This Sort Of Thing	 Pairing/warning/rating: Fraser/Kowalski, heavy
angst, references to bondage and domination, NC-17 

Disclaimer: Oh, you know. Not mine, wish they were; they're Alliance's. 

Spoilers: Victoria's Secret. Very slight spoilers for We Are The Eggmen
and All The Queen's Horses. 

Summary: This is a sequel to Patience and continues my Fraser/Kowalski B&D
series, Another Life. 

A suggestion of Ray's brings out all of Fraser's conflicting feelings in a
torrent. It's honesty -- but at what cost? 

Many thanks to everyone reading this series, sending feedback, and
discussing various aspects of it with me -- especially discussion and
beta-reading of this latest installment by Ruthie, J Hardin, and Maxine.
You  have been very generous with your time and thoughts, and the series
and this story are the better for it. 
  
   This Sort Of Thing It was in last weekend's Urbane newspaper. The
latest catalogue for that Horizons adult continuing ed place. I never took
any of their classes, but I know this one chick in Dispatch who took their
ballroom dancing class when she was standing up for a wedding. She said it
was pretty good. And I think Frannie said her mom's friend was doing the
stained glass class they have or somethin'. 

Besides, how can we not go? I mean, I know they got some weird seminars,
like on New Age-y crap. But they got this new class I never seen in the
catalogue before. "An Introduction To Bondage And Domination". Mistress
Ruby is the instructor, it says. 

She's a professional. Professional dominatrix. Somehow, 'dominatrix'
sounds so much cooler than... 'master'. Don't much like the sound of
'master'. I don't feel like that's what Fraser is to me, anyhow. He
doesn't treat me like a slave. Just like his horny little fucktoy -- which
I am -- and which I am so freakin' happy to be. 

Wonder what Mistress Ruby can teach us? What we need to know? Which is...
pretty much everything. It says part of the class materials is a list of
places around Chicago that sell bondage 'gear'. Which is good, and we
pretty much need that... Silk ties are okay, but they're not meant for the
things we're doin' with them. I got rug burns on my wrists from silk ties.
So much for thinking the ties would be better than the handcuffs... 

* * * 

For once, I'm home first, watching CNN when Fraser gets home from work.
The Ice Queen musta kept him late or something. The catalogue is on the
coffee table. He comes in, and I stand up. So good to see him -- always so
good to see him. 

"Hey, Frase, how was your day?" I ask him as he's coming towards me. 

I get a hungry kiss in reply. He looks tired and wired, and he's already
unbuttoning the Serge. Whether it's cuz he just wants to get out of it, or
whether it's cuz he wants to get down to business with me, I want him to
hang on a minute. 

"Frase, there's somethin' I wanna show you." 

He pauses. "What's that?" he asks, and then goes back to unbuttoning his
red jacket. 

I sit back down on the couch. 

"This," I say, and point at the catalogue. 

"Oh, yes, I've seen those before." The velcro collar rips open. "There's a
distribution box for those catalogues chained to the street lamp on the
corner by the Consulate," he tells me. "I had considered the class on
American Sign Language..." 

"Why don'tcha look at it again, Frase, while we watch the news?" 

"Well, if you really want me to," he says, pausing. I can tell he's
feeling me out about tonight, about tying me up, and everything else we
been doing... if we're gonna do it again. Like last night. And the night
before... 

"I do want you to, actually. We can get started with stuff in a little
while, right?" I ask him. 

"Of course." He takes off the jacket, and puts it on the easy chair. He
sits down next to me on the couch in his spotless white Henley and those
black riding pants with the yellow stripe. 

"Here," I say, and I lean over and pick up the Horizons catalogue. "Just
go through this and tell me when you run across something you think might
interest us both, 'kay, Frase?" I hand him the catalogue. 

He takes it and settles in next to me. Starts looking through the
catalogue, scanning the pages. I'm channel surfing now -- time for the
Weather Channel. I can't remember what page of the catalogue Mistress
Ruby's seminar is on. 

The catalogue, which he was holding up, slaps down on his thigh suddenly. 

Well, I shoulda known he'd figure it out real quick. 

"You find it?" I ask him casually, still looking at the TV. 

He doesn't say anything. Out of the corner of my eye, I see his arm move.
But I don't turn to look, trying to play it smooth. Except when I realize
he hasn't said something in a while. 

Then I look over at him. He's still holding the catalogue with one hand --
and the pages hanging over the edge of his thigh flutter with his shaking
hand. It's open to the page with the Introduction to Bondage and
Domination listing. And his other hand -- well, it's over his eyes. Like
he's frustrated -- or tired and his eyes hurt. Or... freaking out. 

"Frase?" I didn't expect this... But, then, there's no telling with him.
I've known for a long time he was better at doing stuff than talking about
it -- some stuff anyway (other stuff he does nothing but talk about). So
him not being able to talk about this isn't exactly a big surprise. 

"Fraser?" I ask again, and put a hand on his thigh. He flinches away from
me. "What's wrong?" I ask him. 

He slides his hand down his face, past his nose, to his mouth... where it
stays. His eyes meet mine, and the way he looks, with his hand on his
mouth, he looks like he just got some real bad news. Like someone just
told him somebody died. I realize he's white as a ghost. He's either
pissed or freaked. 

"Hey, Frase, listen--" 

"What are you suggesting, Ray?" He suddenly jerks his hand from his mouth.
It fists in his lap next to the hand holding the catalogue. 

"Nothin'. I mean, well, yeah. I am suggesting something, I guess. Let's go
to that 'Intro to Bondage and Domination' seminar, Frase. Why not? We
might learn stuff that ...that it would be good for us to know." 

He jumps up from the couch and slaps the flimsy newsprint catalogue down
on the coffee table. 

"Do you think this rules my life? That I can't live without it? That I
eat, drink, sleep, breathe this sort of thing?" he demands. His voice is
rising and it's sharp. "I never even considered this sort of thing until
you decided you liked it," he says harshly. 

I'm so shocked looking up at him, I can't even put words together. 

He walks away to the kitchen, and I haven't even had a chance to say
anything. But before I can call after him, he paces back into the living
room. 

"This sort of thing isn't meant to be public, Ray," he says grimly,
leaning over me. His eyes flash angrily. 

For once, I try to think about what I'm going to say before I say it. 

"Fraser..." I take a breath slowly. "I don't think I like the way you're
saying 'this sort of thing'. It's not 'this sort of thing'. It's our
thing. We're doing it. We've been doing it. For... for a while, now." 

I try to keep my voice even, like I'm negotiating with someone to put down
their gun before we blow them away. He's almost trembling, standing over
me. 

"I didn't want to!" he practically yells, stabbing a finger at me. "You
did. It was your idea." 

I don't know what the hell is going on with him, and it must show on my
face. I mean, yeah, I know he was kind of worried at first, and he seemed
to be a little spooked by how quick we got into the real deal. But he sure
as hell didn't let on that he didn't like it. You sure coulda fooled me.
The past week, I'd've said he was more into it than me. 

His expression suddenly goes from furious to... something more like fear. 

"Fraser," I start again, trying to be patient, even though I'm getting
riled. I'm looking right up into his face, his eyes. "Just -- don't start
with this 'your idea' stuff. You like it just as much as me -- if not
more. We both know that." 

He turns away so fast I can feel the breeze. Strides off down the hall to
the kitchen again. 

Great. Another brilliant move, Kowalski. I pick my ass up off the couch
and go into the kitchen. 

He's leaning over the sink, splashing cold water on his face. 

"Fraser, look..." I barely get the words out when he's snapped the faucet
off almost hard enough to break it. He swings towards me, wiping trickling
water from his face with his sleeve in a very non-Fraser-like way. 

"No, you look, Ray," he says, his voice in that controlled, tight tone.
Now I can tell he's really mad, mad and something else-- 

But he's coming at me, slowly, his arms away from his body like he's ready
for a fight. I back up and then I'm against the counter and I can't back
up anymore. 

"I can stop this tomorrow, Ray. So we never have to do it again. I can
live without it. Can you?" he says, and I see that muscle in his jaw
twitch. 

Like it's some kind of I dare you challenge. For some reason, maybe
because this is getting too freaky and I need some relief, this reminds me
of that Seinfeld episode where everyone agreed to a contest of who could
keep from playing with themself the longest. But this is so much more...
complicated. 

I just look at him. He's almost in my face, reminding me of a cat ready to
lash out. 

"Sure, I can live without it. I just don't want to," I tell him, and cross
my arms over my chest. I jut my chin out: put that in yer pipe and smoke
it, Frase. "And, maybe you can, but I don't think you want to, either." 

I don't say, so there! but I might as well have, cuz you can hear it in my
voice. 

"Th-that's neither here nor there. I can do it. And I think I will. I
think we should." He presses his lips into a line and the color comes back
to his face, in a hot blush across his cheeks. 

"You do?" I ask him, really surprised. "You honestly do?" 

He looks at me, eye to eye, and then he turns away. Steps to the sink and
leans on the counter, his back to me. 

"We ...we probably should," he says, quiet and low. His shoulders sag. 

"Fraser... why? We were... it's so... so good. It keeps getting better..."
I say, thinking about the last few nights, thinking how outta control I
was when I came, thinking how... mind-blowing it was. How mind-blowing he
was. 

"We... it's not... we shouldn't..." He stops and breathes, like he's
trying to calm down. Doesn't say anything for a long time. 

I start to move forward, to put a hand on his shoulder. But he must sense
it or something, because he turns back to face me real quick. 

"I... I think it best... if we... we stopped," he says, his voice heavy.
But he won't meet my eyes. He looks at the floor, the countertop behind
me, the cabinets over my head. My mouth, but not my eyes. 

"Why?" I ask him. I'm suddenly afraid to know his reasons... but I'd
rather know than not know. 

"Be... because." He shakes his head, like there's nothing more to be said.


"Because why, Frase? I thought everything was fine. I mean, I know you
were a little freaked about it at first, but you sure seemed like you
were... fine with it the past couple of weeks. So... why? Are you telling
me that you were only doing this stuff because you think I want it?" 

"No. No, Ray. I--" He hesitates. "It's..." His voice drops to a whisper.
"It's deviant. Bestial. Base." 

