Confessions of a Bisexual Husband

Chapter 1

No matter how well you know someone, you never really know what they do for sex.

It was Saturday morning and I was in the basement with our two kids, Beatrice and Orlando, ages ten and eleven respectively. They sat on the couch near me watching Scooby-Doo, while I updated my profile on Unload, a gay hook up site:

Bi hung fit, lkng 4 a hot roll in the hay, mutual oral, body contact . . . possibly more, safe only . . .

I looked over at the kids, wondering about all this adult stuff. No matter. They'd never know. No one would. This I would be taking with me to the grave.

I'd been lurking on Unload for a few months, and had allowed myself to set up a free account a few weeks earlier. I'd noticed a sticker for the site on a lamp post while waiting for the Skytrain on the way home from work. It had been slapped up high and out of reach on the grey pole, crooked and sleazy: an illustrated hand wrapped around a penis shooting cum–their logo–with the URL underneath. I realized I'd been staring at it. I looked around to see if anyone had noticed, or if they could sense my excitement. I checked out the site as soon as I got home.

At first I had just scanned the ads to get a feel for the site–and my own level of commitment to actually hooking up with someone. The site seemed bona fide: there were lots of guys on there; all shapes and sizes, although I wondered why it was that everyone seemed to be married and in their forties, including me.

This was something I wanted, and yet, I wondered if I was allowed to have it. I was married now, which was my biggest internal hurdle. Would I give myself permission to do this? Did I need to get permission from Gabrielle, my wife? Or was I at the point where I jumped ship and headed for the other side like Marvin, my father, or his partner Charlie? Each of them had been married with a family. My father had definitely always been gay, or as Charlie would put it, The guy's been a fuckin' fruit all his life.

Charlie was only two years older than I, and the most unlikely gay guy you'd ever meet: on the short side, stout, with a big pot belly; he smoked, drove trucks, worked in the oil fields and said fuck a lot. He was in his forties (magic hour) when he'd jumped ship. His wife of twenty-five years was living up north along with their two adult kids while he'd been down in Vancouver, workman's compensation paying to have him retrained (getting sexually re-oriented was more like it) because of chronic neck pain from his manual labour.

Charlie hadn't left his wife until his youngest son was twenty-three. My parents split up when I was two. I don't remember the divorce, but I'd watched Charlie go down the long, hard road of coming to terms with his sexuality–and his desire for an old, fat, gay guy like Marvin.

But I wasn't like them. I wasn't gay. Then again, neither were they. Or were they? Or was I? Was it necessary to define? Even at seventy-three years-old, my father still said things like Well, I wasn't feeling gay that day, and somehow that made sense to me.

The beep on an incoming chat request drew me back to the computer; my heart rate accelerated from the promise it held.

Hey there sexy, u looking? someone asked.

I checked out his profile: gay, early thirties, cute, with a small frame. My kind of guy.

Yes. I'm looking.

I'd yet to connect with anyone on this site, or anywhere else. Up to now I could still look right into Gabrielle's big blue eyes and unflinchingly state: "No. I have not slept with anyone else. Have you?"

It was pretty good, really, to have made it through twelve years of marriage–all things considered: gay father; mother on her third husband; confused sexuality. I'd been living on my own since I was seventeen years old. The only long-term relationship I'd ever had was with Gabrielle, and we didn't meet until I was thirty. There was Ira, of course, but I didn't count that.

What r u into? my chat buddy asked.

Lkng 4 oral, body contact, possibly more with the right person. You have a face pic? I responded.

Sure. I'll send my face pic 4 urs, he replied. His boyish good looks matched his body, and I was interested. Now, what about him?

Looks good! he wrote, after receiving my pic. When can you get here?

Shit! He was serious. I looked over at the kids. They were settled in. I guessed I could steal away for an hour or so, tell Gabrielle I was going to the hardware store. I laughed to myself–all these guys running off to the hardware store on Saturday morning. Yeah, right.

Where r u located? I typed back. I hoped it was somewhere far away, making it easier to decline the invitation.

Kits . . . 4th/Yew.

