We shared our first kiss on a lumpy gondola sofa. You convinced me to rent a ramshackle two-bedroom house several blocks from campus with you. It was our first time not living in dorms or fraternity housing. We envisioned something quieter for our senior year, away from the temptation of endless parties and sex with sorority girls we didn\u2019t want but had anyway. I think we wanted a place to call our own without sharing that thought with anyone. We couldn\u2019t even share that thought with each other because we were still too confused to know what we wanted, and it felt too risky to find out.<\/p>\n
That first kiss happened long after your then-girlfriend Rachel went to bed in the other room, and we drank more than we planned to. Even before the kiss, we bickered like an old married couple. That night it was over The Beatles\u2019 best album, you\u2019d argue it\u2019s still Please Please Me.<\/em> During a lull in our bickering, you looked at me with reckless longing and kissed me. The shock of your lips on mine briefly paralyzed me. Though I quickly came to my senses. I kissed you back with the same intensity as my suppressed yearning for you. My Oxford shirt was halfway unbuttoned when we heard Rachel shuffle around in the other room, and, in fear of being caught, we pulled away from each other.<\/p>\n I thought you reviled me afterwards because kissing you dug up some poorly buried truth. You, always charming me with a silly joke or enlightening me about some forgotten piece of American history, seemed to suddenly dull whenever in my presence. You started staying at Rachel’s apartment. It seemed as though you\u2019d memorized my comings and goings to be there every time I wasn\u2019t. Though one night, a few weeks later, we were both home and I heard soft sobs coming from your room. When I knocked on your door, you told me to go away. I assumed it was because our kiss had forever severed our friendship. Though in bed hours later, while trying to outrun my anxiety, I felt your body settle against mine. You thought I was asleep, so you told me, \u2018I broke up with Rachel because all I want to do is kiss you. Though all I\u2019ve ever been told is that I can\u2019t.\u2019<\/p>\n This was still a few months before the first brick at Stonewall had been thrown.<\/p>\n When our second kiss finally happened, we were both sober. It was the following evening. You tiptoed out of my room that morning before I awoke, so you thought I didn\u2019t know about you sneaking into my bed. Which worked in my favor, I guess. After a long day of classes, I was in my room studying for my economics exam when I heard you come back from one of your history seminars. I briefly thought over the consequences of another kiss before I leapt from my chair. You were in the kitchen peeling an orange, giving an embarrassed grin in my direction as you chewed. When we made eye contact, I saw your face soften. \u2018You look like you\u2019re about to do something stupid,\u2019 you said.<\/p>\n I took your face in my hands and kissed it. You didn\u2019t pull away. We swapped pulp.<\/p>\n On your bed, we kissed with tongue as my body bloomed open for you. Shame and hesitation were gone from your touch. All our pent-up repression released itself. I\u2019ll never forget what you said next with this euphoric smirk. “I could kiss you forever.”<\/p>\n Unfortunately, I know that forever is only a sentiment.<\/p>\n After we graduated, we kissed goodbye to that neglected rental. We moved to the Big Apple with even bigger dreams. You were determined to write the next Great American Novel. I was determined to be a Wall Street trader. Together we worked hard, but the city worked harder to scoff at our wide-eyed ambition. We\u2019d cool off our disappointments with a cold beer in the apartments of friends, before going out to the gay bars to sweat out our work-related stress. After a little over a decade of living there together, our friends Ricky, Beckford, TC, Amir, Federico, and James all helped heal the open wounds of the small-town shame I was raised on. Shame was temporarily replaced with newfound pride.<\/p>\n But the assassination of Harvey Milk reminded us it still wasn\u2019t safe to kiss anywhere except in the shadows. One night, while walking home from Julius\u2019, I regarded you with admiration. I tousled your hair, then brushed off one of the loose hairs that fell onto your cheek with my thumb. Unbeknownst to us, a pack of men saw our undisguised affection. We didn\u2019t realize they\u2019d followed us the last few blocks home. Before walking up the stoop, one of them snuck up behind you. He turned you around and punched you in the gut. “Faggot,” he delightfully slurred. In my immobilized shock, one of the others slugged me across the face.<\/p>\n My body kissed the concrete. You threw punches and kicks. One of them wagged a finger in your face, and you bit it. “You\u2019re such pussies. Is that really all you got?” you said, taunting them, while I just lay there. Whatever acceptance I\u2019d come to with my sexuality just\u2026vanished. I let two of them kick the sense of security I thought the city held out of me. Eventually, we heard a police siren wail through the neighborhood. They fled, and we stumbled inside, fearing that explaining the situation to the cops might make things worse for us. Once inside, I shrank from any intimacy you offered. Flashing red and blue lights illuminated our apartment as I groped for any illusion of safety the city had left. That night, after we got our injuries checked at the hospital and the nurses bandaged us up, I decided I couldn\u2019t live the life you wanted for us. I was fearful that they\u2019d return since they knew where we lived, so I left the city. You chose to stay, saying, “I can\u2019t live my life in fear because of who I choose to kiss.”<\/p>\n For a while, I didn\u2019t kiss anyone. Even the shadows made me uneasy. I didn\u2019t feel safe anywhere.<\/p>\n After three years out of the city, we\u2019d lost contact. I shrank back into the closet and made new friends with whom I wouldn\u2019t let slip any hint of my life in the city with you and our friends. Then, late one afternoon, my mom called to tell me that you\u2019d tried to get in contact with me. She knew you not by name but as my “old friend from college” and said you had a hint of worry in your voice. She rattled off your number, but I\u2019d already had it memorized. However, it took me weeks before I mustered the courage to call you back, even though I craved the freedom of the life we once had together. Drunken nights out with our friends. Sleeping next to you. Waking up to your sleepy kisses.