What? This from the man who's been coming up with more and more clever
ways of restraining me, of teasing me, of prolonging it? Is this what he
thought -- all this time? 

"So what're you saying? That you think it's sick, but you're humoring me
because you love me?" My voice is rising and shaking. I can't help it. 

"That's not-- I didn't mean--" he stutters, now looking frightened again. 

"Well, what the fuck did you mean?" I demand from him. "I didn't notice
you having any problems with any of it -- in fact, you kind of took to it
like a duck to water," I tell him. I'm meanly glad when I see him close
his eyes, with a pained expression. 

"Yeah," I continue. "I'd say you were one helluva creative guy when it
comes to bondage. So don't you try telling me that it was all for me. I
didn't give you all those ideas. You came up with them all on your own,
Frase. And lately, you've been pretty creative. Very creative," I add with
a nasty edge. 

Stop, stop it, Kowalski, you dumbfuck. I've got to stop, but-- but-- this
makes me feel... shitty. Like I'm some kind of sick fuck. Okay, maybe I am
-- so what? If I'm sick enough to want it -- well, he's sick enough to do
it, so that should make us even! 

Except... it didn't seem sick when we were doing it. It never seems sick.
It seems... Well, I know it's not normal... But it was like our own little
world, our own little adventure that we were on. Every night, a trip to
somewhere new -- or somewhere we already been and we knew we liked. Or at
least I thought we liked it. Now he's ruining it! Was I the only one who
liked it? 

And he's standing here, looking scared but ready for a fight, and I could
say so many things -- about how he's no better than me; and if I'm a
headcase for liking this stuff, then what does that make him-- 

"Forget it, Fraser, just fucking forget I said anything," I snarl at him
before all that mean and nasty crap comes outta my mouth. I push past him
to the living room. "Whatever lets you look at yourself in the bathroom
mirror. Just don't go trying to push the 'sick' angle all on to me. It
takes two to tango, Frase, two. I sure as hell couldn't tie myself up." 

I'm shaking with anger but my eyes feel hot. I yell over my shoulder,
trying to keep the shake out of my voice. "You're a liar, is what you are.
You're lying to me, and you're lying to yourself. Fine!" 

Fucking upright, moral, do-gooder, ethical, polite, kind, asshole Mountie!
He just ruined everything. I stomp to the front door, meaning to go get my
jacket. Then I think, this is my apartment. Why should I leave? 

I'm standing by the coat hooks, debating whether or not to go, when he
comes around the corner from the kitchen. 

"Ray..." Sure, now he's all soft-spoken. 

"Just shut up, Frase, just forget it," I grit out. What a shit! Trying to
make it like it's all me, and none of it was him! 

"Ray..." 

"I said forget it!" I yell, snapping, and turn to glare at him as I reach
for my jacket. I really gotta get outta here now, even if it is my
apartment. Because if I don't, I'm gonna punch him in the head. 

He moves quick down the little hall toward me, and I back away without
grabbing my jacket. My hands come up to my chest as fists, like they got
minds of their own. 

"Ray--" 

"I said forget it, Frase, so just forget it and leave me alone!" 

My voice cracks with the last few words, and it feels like I got a sore
throat. The heat behind my eyes is feverish and everything at the bottom
edge of my vision blurs. But I can feel how tight my chest is, and how
everything just wants to explode outta me -- through my fists, or right
through my pounding chest. 

He looks pale again, like he's sick or something. He doesn't come at me,
but he doesn't back away. His eyes keep meeting mine briefly and then
darting down. He opens his mouth, shuts it, opens it. Closes his eyes. 

"I can't, Ray. I can't forget it. Any of... of the things we've done," he
whispers. "I wish that I could. You have no idea how much I wish that I
could..." 

He opens his eyes -- they look so sad, suddenly. His eyes meet mine for a
second, and then flit away. He sighs, a huge sigh. Was that-- it looked
like his chin and bottom lip trembled, for a sec. 

Now I don't know what to say. And that is never good. Because when that
happens, I just say whatever comes into my head... which is also hardly
ever good. The rhythmic rush of blood is in my ears. 

"Why, Fraser? Why do you wish you could forget?" I can't help asking him.
I feel miserable now. Miserable but enraged. So this is what he thinks?
That he's a sick fuck, I'm a sick fuck, we're two sick fuckers trapped in
a sick fucking thing together... ? 

"It's... I... I shouldn't... shouldn't enjoy it... the way that I do.
Not... not as much as I do. It's, it's wrong, Ray." He takes a deep shaky
breath, even though I can barely hear him. "It's not even for, for you
anymore, it's not even because you love me or because I love you..." he
trails off, looking down. 

Then he doesn't say anything for a real long time; just breathes real
hard. And then he turns away and walks slowly through the living room to
sit on the couch. Like a stone. 

The TV blares a commercial. I'm still standing by the front door,
breathing hard, trying to keep a lid on it before I punch the wall and
break my hand or something. 

I watch him sitting on the couch. And while I'm watching, he kind of
droops sideways and lays down on the couch -- but he doesn't lay as much
as he falls over like a sack of flour. He keeps his feet on the floor,
though, off the couch. His legs stretch out sideways as he sinks down. He
stares blankly at the TV. Then he shuts his eyes and covers his face with
his hands. 

So... so this is what he really thinks. And I, I shoulda realized those
first few times -- he was so freaky about it -- it wasn't gonna go away.
But I tried! I tried talking about it with him. He wouldn't talk! 

But. So. That's what it is. He thinks it's -- what did he say? Deviant.
Bestial. Base. And he never thought about it until he found out I liked
it. Yeah, that's right... he didn't want to do it again, after that first
time. I remember he felt bad about doing that in the first place.... 

And I... I made him do it more. I mean, I didn't make him... I didn't hold
a gun to his head... 

No. I was worse. I manipulated him into it, the second time. Which is why
he smacked me. 

And I know, where I'm concerned, he'd do pretty much anything, I think. So
if I wanted it, he'd do it. Even if he hated it. 

But-- but-- it seemed like he was getting into it, like he liked it as
much as me-- 

But maybe he was just trying to make it look good? To make me happy? 

God. I feel like such a worthless piece of crap now. He's -- he's like
this big, sweet, clueless guy from the Great White North, who helps old
ladies across the street, always gives everybody the benefit of the doubt,
he's polite, real smart, a good cop, a good friend -- 

--and I made him tie me up. Handcuff me. "Force" me. Take me, tied up,
shackled, take my mouth while I'm cuffed... Made him hurt me -- he didn't
hurt me much, but there were a couple sore-assed mornings-- 

--and I loved it so much, I felt so... so... wanted. I felt so... he made
me feel like I was his whole world... And now I find out that all that
time he, he didn't feel the same way at all.... 

I fucking perverted him. 

I just wanna crawl under a rock somewhere an' die. 

The worst thing is... I still want him to do all those things. I dunno if
I can stop wanting it. Even though I said I could stop any time. 

I shoulda known. The past week or so -- he was so edgy, and I thought he
was just turned on, and really he was -- was he disgusted? I mean, I don't
know. I was almost always blindfolded when he really got down to business,
so how could I tell? 

And there's no way we can forget any of the things we've done. No way. I
know I'll never forget them. Even if we never do them again, ever. 

Fuck. 

Blew this one too, Kowalski. You just can't ever let a good thing be, can
you. Can't leave well enough alone. It wasn't broke -- ya didn't need to
fix it. But, nope, you gotta just full-steam ahead, me-me-me, not
thinkin', not paying attention to him -- and he's not like Stella. He
don't bounce back from this kinda stuff-- 

Fuck. 

I don't wanna punch him anymore. If I could punch anyone, it'd be me. 

He's probably never gonna wanna ...do anything with me again. For sure,
not like the past few weeks... But maybe... maybe not even like things
were before the past month... God, I hope not-- 

It all hits me, and everything in me that was so enraged and tightened up
drains outta me and I feel like I just woke up with a hangover. My head
pounds, my arms are shaking. 

And he's still layin' there on the couch, with his hands on his face, the
TV blaring bullshit at us both... 

And all I can do is lean back against the wall and slide down it 'til I'm
sitting on the floor. I blew it. It's not even like the honeymoon's over.
It's like game over. No more chances. 

I cover my face with my hands. I wanna get up and leave. But if I do, I'm
afraid he'll be gone when I come back. An' I dunno what I'd do if that
happened. If I don't leave, maybe he won't leave... 

What was I thinking? How could I have thought for one second that Fraser
would be able to do all this and... enjoy it? What kind of idiot am I? 

I hear him move on the couch. 

And even that reminds me of... all of it. Because the past few weeks, I've
probably spent more time listening for him than looking at him. Because
I've been blindfolded. So my hearing -- I pay a lot more attention to
sounds now... 

I have to choke down the lump that rises in my throat when I think about
how this has changed me. Changed us. For... forever. 

The TV, loud and obnoxious during a commercial, goes off. I hear him set
the remote control on the coffee table. 

"Ray." 

His voice is quiet, low, from across the room. I wanna answer but... but I
can't talk yet. 

"Ray." 

"Frase--" I choke out. "Don't." 

"Ray, I -- we need to--" 

"Talk," I say, and my voice breaks. The four worst fucking words in the
English language: we need to talk. 

I try, I try so hard, to choke it all down. I'm losing the battle though.
Finally I just give up and pull my knees up to my chest and those sissy
fucking girly sobs come outta me. I hate it. I hate myself. This ...this
is all my fault and-- and-- I don't know how to fix it. I don't even know
if it can be fixed... 

Maybe those girly sobs are the reason I am the way I am, why I like the
things I like. But, but I didn't always need it. I... I coulda lived
without it! But, but that night after we argued in the precinct, an' I
went to find him at the Consulate -- he, he took me -- and it was like,
yes, take me, make me yours, because I am all yours -- and he, he made me
his, like he had to have me -- No one ever did that to me before. No one's
ever wanted me that much. 

But then, he didn't want to do it like that the next time... I had to
trick him into it, and then he slapped me when he found out I'd tricked
him-- 

Oh my God. It really is all me and not him. Oh, God! 

"Ray... don't," he says miserably. 

Not half as miserable as I feel. I try to suck it all back in -- feels
like my guts are hanging out from a fucking war wound. I barely get things
under control. I feel really cold, all of a sudden, and shiver. 