Damn! He lived close! I could be there in five minutes. I got up and went into the laundry room to pace, trying to come up with a plausible excuse for backing out: my wife has the car; I just got called into work; my computer broke and I didn't get the email. When I was heated up I promised myself I'd go through with it, but when it came time to act–like now, I went cold. In the end I did little more than drive myself crazy.

I'd been fantasizing about this for close to a year, my renewed desire for men incomprehensibly popping up from within the hidden depths of my psyche. Until then the bisexual aspect of myself had been in remission. I thought I'd left it back in Montreal for good when I'd moved to Vancouver fourteen years ago.

There were many times in my life when I thought the whole bisexuality thing was over. Like a bout of Strep throat it had worked it's way through my system and I was cured. Only the symptoms would mysteriously reappear from out of nowhere. Then, like now, I'd grill myself looking for answers: Why did I have this desire? Where was it coming from? Why now? What did it mean? What was I really after?

And now here I was, for some inexplicable reason curious again, questioning, yearning. I was still in good shape, the possibility of having encounters still within reach. For how much longer, I could not say. But I did not want to let the opportunity pass me by (bi?) again.

I'd experimented with men when I was in my twenties, but I never really went for it. I held back, tentative, squeamish. Now I wanted another chance. Now I was willing to allow myself to be fully immersed in the experience–feel another's body, skin on skin, exploring without mental interdicts. I wanted to take my time, run my lips over his abdomen, lick his treasure trail down to the pubic hair, then along the crease of his thigh, where I'd encounter the musky scent of his crotch. Could I kiss a guy? Something I'd never allowed myself to do. Or taste his cum? Another threshold I'd never crossed, but wanted to.

I returned to the desk, typing: When r u lkng for? Maybe I could at least postpone the decision. But I knew he was looking for now. Everyone on Unload was looking for now, right now, this instant!

He responded: N e time. When's good 4 u?

He was so accommodating!

Gabrielle came downstairs and I quickly hid my screen. She was all business, although it was Saturday morning, telling the kids TV time's almost over! as she stomped around the room re-arranging, stacking and straightening everything in her wake. She had it all on her to-do list–except intimacy with her husband.

I sat there watching her, hoping that she'd come over and give me a look or a touch or a signal that she wanted me. If she did, I'd drop this guy on Unload in a second. There she was, my hot, gorgeous wife, the person I'd chosen as the only one I would have sex with for my remaining years, and yet I could not have her. There was just too much debris separating us. The fact that I was horny as hell and that she turned me on tremendously and that I'd love to go upstairs with her and close the door for an hour or three only made the absence of it that much more frustrating and painful.

Gabrielle left the room without a glance in my direction, neither of us acknowledging the other, as we'd been doing for weeks.

I can b there in 10 mins I wrote.

And then he responded to me with the Holy Grail of Internet hookups: the address.

K, c u in 10 I responded, my heart pounding.

Okay, Marco. This is it.

*****

Chapter 2

My mind was churning on the drive over. The last thing I felt was horny. I wondered if I could even get it up–although it had never been an issue for me.

His elevator lifted me out of myself, a different version of me arriving at his apartment door. I was relieved to see that he looked just like his photo.

Hey, I said, walking into his darkened hallway.

Hello, he replied quietly, closing the door.

We were both wearing white T-shirts and shorts. I walked over to him and grabbed his package.

You don't waste any time, do you? He smiled.

Any fear or self-consciousness I had vanished. I'd been waiting for this for a long time, and I was ready, fully present and excited to be there.

He dropped to his knees, undid my belt and got to work. I couldn't believe this was actually happening to me. Finally, it was happening!

He got up and pulled me along by my hard cock: Let's go to the bedroom.

We stripped down to our socks and flopped onto the bed, bodies entangled, stroking each other. He had a small penis, but what really bothered me was the tip: his foreskin looked red and irritated. Not at all appealing. My heart sank. After all this time, only to end up with a little red-tipped stick dick!

He bent over to kiss me.

Aahhh, no, sorry, I said.

You're not into kissing?

No.

Not even a bit?

Not even a bit.

That's too bad. I love kissing. It really makes it for me.

I shrugged.

Okay. If you're not into it, you're not into it, he said.

