportively.  “Incredibly cool.  You could do almost anything you want, when you go off to school; you could study in Europe, you can teach there, you can work there -- wow.  You have so many possibilities open to you.”

“I guess,” I said.  I pushed my way through the water, over to Zach.  I put one arm over his shoulders, and felt him pull me against his bare body; the shock of his skin against mine, even in the water, was amazing.  I snuggled up against him, and we stopped talking, for a while.

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