I try to take a deep breath. I can barely inhale half my lung capacity,
but the next breath is a little more. One more breath and I think I'm
mostly under control. I stretch my legs out flat on the floor in front of
me, looking at the wall across from me, the coat hooks. 

"Fraser," I say slowly. Trying to think before I talk but I don't know
what I'm gonna say because I don't know what to think -- other than, you
fucking dumbass pervert, you perverted Fraser, fucking Fraser, babe in the
woods Fraser, you sicko. 

"You... you shoulda told me you didn't want to do it anymore," I finally
say. "You shoulda told me you didn't like it." 

"I... I couldn't do that, Ray." His voice is soft from across the room,
but loud enough for me to hear how it echoes in the silence and off all
the hard surfaces in my apartment, the hardwood floors, the couple of
framed prints... Another thing I never noticed before he started
blindfolding me all the time... 

"Why, Frase? Not telling me... that's the same as lying to me. All this
time..." And my vision blurs again, but I won't, I won't break down again,
not in front of him. He already thinks low enough of me, I don't need to
make it any worse. 

"All this time," I start again, tightening my voice and everything else,
"I thought you liked it as much as me. I knew you felt funny about it at
first, but... you... you kept doin' it, and you seemed to really get into
it..." 

I stop and think about that. He really did seem to get into it. But does
that matter? If he woulda never done anything like this, before knowing
me, then it's the same thing, whether he hated it, or whether he liked it:
either way, I perverted him. I twisted him. 

"I couldn't..." he interrupts, and then stops. When I don't say anything,
he continues. 

"I couldn't tell you I didn't want to do it anymore, Ray. I couldn't tell
you I didn't like it." His voice is low, ashamed. He takes a deep breath
and exhales, and his breathing is jerky. 

"Why, Frase? Why couldn't you tell me? You should have told me... you...
you owed me that much," I say slowly. So fuckin' sad now, what we've done.
What I've done. And can't undo. 

I shut my eyes again. 

"I couldn't tell you that because... because I would have been lying to
you," he whispers from across the room. 

I sit there, thinking my shitty thoughts about my shitty self... and then
it sinks in, what he just said. 

"Huh?" Confused. He was lying to me, letting me think he liked it. But now
he says if he told me he didn't like it, didn't want to do it, that would
have been lying too? I take a breath to ask him what he meant by that-- 

"I, I--" He swallows, and the sound of him swallowing is so obvious to me,
to the hearing that I didn't have before. He inhales sharply. "I did like
it. I did want to do it," he says in a rush. 

Now I'm totally confused. I hesitate, squeeze my eyes shut. Maybe I'm not
hearing right. Maybe my brain has been warped into hallucinating sounds...
But, but, I have to be clear on this... 

"You... you liked it," I say. 

"Yes," he replies quietly. 

"You... wanted to do it." I keep going. 

"Yes." 

"You..." I stop and remember what he said. "You think it's deviant and
bestial." 

No answer for a long while. 

Then, 

"Yes." 

In that little boy voice. 

Now I think I'm beginning to see what's... going on in his head. Not that
it's helping me figure out what the hell to do, to fix this -- if it can
be fixed. And with these kinds of things -- relationship things -- my luck
usually is, they can't be fixed. 

"Let's just... Can we do a kind of Q and A thing, Frase?" I ask him
slowly. "How about if I ask the questions, and you just say 'yes' or 'no'
-- would that be okay?" 

"Yes, all right," he says, in that small voice. I hear him move restlessly
on the couch. 

I rub my eyes but I don't open them. There's a pain in the back of my neck
and I know it's from holding my shoulders too tight, and too slouched. 

"I know you just said you think it's deviant and bestial." 

"And base," he adds quietly. "I said it was deviant, bestial, and base." 

"Right," I say, irritated. I fucking know that's what he said -- I can't
forget it, now! "You said it was deviant and bestial and base. But you
also liked it and you wanted to do it, anyway. Is that right? Yes or no." 

"Yes." 

"Okay. Um, so, like, you also said... you can't forget it. Can't forget
the things we've done. Right?" 

"Yes." 

"But you would like to. To forget it. You just can't." 

He hesitates. Then, "Yes." 

I take a breath to ask more, but he interrupts. 

"No," he says and swallows again. "I... I mean... Yes. And no." Another
jerky sigh comes outta him. 

Wants to forget it all. Doesn't want to forget it all. Liked it. Wanted
it. But thinks it's deviant, bestial, base. Like a print in the developer
solution, I'm beginning to get the picture. 

"You said you never thought about doing any of this before me. Right?" 

"I... I thought about it," he says hesitantly. "In the... the abstract. I
didn't think about doing it, myself. Or with anyone I knew. But I... I
thought about it." 

Okay.... 

"You said you didn't want to do it at first. That it was my idea. That
right?" 

"Yes." He clears his throat. "No." 

"Which is it, Frase," I say, getting mad. 

"Both," he says miserably. 

Okay, we'll move on before that gets too complicated... 

"You said you can stop tomorrow. Could you?" 

He hesitates. "Yes," he finally says, faintly. 

"That you can live without it. Right?" 

"Yes." Clears his throat again. "But not without you." 

But not without me. Wait a minute... 

"Do you think I need you to do this stuff to me?" I ask him. He didn't say
that, but I gotta know. 

No answer. I hear him fidget. Then, finally, 

"Yes..." Sadly. 

Oh, Fraser, ya big dumb ox. For crying out loud -- it's, it's, it's a
need, a drive in me, now, but it wasn't a month ago! We coulda stopped it
then, before we got this far. If only you'd said something then-- 

"Frase--" 

"And I ...I need to do it to you," he whispers, sounding close to tears. 

Oh, fuck. I fucking made a monster. 

"Do you think I can live without it?" I ask him. 

He inhales sharply. "N-no..." he says. 

I put my head in my hands again. 

"Yes," he adds. "I don't... don't really know, Ray," he finishes sadly. "I
-- I thought -- it seemed--" 

"Like I needed it all the time," I finish for him. 

"Yes." 

"And I thought you wanted it all the time," I say, thinking out loud.
What's that saying? Oh what a tangled web we weave... But we weren't even
trying to deceive... it just ...just happened. Unless-- 

"Frase, were you trying to lie to me, or just confused?" 

"I ...I wasn't lying. But I wasn't really telling the truth," he says, and
I hear him shifting on the couch. "I... I'm not sure what the truth is.
I'm trying to answer truthfully now. And still I have to answer yes and no
to some questions. Because that is the truth. Of... of what I think. I'm
sorry." 

"Do you think I'm sick?" I ask him. Please no. Please say no. 

He doesn't say anything for a long time. Then, 

"No." 

"Do you think you're sick?" I hold my breath. 

He hesitates. "Yes," he whispers. 

"Oh, Fraser," I can't help moaning. "How can you be sick and not me? We
both did it." 

"Because... because I'm doing it to you. You're just... taking it." 

"But I'm enjoying it! I want it! That should make me sick, too!" 

"Not when it's -- I can't quite explain it, it seems... exciting, and, and
wonderful. And you -- you're so beautiful and so, so -- mine." More
movement on the couch. "It's afterward -- during the day, or when I'm at
work -- I think about the things I do, I've done, to you. And the things
I, I haven't done, but I've thought about... And, and... it.... I... seem
...sick." 

He clams up then. But just when I suck in a breath to say something, he
starts talking again. "I... can't stop, Ray. I can't stop thinking about
it. I can't stop wanting to do it. In the beginning, I hated what I had
done. I... It seemed wrong, very wrong. But--" 

He exhales heavily. 

"At the same time, I enjoyed it. And the, the more we did it, the more I
wanted to do it... and the more I enjoyed it. And it was so... strong,
this feeling in me. And I loved you more than ever, even though I hadn't
thought I could love you more than I already did. And it became... It
seemed like a side of myself I hadn't known about. " 

He gulps and his voice drops to a whisper. 

"But it also seemed very ...familiar. It... it came so naturally to me. It
began to seem like I had always been this way and I just didn't know it.
So I felt so, so deviant when... when I would think these thoughts, while
at work, or in the squad room with you... about how much I liked it, or
what other things I could do to you. When I realized I wasn't doing it
only because you wanted me to and because I... wanted to please you. When
I realized I was doing it because I wanted to and it pleased me -- then I
felt deviant and... sick." 

He swallows. 

This is more than I can take. This goes way deeper than I realized. But
there's something I have to know. 

"Fraser." 

"Yes...?" 

"Did it... did it seem sick and deviant while we were doing it? Or only
when you were -- at work or at the Precinct? Or both?" 

"It ...the first couple of times, when, when I overreacted--" he swallows
"--to Detective Patterson, and, and, when you manipulated me into, into
overreacting about him again -- yes, then I thought it was deviant. And
that I was, I was bad for having done it and for enjoying doing it." He
sighs. 

"But after that... the more we did it, the more it seemed like... like you
were giving yourself to me fully. Completely. You were mine, all mine,
and... I enjoyed that too. I could do these ...things to you. And you
would let me. You wanted it just as much as I did. And it seemed like
suddenly we fit. Not that we didn't fit before, we did, but-- but-- this
was like two interlocking parts, clicking together--" 

"And that didn't seem sick. It seemed... wonderful. Heavenly." He stops.
"It seemed somehow ...this might sound bizarre... but it almost seemed
sacred. That you--" his voice lurches. "That you loved me so much you
would give me all of yourself and... and... put yourself in my power. Give
me... total control." 

I can't say anything. If it was okay then, when we were doing it -- then
why was it wrong later? But he keeps talking. Fraser in babble mode. 

"I wouldn't have... felt so badly about it, if I hadn't realized that I
was doing it for my own selfish reasons. If I hadn't caught myself a dozen
times a day, daydreaming about... more things I could do to you. It wasn't
just for your pleasure. It was my pleasure at... the things I could coax
from your body, whether you wanted me to or not..." He sighs heavily. 

"And yet your full surrender was so... so... it seemed so thrillingly
...romantic, in a way. Like when you said you'd get a tattoo with my name
on you." He moves and then speaks again. "I suppose I've ruined that now,"
he whispers. 