He then proceeded to go down on me. It was sloppy and wet as he frantically deepthroated me, showing off his skills as he tried to take me all the way down. I couldn't help but think that he was angry about the kissing, because despite the fact that he was earnest and seemed to be working hard, it was mediocre.

I lay back to let him get his fill, enjoying it as much as I could, but what I really wanted to do was reciprocate. I wasn't one of these guys who never got a blowjob at home. What I didn't get was a chance to suck cock, which is what I was really after. So I decided to manoeuvre around and take a second look. But it was still the same little red-tipped stick dick, and I passed again.

He took a break from sucking and came back to lie beside me, our bodies touching, which felt good. He held both our cocks together, stroking them with one hand.

You ready to cum? he asked.

Considering my options? Okay. You?

Oh yeah. I can always cum. I'm known as the Little Squirter 'cause I'm always ready to cum.

I leaned back and let him finish us both off. Had I known it was going to be this fast I could've told Gabrielle I was going out for a litre of milk.

Afterward he brought me a towel to clean up–gay guys are so thoughtful! I was smiling as we got dressed. I'd done it! Crossed the line, broken the seal. I was surprised to find that I didn't feel guilty. I was more relieved than anything. I felt like I'd reconnected with a long-lost part of myself. And now that I had, I wanted something a lot more satisfying.

I think you're wearing my T-shirt, he said.

I looked down at my shirt. Really? I'm pretty sure I wore a white one.

Yeah. Not that one, though.

We traded. It would be fun to live with a guy, share clothes, body products. I was about to pull the shirt over my head when I noticed a hair on the sleeve. Pleased with my ability to remove any trace of evidence I started to pick it off, but the strand just kept coming and coming, long and blonde.

Oh fuck. It was Gabrielle's. She was watching me.

______________

Gabrielle and I barely spoke for the rest of the day. I didn't have to make up any stories or hide anything from her as she had no interest in me. If anything, my morning tryst had amplified the blaring silence between us, which saddened me to no end.

We'd been able to make it through so much turmoil together, both of us working freelance, two little kids to support, taking jobs when we needed to, riding the wave of the dot-com bubble and its subsequent crash.

The strangest part was that this was the most stable period in our twelve-year marriage–or maybe that was the problem. Gabrielle and I are not nine to fivers. We're creative types, which is what had brought us together in the first place.

I had moved to Vancouver from Montreal to write and get involved with film–and leave my old life behind. I began taking acting classes to get a feel for what a script was like from the actors' perspective. I'd also hoped it would be a good way to meet some people, as I didn't know anyone. I'd quickly befriended Lance, who introduced his sister to the class shortly after. I nodded politely when Lance introduced me to Gabrielle.

She may have been pretty. I think she had blonde hair, blue eyes, nice body, blah blah blah. I didn't take much notice, as I didn't care. For the first time in my life I wasn't on the hunt.

I'd left Montreal with a broken heart, and after a few flings in Vancouver realized I was sick of dating, sick of mediocre sex, sick of relationships altogether–the fruitless emotional turbulence of them, the monumental waste of time involved. I retracted myself completely from any intimate relationships and took a self-imposed vow of celibacy.

When people asked, I'd tell them: When I meet 'the One' I will know her, and until then, leave me alone. I don't want to date, or be fixed up, or put myself out there in any way. I'm not interested, so go away. Instead I decided to follow my own passion; focus on my own path; pursue my own goals. Which meant my interest in Gabrielle was purely professional.

I gradually found out little details about her, and was very intimidated: although only two years my junior, she was successfully working in the film industry, whereas I was a writer living on unemployment insurance; she was living with a cool Japanese guy, and I with my dog; her fluent Japanese definitely trumped my French; she was highly paid to travel around the world to exotic locations on documentary or commercial film shoots, and I drove my old beater to various film sets around Vancouver, where I sat in a tent playing chess as an extra for eight bucks an hour.

I'd been working on a screenplay and submitting scenes to our acting teacher, who used them as part of the class. After a few weeks of watching my scenes, Lance approached me.

Gabrielle's working for a Japanese film production company right now, but she wants to produce her own films. Why don't you ask her if she'd like to read your script?

Really? Can you ask her for me? I said sheepishly.

Lance laughed. Why? You're afraid of her?

Just ask her for me, will you?