<\/p>\n When I finally called back, you told me James had already died, and Beckford, Federico, and Ricky had gotten the red bump. I asked about TC and Amir, and you reassured me they were fine. You asked if I would return to the city to help since Reagan wasn\u2019t going to. I\u2019d asked you what I was supposed to do. “Our friends don\u2019t want to die alone\u2026 I\u2026 I don\u2019t want to die alone,” you said. That was enough to make me move back home to you.<\/p>\n Saying goodbye to our friends without even a kiss on the forehead became the new normal. The hospitals wouldn\u2019t let us in because we weren\u2019t considered family, even though we were. Beckford died alone. Almost a year later, Ricky would also die alone. In our apartment, we made our first vows to each other. Alongside TC, Amir, and Federico, we vowed that we\u2019d never let someone in our family die alone again in a hospital bed.<\/p>\n At this point, we still didn\u2019t know if you and Federico would survive what everyone thought was a death sentence. To us, the government seemed increasingly indifferent as infection rates rose, so we took our fight to the streets. For the first time, I kissed you outside of the shadows. That kiss was a big middle finger to everyone who wanted us dead.<\/p>\n Afterwards, you taught me to snarl “Kiss my ass” whenever strangers looked cockeyed at us or when they slurred words meant to sting when we held hands. Our time apart had shown me I\u2019d rather not hide from myself. I couldn\u2019t continue to let every sneer or pejorative disintegrate my self-worth. You helped me understand that life\u2019s more fun when you embrace who you are.<\/p>\n Over the years, our fight led to slow change; at sixty-eight, our kisses were finally recognized by the country. Like many gay people our age, we\u2019d consigned ourselves to never marrying the person we loved. It was the one thing we always wanted but could never have. Looking back on our lives, we didn\u2019t become either of the things that we\u2019d envisioned for ourselves when we were young. You published your Great American Novel to modest critical acclaim and minimal public attention; I failed to succeed as a trader, which was probably for the best. Became a middle school math teacher instead. But we had always been something to each other. We finally felt our love was recognized and celebrated.<\/p>\n Like many others, we went to our local courthouse that day to get married. Amir and Federico went with us as witnesses to sign our marriage license. TC and our other friends called to congratulate us. When we got home, you took two beers from the fridge and handed me one. You took an orange from the counter and peeled it, sticking a slice into your mouth. Giggling to yourself, you said, \u2018Want to do something stupid?\u2019<\/p>\n Nearly sixty years of our lives have been together, Ronnie. You\u2019ve always known how to make me laugh. Even in recent years, as your health declined, when we\u2019d visit the hospital to make sure your T cells were in the appropriate range, you\u2019d tell the nurse how to do her job and where to insert the needle and how she better not make you woozy or she\u2019d be liable for your death, because, secretly, you\u2019d always been scared of needles. The nurses would always ask me how I\u2019d put up with your antics for so long. I remember saying something stupid, like “When you\u2019re together long enough, you either learn to love or choose to ignore the things that annoy you about the other person.” It made you nod in exaggerated agreement, making the nurse laugh.<\/p>\n Since your stroke, the days have been so lonely. Our friends have been at our door with ready-made dinners, but I can\u2019t bring myself to eat anything. The person I want to kiss away my tears can\u2019t, and I fear without you, I\u2019ll\u2014<\/p>\n There\u2019s a knock at the door. I rub my damp cheeks with the back of my hand.<\/p>\n Come in, I say.<\/p>\n The door opens, and his nurse, Sydney, walks in. She has a rainbow pin attached to her lanyard. She offers a warm smile as she makes her way to the window to open the curtain.<\/p>\n What did you two talk about? she asks.<\/p>\n Us, I say, I want him to remember everything about us.<\/p>\n I want him to remember how every kiss means something to me because I wouldn\u2019t have had the courage to be who I am if it weren\u2019t for that first drunken kiss.<\/p>\n I remove a tissue from my pocket and blow into it. Before taking Ronnie’s vitals, she gently grips my arm.<\/p>\n He remembers, she says.<\/p>\n She lifts him from the lumpy hospital bed, surgically undresses him while she communicates her protocol in a soothing voice. With a bucket and a cloth, she starts to wipe him down.<\/p>\n I squeeze Ronnie’s bony hand, then kiss his forehead before stepping into the hall, where TC, Amir, and Federico each give me a hug. A couple of minutes later Sydney steps out. One at a time, they step into the room to share their story with Ronnie.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" My body kissed the concrete. You threw punches and kicks. One of them wagged a finger in your face, and you bit it. “You\u2019re such pussies. Is that really all you got?” you said, taunting them, while I just lay there.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":182,"featured_media":25017,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[6],"tags":[4871,1353,4872],"class_list":["post-24029","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-fiction","tag-harvey-milk","tag-lgbtq","tag-stonewall","writer-ryan-babcock"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/24029","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/182"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=24029"}],"version-history":[{"count":4,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/24029\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":25018,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/24029\/revisions\/25018"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/25017"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=24029"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=24029"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=24029"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}