I don't know what to say. I feel so... sleazy and dirty. And mad at him.
He made me feel this way. I didn't think it was sick or creepy -- not when
we were doin' it, and not outside in 'the real world'. 

But I do now. 

I'm tired and drained and depressed. 

"I'm sorry, Ray." 

"Me, too, Frase." I sigh. "Me too." 

"I..." 

"Fraser, I just wish you woulda told me all this was goin' on in yer
head... why didn't you tell me? I'm not a mindreader! We, we could've
stopped before we went too far..." 

"But I... I didn't want to stop. Not when I was with you. Only ...only
when I was away from you." 

"Oh, Fraser. You still coulda told me that, that you were having problems
with it. That you were thinking about it so much..." 

"I'm sorry, Ray. I know I'm not very... open or forthcoming about ...my
internal states." 

"All I had to go on was, was how you were actin'... and you were acting
like you really ...really got into it." 

"Well -- I did." 

"Oh, Christ." We're going in circles here. 

"I'm sorry, Ray. I--" 

"Stop fucking saying you're sorry, Fraser!" I burst out. "I'm the fucking
pervert here, okay? I know it. You've made it real clear, but you didn't
even have to. I shoulda fucking known you weren't cut out for this. I
dunno what I was thinking. I guess I was only thinking about ...what I
wanted. I'm sorry, Fraser, I'm the one who should be sorry... and I am.
More sorry than you'll ever know..." I shut up before I break down again. 

"Oh, Ray," he says softly. "It isn't your fault that I... I had this thing
in me." 

"But you never woulda known about it, would you -- if it wasn't for me,
right? You never woulda kept going with it, if I didn't like it and want
it. And want more." I can't help the bitterness in my voice. 

"I--" 

I heave my ass up off the floor again, and bend over. My stomach feels
hollow but not hungry. I'm tired and angry and drained and depressed. I
just wanna crawl into my bed and sleep forever, so I don't have to think
about this anymore. It's not getting any better with talking about it.
It's just getting more confusing and depressing. And I feel worse and
worse no matter what angle I take on it. It all boils down to ...me.
Again. Like before, with Stella. Except this is a different thing, with a
different person. But it still comes down to me. 

I don't even look at him when I straighten up. 

"You staying?" I ask him. 

"What?" he asks, sounding confused and small. 

"Are. You. Staying. Here." I say. "Or were you planning to leave." 

Please stay. Please... even if I don't know what to say or do, and I know
I can't fix this, and maybe we can't fix any of it... don't go. Not yet. 

"Would you... like me to leave?" he asks, a low whisper. 

"I'd like..." I trail off, looking at the floor. If he doesn't want to
stay, I shouldn't make him. That'll only make things worse. 'Course, now
is a little late to put what Fraser wants first, Kowalski, you idiot. 

"Do you... want to go?" I finally ask him, glancing at him sideways. I
hold my breath. 

"No. I... want to stay. If that's all right," he says meekly, looking down
at his hands. 

"Yeah. It's all right," I nod slowly. "My head is pounding, Frase. I
...gotta lay down." I clear my voice. "You don't haveta come with me. You
can stay here on the couch." 

"Oh." 

"I don't mean I don't want you with me. I do. But... but... " 

You being so close to me will just remind me of everything we've done the
past few weeks... and I'll feel creepy for turning Snow White into a
bondage king. 

"I feel lousy enough as it is. I just don't need anything reminding me
of..." I hesitate. "Things," I finish. 

He doesn't say anything, but he nods. 

I turn and go down the hall to my bedroom, and realize I can't lay down on
my bed -- where so much of it happened. I'm not gonna be able to settle my
head. It's just gonna spin with memories of everything we did in it the
past month -- and I'm gonna see all of 'em in a sucky new light that I
didn't, before. 

I stop by the bathroom. 

"Never mind, Frase. I'm... I'm gonna take a shower." 

Maybe I'll feel better if I do that. If I just sit in there and let it
wash everything off me. Except... I can't wash out my brain. It's funny,
how much the way you feel about something can change when you find out
that the person you love feels totally different about it than you thought
they did. Or you suddenly find out they feel totally different about it
than you do, but right up 'til finding that out, you thought you were on
the same page. 

I thought we were pretty cool, with what we were doin'. I thought we were
adventurous and uninhibited, and we got even closer than we already were.
Now I just feel guilty and dirty and shitty and sad... because that's how
he feels about it. 

Did we really get that far out there? I try to think back to my Vice days,
but everything I think about now comes through this new filter of how
Fraser thinks of it. Of course I saw a ton of weird shit on Vice... you
expect that. An' I saw a couple weird homicides that were ruled accidental
later when the girlfriend or mistress explained, under further
questioning, that ...it was an accident in the middle of some ultra hard
core S&M game. 

Was that the direction we were goin' in, and I didn't even realize it? 

Ah, shit. 

In the bathroom, I don't really wanna look in the mirror, but I do, and I
look like shit. Well, I expected that. Fraser didn't look too good. And
for him not to look too good, I knew what we talked about would take a big
chunk outta me. Bloodshot eyes, I look fuckin' ten years older... and the
same skinny rat body I've always had. Just more slouched cuz I can't even
hold my head up because I feel... so... 

I rip my shirt off over my head and skin off my jeans and briefs. 

There's a knock on the door just as I'm turnin' on the water. 

"Yeah?" 

"Would you like something to eat, Ray?" comes Fraser's voice. He sounds
...so sad. And it's my fault. 

"Um, uh, no Fraser. Not unless you're fixing something for yourself too." 

"I was thinking of... ordering a pizza," he says. 

"Oh." That sounds good. About as good as anything can sound now... "That
might be good," I tell him. 

"I'll go ahead and order it, then," he says. 

I pull up on the sprayer thing and the spray comes on, cold water comin'
out first because it's been sitting on the pipes. It's okay; I deserve to
freeze my ass. 

* * * 

What have I done? I've made Ray feel he's the cause of my distress... and
he isn't. I am the cause of my distress. I have tried to think about it
objectively, but that's very difficult now. All I can say for sure is that
now we both feel guilty and bad, where before only I felt guilty and bad.
In retrospect, I could have reacted differently to the class he suggested,
and then none of this would have happened. I could have kept my fear and
guilt to myself. 

And to think I kept having the recurring wish to confess all of this to
someone. I would no doubt have felt as bad as I do now. And, though I'd
like to believe this is as bad as it will get, the reality is that things
can always get -- and feel -- worse. 

In an effort to make my perception of our predilection for this sort of
thing more objective, I try to imagine what I'd think if I found out that
people I knew were doing the same things Ray and I have been doing. 

Lieutenant Welsh, for example. 

I try to picture him restrained. Somehow, that doesn't seem to fit him. So
I try to picture him doing the ...restraining. Among other things. 

It's a very disconcerting picture. 

But when I think of how I would treat him, how I would judge him for it --
well, I don't think I would judge him for it. But I would consider it
...odd and unusual, and would wonder about his personality and what
aspects of his character might propel him to seek out the dominant role in
a... a bondage and domination relationship. 

To simply think those two words... Perhaps it was seeing them in print,
seeing them equated with the things I do to Ray, that was so upsetting. If
anyone had asked me what had changed in my relationship with Ray, I would
not have said "bondage and domination". 

Although I guess that is what it is. I should at least face that fact.
That is what it is. 

The worst part of it was reading the class description. With mounting
horror I read that it includes a visit to a fully equipped dungeon. With a
rack, and a wheel, and a cross for ...restraining people. 

It brought to mind the Spanish Inquisition (although I have recently read
some scholarly papers which assert that the Spanish Inquisition's infamy
was somewhat exaggerated). 

Do that to Ray? My Ray? The thought was repellent. 

But before I could eliminate the pictures of Ray on a rack -- or a wheel
-- or a cross -- from my mind, they ...changed somehow. And suddenly they
seemed excruciatingly erotic. 

And profane. 

And to attend something like this... with others, with strangers... fully
clothed... with Ray... It seemed -- sickeningly decadent. So many pundits
and cultural critics would find such a class -- and its openness! -- a
symbol of everything that seems to be wrong with this era, with this
society... 

And yet, there I was, picturing Ray laid out on these medieval torture
devices. Thankfully, I hadn't pictured him being tortured -- but just
having the images come effortlessly to mind-- 

It was like everything else we've done: terribly exciting. And yet wicked
and troubling. 

And I should have kept that to myself -- except -- except -- 

The fact that Ray would invite me to take a class wherein I'd have to see
a fully equipped dungeon, with other complete strangers -- what if people
we knew also attended the class? 

And it just seemed to mean that he thought I was ...as depraved as I fear
I am. It just confirmed that I was as sick as I thought, if he could so
casually suggest that we'd both be interested in that. 

So what did I do? I overreacted. I lashed out. And I blamed him. As if I
had somehow been coerced to do the things I did. When, in reality, if I
had stopped to think about it -- I would have had to admit that, once we
embarked on this journey, I was as eager and excited as Ray to explore
these things... If not more so. 

Which he pointed out, in his defence. 

That didn't stave off my insistence that none of it would ever have
happened if he hadn't communicated that he enjoyed it and wanted more.
But, just because he did -- I didn't have to act on that. I could have
chosen to never do it again, anyway. 

And I didn't. I chose to do it again. And again. And to go even farther...


Because, as he said, I liked it as much as he did -- more, even. 

I've made him feel terrible and he didn't deserve it, and it isn't his
fault. It's... it is in me. I don't know why, or how, but... I cannot deny
that. 

I don't know what to think anymore. 

The catalogue is still here on the table. I try to pretend it isn't there,
but it's no use. I pick it up. 

Maybe there is another class we could take... 

Oh, why bother trying to fool myself: I'm re-reading the catalogue in
search of the "Introduction to Bondage and Domination" class description.
I find it... 

...With an emphasis on safety and consensual play, it says. 

Safety. 

Consensual. 

Play. 

It has been consensual, always, with Ray. I've waited and waited to hear
him say "red light", and he hasn't. So... technically, he has consented to
everything we've done. I've done. 

But... it is I who have pushed the limits, I who have moved us
incrementally further and further to greater restraints, stranger
locations, more uncomfortable and trying positions for Ray... 

Yet how can something that is so far outside the realm of what is
considered "normal" feel so right to me, feel so intensely satisfying when
I am doing it -- and feel so intensely disturbed and disturbing when I am
not doing it? 

It is "play"? Is that what we are doing -- adult "play"? But, no. Travel,
sports, hobbies -- these are the adult ways to "play". Aren't they? 

So are we immature? Are we at some stage of arrested development? Focused
solely on the sexual? 

As if there weren't millions of others in this country of whom the same
could be said... 

But that doesn't mean that it isn't immature. 

This is hopeless. I am no closer to understanding why I both need to do it
to him and yet loathe that aspect of myself. The main thing is that I've
hurt Ray terribly. And unfairly. It isn't all his fault. His initial
submission to me did please and intrigue me. I could have chosen not to
explore the... intrigue and pleasure. Instead, I chose to explore them --
even though I was sure it meant there was something wrong with me for
wanting to. And I questioned whether or not there might be something wrong
with Ray for wanting me to. 

My Ray. What have I done? It isn't all because of you. It's all because of
me. 

I wish I could remove everything I said from Ray's mind. But I know I
can't. I'm not sure what else I can do... but I must do something. Now I
feel worse about it than I did before! Now my shame and guilt and
trepidation have spilled beyond me, and infected Ray. He didn't feel
guilty before. I made him feel guilty. 

One would think that by sharing my feelings -- although that was
unintentional, and they only erupted out of me at his suggestion that we
take the class -- one would think that sharing my feelings would have
eased my burden somewhat. 

But no. Instead, I've managed only to spread my doubts and fears to Ray,
and soured things between us. 

How I wish that I could undo the last month or so. 

No, that's not entirely true. I wish that I could... could either remove
the side of me that enjoys Ray's submission to me, or remove the weight of
doubt, fear and guilt I carry because I know that there is such a side of
myself. 

I honestly don't know which I'd prefer to get rid of most: the weight of
my emotions about that side of me, or that side of me itself. But if I can
not do the former, then I must do the latter. I can't allow my internal
problems to negatively affect Ray. It isn't fair, it isn't his fault...
and he is essentially innocent in this. 

It's true, I would never have had the nerve to go down this path without
his... desire that we explore it. But he would not have encouraged me or
been so enthusiastic, if he felt as bad about it as I do. Or if he'd known
that that was how I felt, when I was away from him and... it. 

His enjoyment of it was just that -- enjoyment, it seemed. He enjoyed it
as he enjoys any other sensual pleasure. He only pursued it, I'm sure,
because he thought I enjoyed it as much and as guiltlessly as he did. And
he only thought so because I did not tell him otherwise. 

And now I've made him feel he's depraved... and that he is to blame for
my... perversion. 

Oh, God. Ray. It isn't your fault. Why did I initially say that I'd never
thought about it before you? I had. It's true, I didn't think of myself as
a participant... but saying I'd never thought about any of it before you
was a lie. A lie I wanted to believe was true, but I know isn't. And now
it will be the most memorable thing I've said to you all evening, even
though I later admitted that it was a lie, and told you the truth. 

What can I do now? How can I make things better, set things right between
us again? Can things be set right between us again, or have I permanently
damaged our relationship? 

Oh, God. 

The doorbell rings and suddenly I am loathe to see who is at the door.
Leave us alone, I want to say. Then I remember it must be the pizza
delivery man. I rise and go to the intercom. It is the delivery man. I
buzz him up. I have just enough money for the pizza and a tip. 

Ray is still in the shower. I can still hear the water running. 

I put the pizza on the kitchen counter, unsure whether to bother him or to
leave him alone. Perhaps he wants me to leave. Perhaps he's hoping that I
will be gone when he gets out of the shower. I hope not, but... I had best
get my Serge jacket off that chair. Either so I can put it back on and go
to the Consulate. Or so I can hang it up. 

The shower has stopped. I hear him move the curtain aside. Presumably he's
stepped out and is towelling off. 

I have a strong urge to hurry him out of the bathroom and ask him if he
hates me now. An urge which I resist by inspecting my Serge jacket for any
lint, spots, or other irregularities. It seems fine, but I go over it
twice to be sure. 

While I am doing so the second time, Ray comes out of the bathroom, clad
only in a towel. He walks down the hall to his bedroom and goes inside and
shuts the door. 

Oh, God. Just by the way he is walking... it's obvious he feels terrible.
Ray, I didn't mean it! My first reaction wasn't true! I didn't mean to
make it seem like it's all been your doing -- it hasn't. What have I done?


I must do something. Must ...somehow let him know that I was overreacting,
that I don't consider him at fault for my love of ...having sexual power
over him. But what? 

Perhaps if I just tell him that the pizza has arrived... 

I hurry to the closet not far from the front door, and retrieve a hanger
on which to hang my Serge. I hang it from the top of the closet door and
then go to Ray's bedroom door. 

"Ray?" 

There's a short silence. Then, 

"What?" 

I swallow. "There's... the pizza is here." 

"Oh." 

"I just wanted to, um, to let you know," I tell him, sounding and feeling
foolish. 

"Okay. Thanks, Frase. Be there in a minute." He speaks with a sigh and
resignation in his voice. 

I hesitate by his door, and then say, "All right." And I walk back to the
kitchen. 

It's the same kitchen, but something seems so foreign about it. And yet
suddenly I am overcome with a terrible feeling of deja vu. 

And then I realize why. I remember why. I remember what I said to
Victoria. You must really hate me for what I did. 

It wasn't until she had me there, at the peep show, that I admitted it to
myself and to her. I had so wanted to believe that what I had done could
be forgiven. I had so wanted to believe, up until I found my gun and six
bullets missing, that she was back in my life for loving reasons only. 

And now I've done the same thing. Not in action, but in essence. In my
mind, there were objectively right and wrong sides to sex, even sex
already considered by some to be deviant because it involves two men
instead of a man and a woman. In my mind, there was some arbitrary line
that we crossed. And from that point on we were on the "wrong" side of
sex. 

But this isn't like the situation with Victoria, I try to tell myself. I
don't have to turn Ray or myself in for our private acts. They aren't
against the law. Well, some of them well might be; but the criminal code
for them is probably never enforced. And, anyway, those are probably the
homosexual acts, not the... ones requiring restraints. 

But... what if Ray hates me now, too? For what I did, what I accused him
of -- for initially blaming him for something that is inside me? I
couldn't stand it if he hates me. But would he have let me stay if he
hated me? 

But then, as with Victoria -- hate and love can co-exist in a person. 

Oh, God. 

Ray comes out of his room and into the kitchen area wearing a clean light
blue T-shirt and faded jeans. His hair is half spiked. For some reason,
his being barefoot makes him seem so vulnerable to me. 

He does not look at me, but goes to the pizza sitting on top of the
counter. He opens it, looks at the pizza... and closes it. 

No, no.... 

"Ray," I ask him quietly. "Aren't you ...hungry?" 

"Not... not really, Frase." 

"I think you should have something to eat, Ray--" 

"Fine, Frase, whatever. I'll have a piece of pizza then." He opens the box
again and removes a slice. Without sitting down, or getting a paper towel
for a napkin, or a plate -- he bites into the slice. 

"Don't you... don't you want to sit down to eat that?" I ask him. 

"Don't you wanna eat?" he asks me, in lieu of an answer. He swallows his
mouthful, and bites off another. 

"Of course..." 

"So why aren't you eating?" he asks, shrugging, with his mouth full. He
still hasn't looked directly at me, made eye contact. 

"I guess because..." I hesitate, but then plunge on. "I guess because I
had some things I wanted to say--" 

He holds up his hand. 

"I don't wanna hear it, Frase. I don't need to hear any more. I'll
remember the things you said for the rest of my natural-born life." 

He finishes his slice of pizza with a few more quick bites. Then he grabs
a paper towel, wipes his hands carefully with it, and throws it away. And
he walks into the living room and turns on the television. 

Less than six minutes after he came out of his room, he's gone away inside
himself and shut me out. 

Oh, God. What can I do? 

I feel utterly miserable and everything about the way Ray is acting and
interacting with me -- or not interacting -- tells me he wants me to leave
him alone. I wonder if he wanted me to leave, and he just didn't say so.
Did he let me decide whether or not to stay? 

I bring the pizza box to the kitchen table, and then get a plate and a
paper towel for myself. I'm not hungry but I ought to eat something. I
serve myself one slice of pizza and barely taste it as it goes down.
There's nothing wrong with it; it's from the same Italian restaurant we
always order from. It's just that... nothing would taste very good right
now. 

After finishing the slice, I consider how likely Ray is to eat more of it
-- or how likely I am. Probably not very, in either case. I put the pizza
into Ray's refrigerator. 

I want to go into the living room, where I can hear Ray watching
television, but... I feel very strongly that he does not want me there.
And who could blame him? I've made him feel that my guilt, my fear, my
shame is all his fault. I've transmitted it to him. 

If he told me he hates me now, I couldn't blame him. 

But -- There must be something I can do to get him to listen. To listen to
me explain that it isn't him, it never was him -- it's me, it's inside me,
and that none of my guilt and fear and shame is his fault nor should it be
on his shoulders. Oh, why did I ever say those things? 

I take a deep breath and resolve to go into the living room and speak with
him. 

I walk into the living room, and he is sitting on his sofa, slouched, his
arms crossed over his chest. His feet are up on the coffee table, and he
stares at the television. The TV is tuned to a station airing a sitcom.
Despite the laugh track, Ray has no reaction to the events on the screen. 

His gaze, such as it is, is so clearly turned inward; it is obvious he
doesn't really see or hear what is on the television. 

My heart goes out to him and simultaneously the self-loathing rises in me.
This is all my fault. For a variety of reasons, I've never been
particularly good at incorporating a love life into my "real" life. Ray is
as close as I've come to accomplishing that; and the time we have had
together has been one of the sweetest, most fulfilling times in my life.
Now I may have ruined that beyond repair. 

I walk quietly to the couch. Ray does not react. 

I sit down on the couch. 

He turns his head, but his gaze slides sideways to touch me briefly --
merely acknowledging my presence -- and then slides back to the
television, with an unfocused look to his eyes. 

"Ray," I begin, my voice cracking with nervousness. "I would like to--" 

"I wouldn't," he says sullenly. But his eyes now focus on the screen he is
ignoring. 

"You haven't even allowed me to finish what I was going to say," I remark,
trying to be patient and feeling like a heel. 

"I don't need to hear what else you've got to say, Frase. You've said
enough." 

"Ray, I... I was wrong. It's ...it isn't your fault that I am the way I am
or that I feel the way I feel. I just couldn't--" 

"Fraser, I don't need any of your explanations or excuses or watering down
what you said before. You made it real clear what you were thinking. I
don't understand why you kept doing what you were doing, when it made you
feel so... sickened. But, then, I guess I do. Because I know what it's
like to keep beating your head against a wall. To keep trying to please
the person you love. Trying to do whatever it is that they seem to need or
want, whether you like it yourself or not. I know that feeling real well."


It feels like my chest clenches. The raw pain in his voice is so obvious.
How could I have done this? I wish that I could throw myself on the floor
at his feet and beg his forgiveness. But I think if I did that now, he'd
be even angrier, would see it as some kind of manipulation or mocking...
and it would only make things worse. 

"Ray," I begin again, "I continued to do what I was doing because I...
enjoyed it. Yes, when I was away from you... my negative feelings would
swell. And those receded when I was with you." 

Before I can proceed, he's uncrossed his arms from his chest and placed
his hands over his ears. Childish, to be sure. Immature. 

But he's already heard too much from me tonight... And I can understand
the impulse: he has no desire to hear any more. No desire to feel any
worse than he already does. 

So be it. I rise from the couch and go back into the kitchen nook,
observing him from a safe distance over the breakfast bar. 

Eventually his hands slide down from the sides of his head and he puts his
face in his hands. 

Oh, Ray. I simply must get this across to you-- 

An idea dawns on me. The difficulty of discussing things of an intimate
nature -- we had this problem before. And we dealt with it before. I'm not
foolish enough to believe that it will work as well as it did before, but
-- certainly the possibility of improving things between us tonight makes
it worth the effort to try. Even if the improvement is one of only slight
degrees. 

I surreptitiously pick up his cordless phone. Holding it against my body,
I leave the kitchen and breakfast nook with it and go to his bathroom. I
shut the door behind me, put the toilet seat cover down, and sit on it. 

His cell phone was on the end table next to the sofa, with his gun,
holster, handcuffs, and keys. I know the number by heart... and I dial it.


I hear the electronic trill of his cell phone ringing through the bathroom
door, over the inane laughter from the TV, at the same time as I hear the
different ringing sound through the earpiece of his cordless phone. He
doesn't answer it after the first ring or the second. Just when I am
giving up hope that he will answer it at all, he answers on the third
ring. 

"Ray here." 

"Ray, it's me," I say quickly. "Please don't hang up." 

He doesn't hang up but he doesn't speak either. I hear him breathe. 

"If you will just listen, I would please like to explain to you what...
what happened tonight, when you asked me about that, that seminar... why I
...reacted so badly." 

He says nothing for a moment; there is no sound but his shallow breathing.
Then, 

"I'm listening," he says, in a flat, nasal tone. 

"Thank you, Ray," I tell him. Benton Fraser, you had best choose your
words very carefully and you had best consider that your problems with
this ...issue are yours and yours alone, and should have stayed that way,
I tell myself. 

"I, I-- Ray, for most of my life, I've been unacquainted with the... the
sensual pleasures, except for perhaps the most... basic ones. Good food.
Warm clothing. Animal fur. All kinds of snow and ice... chinooks... And,
after puberty --" I clear my throat, embarrassed... "-- masturbation. I --
I am not very experienced at dealing with sensual pleasures, much less
with sexual pleasures." I swallow, trying to push down the lump that rises
in my throat at the thought of Victoria and the bad similarity between my
handling of that and my handling of this. 

"You have, at various times through out our partnership and friendship,
mentioned my apparent lack of lust, lack of thought about sex or sexual
things, my 'monk like' life. And in that respect, you have touched on a
sensitive issue. 

"Warm demonstrations of love and affection, as you must be aware by now,
do not come as easily to me as they do to you, and when I am physically
affectionate, it is always in private. I... have my reasons, and probably
they go back to childhood. After my mother died, and my father's
depression, I was sent to be raised by my grandparents. 

"They loved me very much, but they weren't the most demonstrative people
in the world. I did not become comfortable with... with physical
affection. The few flirtations I had with girls in my youth never amounted
to anything, because I had no idea how to... how to go about pursuing
them. 

"My... grandmother taught me chivalry, and that stood me in good stead.
Sort of. Parents sought me as a 'nice young man' to take their daughters
out. Everyone knew their daughters or sisters would be... completely safe
and unmolested with me. But-- but--" 

This is so hard. I have avoided thinking about any of this for ...a very
long time. But it is, I am sure, part and parcel of what is wrong with me
now. And even though I probably shouldn't be telling him some of it, for
...honourable reasons... it is connected to how I am. The only way he'll
have a clear picture of how I came to be the way I am, is if I do tell
him. 

"At any rate, my polite and proper behaviour did not win me any
girlfriends, probably because my natural curiosity and desire had been
rather... successfully arrested by severe adolescent shyness and insecure
dread, and the way my grandmother raised me to behave." 

I pause, wondering if he is still listening. Just when I am about to ask
him if he is still on the line and still listening, he speaks. 

"Yeah...?" he says, though there is an undertone of curiosity within the
sullen timbre of his voice. 

"Ray... you'll never tell anyone what I am telling you now, will you?" I
must ask him. 

"No," he says, sounding surprised. "No, why would I?" 

"I just wanted to be certain. I'm sorry." I can not help sighing. Trust...
I've come to realize, is not one of my strong points. It should be, with
Ray of all people... but it is not. Yet another failing on my part. I take
a deep breath and continue. 

"Anyway. I grew to manhood with barely any understanding or experience
with flirtation or physical affection. What little experience I had was
with a girl named... well, never mind. Anyway, she was, I think,
emboldened by my passivity and politeness to try various things with me. 

"But her 'aggression' could hardly be called such. She... she was inspired
to try quite innocent things with me. Holding my hand. Hugging.
Close-mouthed kissing. And I never did them unless she... initiated them.
When the day came that I ...first caressed her breasts through her shirt,
she drew my hands up to them herself." Oh, this is not helping anything.
This is... rambling reminiscence on my part. I must get to the point. 

"You may have," I continue, my voice wavering slightly in trepidation,
"you must have heard of Victoria Metcalf." 

I hear him inhale. "Yeah, I heard of her," comes his voice, wary. 

"Right. Well, the circumstances under which she and I ...met... could
hardly be called ideal. In fact they were ...rather desperate. I've had
time to look back on it and... I think that the desperation of our
life-threatening circumstances, and an enforced intimacy, necessary in
order to survive, both had an effect of... breaking through my proper and
polite training and my natural reticence and shyness. And, too, our
isolation also influenced my behaviour, I think. 

"At any rate, Victoria was experienced. I was not. In one night of
desperate relief that we were still alive, and intense gratitude to each
other -- for neither of us could have survived the blizzard without the
other -- she introduced me to a ...veritable banquet of sensual
activities. But once I had those experiences with her I-- I-- could not
get enough. I don't mean to imply that I became a... beast, but... I did
avail myself of her... affections as often as I could over the next few
nights. 

"I think her life experience thus far had been largely with aggressive and
demanding, sometimes abusive men. So my innocent eagerness and polite
self-control were foreign to her, and -- well, I suppose she might have
been lying. But... she said that I was the tenderest man she'd ever
known." 

"Yeah, Fraser, that's nice," Ray suddenly interjects. "I remember Stella
tellin' me similar bullshit. So what's your point?" 

He is, I think, only trying to be vengefully mean to me. And who could
blame him. I swallow without getting upset and continue. 

"My point is only that... that the shyness that you noticed in me, the
fact that I ...rarely initiated things, rarely became 'wild' as you
described it -- it is deeply ingrained in me. I ...if I have unlearned it
at all, it's been because of you. Victoria was -- we hardly had any time
together before she was incarcerated. 

"At any rate -- my time with Victoria was very short. She... she made one
more short appearance in my life, when she was released two years early
for good behaviour. You have no doubt read about it in ...the case file.
Her second and last appearance in my life, I was more sexually aggressive
than I had ever been, which isn't to say I was terribly aggressive -- but,
but I did initiate things. If only because it had been... eight years
since I'd been with her. 

"I had missed her terribly and felt terribly guilty for being instrumental
in her prison sentence. But that ache was so old and buried, I guess it
was dulled by time and distance... until she was with me again. I had
forgotten how beautiful she was. Everything I had previously felt about
her... arose in me. And I completely misread her ...motivations." 

"Wait a minute... are you saying you didn't sleep with anyone between when
you first slept with her, and when she got out of prison and found you
here in Chicago?" Ray interrupts and asks me. The sullen tone is gone from
his voice, at least, so I am grateful for that. 

"Yes," I admit to him. 

"Did you... did you sleep with anyone after her?" he asks, more quietly. 

"No," I answer. 

"Oh," he says. Before I can interpret that one syllable, he adds more.
"Fraser, you shoulda... I didn't know you'd only slept with one other
person," he says in a much gentler tone. It is so... soothing. "Why... why
didn't you tell me?" 

"Ray, perhaps it's become apparent to you, that I -- I don't --" 

"Kiss and tell," he finishes for me. 

"Yes," I admit. "It's part of... part of the proper behaviour my
grandmother taught me." 

"But... okay. Go on." He sounds genuinely curious now, if cautious. 

"Anyway, Ray, that is my entire sexual history... up until you. I... I had
crushes, I know that, on other... males, when I was in high school, and in
the RCMP academy... but of course, being the way that I am, and well aware
that an unwelcome advance could ruin my career or possibly lose me my
life, nothing ever came of them. 

"Anyway. So... then I ended up here. And Ray, the other Ray, he-- he ended
up--" 

"--As me," Ray interjects. 

"--Yes, and I felt drawn to you. But I knew I could never do anything
about it, I knew you were unlikely to do much beyond punch me in the head
if I were to make any advances, which I certainly would not have done
anyway." 

"I wouldn't have punched you in the head." He sighs. 

"Yes, but I didn't know that, at the time," I explain. "Anyway -- long
story short: I am here with you now. And the... the passive side of my
character, which dominates, is the side of me you became most
well-acquainted with. And it was the side of myself I was most
well-acquainted with. I never -- had been as aggressive with anyone as I
have been with you these past several weeks. And I know that ...that was a
great departure. It... changed things with us. 

"And I should have been grateful for that. In that way, you freed me from
my self-imposed isolation and ...allowed me to pursue you." I swallow.
"But that pursuit was mingled simultaneously with the use of...
accessories, and the exploration of a much more... volatile kind of
...sexuality. I was, I think, no sooner out of the frying pan, than--" 

"Into the fire," Ray interrupts slowly and deliberately. 

"Yes," I agree. 

"So... you not only never slept with a guy before, you never did any of
the stuff we did -- before, or ...recently. Is that it, Frase?" 

"Yes, Ray, it is. I mean, I had read about much of the things we did up
until a few weeks ago--" 

"Reading isn't the same as doing, Frase." 

"Yes, Ray, I ...realize that." I swallow. "At any rate. My head was still
kind of spinning with happiness and a bewildering sensuality, as well
as... an uncertainty, insecurity. When I first saw you and Detective
Patterson ...working together, it raised the possibility of... I'm ashamed
to say it, Ray--" I take a deep breath, "--the possibility of your
betrayal, of me losing you to him. I realize now that that was ridiculous,
but at the time I didn't--" 

"You didn't know," he adds softly. 

"No. I knew only that you had much more experience than I at this sort of
thing... Which only served to frighten me more. It seemed you easily had
the knowledge and experience to leave me and find others, and I knew I did
not have the same abilities. It seemed possible that Detective Patterson
somehow communicated with you on a level I could not. And so I, I took
you. And I felt terrible about ...about making you mine so, so...
brutally. And I felt ashamed of my motivation for doing so. And, and
then... you told me you--" 

"I liked it," he says simply. 

"Yes," I agree, glad he is helping me. "I was -- I was horrified that I
could have treated you that way... and ashamed at my loss of control...
and... and... powerfully excited by your... your..." 

"Laying back and taking it. And wanting more, right?" he asks. 

"Yes," I answer simply. 

"Oh, Fraser. I... I had no idea this was all connected like this..." he
begins. 

"Ray, I am trying to explain -- please, don't blame yourself. I know I
said I would never have done any of it, if it hadn't been for you. But the
fact is, that the cause of my ...obsession with... taking you was the
pleasure I derived from it. Well, it can't be quantified, but I had
simultaneously never taken the initiative that often or that eagerly
before, and had never restrained anyone while... in the act. I was certain
it was... very wicked. I am... still uncertain as to how unusual and
...disordered it is." 

"Fraser... so what you're saying is you went from sex like macaroni and
cheese, to sex like a super hot red curry in, like, half a year or less?" 

A food analogy is apt, I suppose. 

"Yes, Ray, that is... essentially what I mean." 

"Jesus Christ," he says. "I didn't realize..." 

"Yes, well, I didn't tell you, Ray," I say quietly. "And I'm sorry. I
probably should have. I'm not entirely sure where I stand on any of this.
And, when my understanding of anything is ...uncertain, I am as capable as
anyone else of falling back on... what I know. And, what I 'knew' was...
that to do the things we've been doing is... a deviant form of sexuality.
So in my case... if, if our regular sex was macaroni and cheese, and
our... sex with restraints was very hot red curry, well... in my case, I
no longer wanted anything but the very hot red curry... despite a
pre-ulcerous condition." 

"Pre-ulcerous... yer saying..." 

"Meaning that even though my conscience suffered for it later, I could not
refrain from... always ordering the hot red curry." I pause. 

"I guess... I guess you never... had anything that intense..." he speaks
haltingly. 

"No, I hadn't. And its intensity is not what makes it bad. And I do
understand about... consent. I know that you fully welcome and enjoy my...
aggression and ...the control I... take of your body. I just... I'm
just... I'm not sure I can believe it is just a 'spicier' form of
...lovemaking. There is something... so absolutely wicked and fascinating
about it, that ...that it makes me certain I am bad or somehow morally
bankrupt to so enjoy it. I find myself wondering what kind of sick and
ineffectual man would need to tie or restrain his lover?" 

"Which doesn't mean you're at fault! You're not. I didn't have to continue
...'forcing' myself on you. I knew you liked it, I knew you wanted it, but
I still had a choice, Ray. I could have chosen not to do it. It made me
feel bad and guilty, even as it felt so good and so right. I could have
chosen not to do it, so that I wouldn't have to deal with feeling... bad
about it. But I chose instead to continue exercising power and control
over you, in these... very intimate ways. 

"Essentially, I ...I couldn't stop myself. Combined with the fact that it
already seemed like it must be utterly deviant and decadent, the fact that
I couldn't deny myself the pleasure of... taking you... it made me feel
even more out of control. Which is ironic, because I suppose you had never
felt me more in control." 

I pause. My throat is dry and I feel like I've been talking for hours. I
hear Ray take a deep breath. 

"Fraser... I don't know what to say..." 

"Ray -- oh -- please believe that I don't blame you for it. It isn't you,
it is me. And I only blamed you at first tonight, when you asked me to
look at the catalogue, because I was... when I read that class
description... it sounded... it sounded... too intimate. The idea of
showing my face in public at a gathering of strangers who all have only
this one thing in common -- I felt simultaneously eager and terribly
embarrassed, humiliated, and ...unmasked. I was afraid you had guessed the
truly depraved depths my imagination has been sinking to of late." 

He takes another deep breath, and then expels it slowly and with a sigh. 

"I'm sorry, Frase. I just... I dunno what to say." He sounds calmer. I
hold onto that thought. 

"None of this is your fault, please believe me. I don't blame you, I know
that this desire is inside me. And it feels like it's... it's been inside
me for a very long time. And I never had the opportunity to explore it
until... until now. With you." 

"Maybe... You know, Frase, you know how they say 'all things in
moderation'?" 

"Yes, Ray?" 

"Did you ever think that maybe things like goodness and niceness and
purity should all be done in moderation, too?" 

I open my mouth and then shut it. The thought had not occurred to me but--
but-- it seems absurdly simple and logical. How utterly Ray-like to
realize something, to pierce through to the heart of it instinctually. But
what about common courtesy? 

"Uh, no, Ray that hadn't occurred to me. Shouldn't people be good and nice
whenever they can?" 

"With strangers, sure... but I'm talking in your personal life. I'm just
saying... you can have too much sugar. Sometimes you need salt. Or sour.
Or bitter. Or a... mix." 

Again, he instinctually hits on the crux of the matter. 

"Ray, that's... that's brilliant. You know, there are schools of
philosophical and theological thought which posit that there can be no
good without evil, and that therefore--" 

"Frase, I'm not talking about good and evil or philosophy or religion. I'm
just sayin'... if people were good and nice and pure like their religion
and their parents told them to be -- women would never get pregnant and
the human race would die out. If it's not healthy to think about or have
sex all the time, twenty four/seven... then is it healthy to never think
about or have sex, ever?" 

He does it again. 

"No, I suppose not. Ray... that's very wise." 

"No, it's not. It's just common sense, Frase." 

"Oh." I suppose that's true... but coming at this point, it seems
profound. 

"Well, since ya haven't dated many American chicks -- I mean, any American
chicks -- lemme just say one thing: if you're too nice, if you don't try
anything, like at least try kissing them or ask to come up to their
place... they'll think you're gay. Most of 'em anyway." 

"But, but that's absurd, Ray. Why would they think that?" 

"Cuz they know a typical American guy is horny and wants to get in their
pants and will try like hell to get in 'em." 

"But--" 

"Frase?" 

"Yes..." 

"Do you ever put the moves on chicks?" 

"Well, no, Ray, I've just explained to you..." 

"And who're you with now?" 

I pause. Him, of course. But that doesn't mean-- "Ray, correlation does
not imply causality. Just because I--" 

"Look, all I'm saying is, if some American chick was wondering why you
didn't try anything on her... wouldn't she be at least half right thinking
you're gay?" 

I hadn't thought of it that way. "I suppose you're right, Ray." I sigh,
and as I do, he does too. 

"Frase?" he asks me. 

"Yes, Ray?" 

"You ...gonna go back to the Consulate tonight?" He sounds... worried.
Resigned. 

"I... I hadn't planned to. I... had hoped we could... work this out." 

"Well... I'm... I'm pretty beat. I ...just don't wanna talk about all this
anymore. I ...I gotta think about things." 

"I understand, Ray. I can take a cab--" 

"Huh? No, no -- I just meant, I'm all talked out, I'm all listened out. I
just wanna sit here an' watch TV for a while, and then go to bed. It's...
it's a lot to think about an' I still don't know exactly how I feel about
...everything." 

"Of course, Ray. I feel the same way--" 

"I appreciate the thought, Frase. We'll... we'll see what happens. But
right now... I just don't wanna think anymore. I'm just saying -- can we
call it a day with all this... talk?" 

"Of course." 

"Good. Okay. I'll... well, I'll see you when you get back out here." 

"Right," I say, and then I hear him click off his cell phone. 

I shut off the cordless phone and rise from the toilet seat cover, where
I've been sitting. 

A clean cut, neatly dressed Mountie in his regulation white Henley and
black riding pants with yellow stripe and black suspenders looks back at
me from the mirror. There is no hint from his appearance, except for a
certain telltale weariness at his eyes, that he is anything less than
boring. 

Perhaps that is a good thing. 

I leave the bathroom, and self-consciously cross the room to replace Ray's
cordless phone in its cradle. I feel his eyes on my back the entire time.
When I turn to look in his direction, though, he is still watching the TV,
slouched back against the couch and sideways against the arm. 

I hesitate and then walk slowly over to the couch. 

He looks up at me, weary, tired, sad. Oh, Ray. 

"May I... may I sit down, Ray?" 

"Oh, Frase. Ya don't have to ask. Siddown." 

"Thank you," I say, and I sit. At the opposite end. Away from him. I am
sitting with him, but not with him. 

The nine o'clock news is on, and we watch the latest news about the broken
water main that disabled the subway trains through the Loop, and the city
treasurer's overturned conviction for corruption. I so desperately wish
that I could touch Ray, even if to just hold his hand -- but, but it would
be so good to hold him and be held by him. But I keep my hands folded in
my lap. 

"Hey." Ray speaks and turns towards me. 

"Yes, Ray?" 

He draws his feet up onto the couch and turns so that his back is against
the arm of the couch and his legs point in my direction. 

"Frase, I thought you -- and the Ice Queen--" 

"Oh, that," I say. I can feel my cheeks getting hot. "Inspector Thatcher
and I have a... complicated relationship." 

"Meaning what?" Ray asks warily, stretching his legs out on the sofa
somewhat, though his knees remain bent. His feet are close to my left
thigh, but do not touch it. 

"Meaning... she, she needed to make use of me as a decoy, of sorts, when
she first got here... she was trying to fend off the advances of a
superior officer who was here to handle a lawsuit. In front of him, she
acted as if she and I were having a relationship so that he would leave
her alone." 

"An' that's it?" There's a gleam in his eye that means he must know or
suspect something more. 

"No... Oh, if you must know, I kissed her once." 

"You kissed the Ice Queen?" 

"I did." 

"Get out." 

"No. I really did." 

"What's she kiss like?" he asks, curious, and for a moment the weary
sadness in his face is replaced by frank, slightly bemused, curiosity. 

"It was... very nice." 

" 'Very nice'? That's not very descriptive, Frase," he says, with a slight
smile. 

"She has a ...strong but tender mouth. Is that better, Ray?" 

"Yeah, that's better..." he says, trailing off. His eyes seem bluer than
usual, perhaps because of his light blue T-shirt. 

"Ray, might I..." I hold my breath and slide my hand over his right foot,
which is close to my thigh. I lift it and turn slightly and, using my
other hand, press both thumbs into the ball of his foot. 

"You wanna give me a foot massage?" he asks, surprised. 

I can only nod, hoping that he understands what I'm really trying to do. 

I can see him weighing things in his mind -- his hurt, the contagious
guilt and shame from me, his pride, his wounded heart... and his need for
warmth and touch. 

"O-okay," he says, stammering only slightly. The tension in his ankle and
lower leg disappear as I turn toward him and cross my legs tailor style on
the sofa. And I hold his foot and begin to massage it. 

He leans his head back on the couch arm his back is against, and sighs. He
makes a variety of small, sensual noises while I work on his right foot.
Then he begins humming a song... which is punctuated by small groans or
sighs when I hit a particularly tense spot and work the muscles gently
until all the tension is released. We don't speak, but the tune he is
humming is short, so he keeps repeating it. 

"What's that you're humming, Ray?" 

"Huh? Oh. Uh, nothin'. An old, old Frank Zappa song." 

It is good to be talking again, even if about trivial things. His foot is
soft and pliant in my hands. His feet are not calloused, except on his
heel and the outside edge of his big toe. Otherwise, the skin is soft,
warm and dry. He must buy shoes that fit well. I release his right foot
and start on the left one. 

"It's rather a catchy tune, if short," I tell him. 

"You probably wouldn't like it if you heard it, Frase," he says, his head
still leaned back on the couch arm, staring at the ceiling. 

"Why not?" I want to say, I'm more open-minded than you think I am... but
then I realize that, on the heels of this evening, that is not true and
not a good thing to say; it would just bring up all we discussed. 

"I don't think you'd like the words," he says softly. 

"Why? What are the words?" 

"You really wanna know?" he asks, still looking at the ceiling. But his
eyes are half-lidded now, hidden by the fringe of light lashes. 

"Yes, I would," I reply. 

"Okay..." He closes his eyes and takes a breath. Then he begins singing: 

"What's the ugliest part of your body? 
What's the ugliest part of your body? 
Some say your nose, 
Some say your toes, 
I think it's your mind, 
I think it's your mind..." 

He finishes and he is right. I do not like the words. I do not like them
because, unfortunately, they are true. I sigh. 

"I toldja you wouldn't like it, Frase," he says apologetically. He opens
his eyes, and lifts his head to look at me. 

If that was his revenge for earlier tonight, it is small by comparison. It
pains me, but probably in an amount which is only a drop in the bucket of
hurt he must still be feeling because of my behaviour tonight. I look back
down at his foot. 

"No, you were right, Ray. It's ...difficult to hear, mainly because I
think Mr. Zappa was right." I can't help sighing. 

"Yeah, but... if it can be the ugliest part of your body... it can
probably be the most beautiful part of your body, too," he says softly. 

I look up, and the look on his face is a combination of regret and
...hope. It seems like hope. 

"I suppose," I say noncommittally. 

"I could hum something else..." he says, and begins humming again. This is
a more melancholy-sounding tune, and he trails off fairly quickly. 

"What was that?" I ask, hoping to continue this tentative re-connection. 

"Oh... nothing." He looks embarrassed now, and looks away. 

"Well, you don't have to tell me if you don't want to." 

"I don't want to because it isn't very nice," he says quietly. 

"Well..." I say slowly. "It was you who said that perhaps being good and
nice all the time may not always be a good idea." 

"Well... okay..." he says, and then sings quietly: 

"But I don't care if you don't, 
And I don't feel if you don't, 
And I don't want it if you don't, 
And I won't say it 
If you won't say it..." 

He trails off. 

Obviously, though he doesn't want to talk about it any more, it is very
much on his mind. Which I can understand, though it pains me. 

"I'm sorry," he says, his gaze jerking up to me from his foot. 

"It's... all right, Ray," I reply, looking back down at what I am doing
after only briefly meeting his eyes. "I suppose it only makes sense that
songs such as these might... occur to you at a time like this. I'm the one
who should be sorry. And I am." 

"It's all right," he sighs, though I can tell it really isn't all right.
Will it ever be again? I desperately hope so. 

We don't converse any more while I finish up with his foot. He lets his
head fall back on the arm of the couch, which is a good sign, I think. It
means he can at least relax with me. I give his heel a good final squeeze.


"There you go," I say, patting his foot and releasing it. 

"Thanks, Frase, that felt really, incredibly good," he says sincerely,
lifting his head to look at me again. Sometimes, when he looks at me and
his chin is tilted lower than usual, his eyes seem very big. This is one
of those times. They pin me to the spot. 

"I'm glad. I wanted to make you... feel good... " I say. I don't want to
bring up all the hurtful things we said earlier, but... I did want to make
up for it somehow, in whatever small way he would let me. What I want to
say is, I wanted to make you feel good -- again. 

"You did. Kind of. Mostly." He tilts his head first to one side, then to
the other, as if cracking his neck. "My feet feel really good... an' it's
weird how something like a foot massage can make yer whole body feel good.
I was getting tired... now my body feels alert and stuff." 

"Does it?" I reply conversationally. 

He draws his feet back towards his side of the couch, and pulls his knees
to his chest. 

"Frase... I know we... we can't just... go back to the way things were,"
he says, looking away. 

"No, I suppose... we can't," I acknowledge. He's right, of course. And
despite my attempts to repair the damage, there is nevertheless still
quite a bit of damage. 

"But... but... we can give it a rest." 

"Give it a rest," I repeat, unsure what he means. 

"Yeah, like..." He pauses, and releases his knees, sliding them down into
sitting tailor style, as I am. Then he leans forward a bit. "Frase," he
whispers, and then he pushes himself forward onto his knees, so he is
sitting on his heels. Then he pushes again, so he is on his hands and
knees. It is not so far a distance between us on the sofa, but he crawls
the short distance to me. I am not sure what to make of his feral
appearance and so I do nothing but watch him. He puts his hands on my
knees. 

His eyes search my features. 

"Let's go to bed, Frase," he whispers. Then he closes his eyes and leans
in and presses his lips to mine, just a simple close-mouthed kiss. His
lips are warm and dry on mine, with a gentle pressure. 

My hands slide swiftly up his arms, from his hands on my knees to under
his armpits and around his back, as if I have no control over them. And my
arms go around him, and I pull him to me... not sudden or fast, but slowly
and steadily so that he can resist if he wants to, so that he can pull
away if he needs to. 

He does not. And so I pull his body to me, and the rest of his long and
lean body complies and his narrow buttocks are soon in my lap and I pull
his body tightly to me and try to hide my face in his chest. My cheek is
against the soft, worn cotton of his T-shirt and I can hear his heart. The
beat is regular, and it was slow, but it speeds up slightly. 

His arms have gone around me, around and over my shoulders. His lips are
pressed into my hair and I feel the alternating coolness and damp warmth
of his breath in my hair, inhaling and exhaling, as he strokes the nape of
my neck. 

I want to cry with relief but I don't. I hold it in and the urge passes
and at least he is in my arms and holding me as tightly as I am holding
him. 

I can feel my penis harden, and I know he must feel it too, since he is
sitting in my lap. But neither one of us does anything about it. I hold
him tightly to me, not moving, feeling my erection get harder. And he
holds me tightly, not moving either, except for his lips, which purse
periodically against my hair, and his hand, which continues to stroke the
nape of my neck. 

My erection subsides, and he is still in my arms and still holding me and
I am still holding him. The nine o'clock news is over and Ray's heartbeat
is slow and regular again. 
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  

Notes:	 "Urbane" newspaper is modelled on the Chicago Reader, a local
free weekly with great music and movies sections, provocative journalism,
and ...interesting personal ads.  Horizons is modelled on Discovery
Center, an adult continuing ed center on Lincoln Avenue.  "An Introduction
To Bondage And Domination" is modelled on "Bondage and Domination, An
Introduction", which is a one evening seminar which Discovery Center
recently began offering. The information Ray and Fraser read is based on
the class description of the real class in the catalogue.  Mistress Ruby
is modelled after Mistress Jade, who is listed as the instructor of the
real course.  "Oh what a tangled web we weave, when first we practice to
deceive" is attributed to Sir Walter Scott.  Fraser's reference to Ray
giving himself "fully. Completely." is a slight reference to the
Tragically Hip's CD Fully Completely, and the title song on it.  "What's
The Ugliest Part Of Your Body", from the album We're Only In It For The
Money, by Frank Zappa, 1968  "I don't care if you don't..." lyrics from
the song "Let's Go To Bed" from the album Japanese Whispers, by The Cure,
1983