No! I'm not asking her. If you want her to read it, just ask her next class.

I was surprised to hear that she liked my screenplay, which was the story of Annie, a woman who was confused about her sexuality, living with a guy whom she claimed was the love of her life, while having a torrid relationship with a woman (her first such experience) and was torn between the two. If I'd added she was also having an affair with a left-leaning New Age Jewish Montreal writer who was madly in love with her, it would have been autobiographical.

Gabrielle and I decided to produce the film together. We got along well, were all business with each other. I had no interest in romantic involvement, and she'd just split with her boyfriend and was busy dating a couple of new guys.

Things were going smoothly and the project was building momentum. We'd incorporated a company together. I was writing and re-writing the script; Gabrielle was getting the financing organized; we were holding auditions for a promotional trailer we were going to shoot.

We decided to stage a read-through of the script at Gabrielle's apartment. Along with the actors we'd chosen, we invited some friends and Gabrielle's entire immediate family, meaning her parents, three siblings, and their various significant others.

I was nervous. This was the first time the script would be acted out from beginning to end. We'd been discussing the script for so long, and I'd been working on it so much, that I really didn't know if it was any good. I was also self-conscious about Gabrielle's family hearing it, fearing she'd drop the project if they didn't like it.

Gabrielle and I had our usual meeting the week before the big read-through. We were both excited about it, and about the project in general, which looked like it was going to happen. I said good-bye to her feeling optimistic and happy inside.

I blithely got on my bike and began to pedal home, lost in thought about the project and how well things were going with Gabrielle. 'I think I'm attracted to her.'

A warm smile came to my face before I realized what had just gone through my mind.

'What! What did you just think?' I had to dismount before I rode myself right into an oncoming bus. 'You think you're attracted to Gabrielle? That is completely inappropriate and you know it! You've been working together for five months and suddenly you're attracted to her? This is nothing more than self-sabotage. Now that things are beginning to happen you can't handle the success. You've started a company together; you're business partners, and now you want to go and screw it all up by being attracted to her? You are such an immature jerk! This is exactly why you have to remain celibate. You're a totally hopeless loser hell-bent on fucking up his own life at every possible opportunity.'

I looked up at the sky and screamed at the top of my lungs: I can't believe I have to spend the rest of my life with you!

Unfortunately no amount of rational inner dialogue would get the stupid thought to leave. When we met a few days later to prepare for the read-through I could not help but notice that Gabrielle had the kind of dancer's body I found so attractive. Every glance from her striking eyes cut a path right down to my groin, our close proximity reminding me in no uncertain terms that I was a man who had not had sex for over a year. I wanted this woman.

The only escape I could see was to let the thought out and expose it as the self-sabotaging little shit that it was. It would be like putting a pin-prick in it, the whole idea deflating until it disappeared for good.

*****

Chapter 3

That same evening, with her family, the actors, and various friends sitting around Gabrielle's cramped living-room chatting and looking over the script for the read-through, I simply could take no more. The thought was so loud and insistent it was drowning out everything else in my head.

"Oh sure, you choose now to tell her. Now, when the house is filled with people and it's nearly impossible to be alone with her. How appropriately inappropriate! Now?'

I gave up on myself. What was the point in fighting about it? Now it was.

Gabrielle was in the living room talking to some of the actors when I approached her. Hey, can I talk to you for a sec? I whispered in her ear, disgusted by the feeling of excitation it elicited within me.

Sure. What is it? She was only half listening.

Let's go into the kitchen for a sec. I moved in that direction, hoping she'd follow.

The kitchen was more like a closet without a door, and was about ten feet from where everyone was sitting, so the expectation of privacy was minimal. I waited for her impatiently, certain someone else would walk in and interrupt us.

Josh said he's read the script a few times and loves it. I think he'd make a great Lenny, she said, standing in the doorway.

Listen. I have to talk to you. Can you sit down for a sec? I was leaning against the sink, arms folded across my chest.

She squeezed into the tiny sitting area, continuing: I know we said Dan was going to play Lenny, but what do you think about Josh? she asked.

Josh. As Lenny? Dan's a little more . . . what? He's . . . I don't know. Gabrielle, I can barely follow what you're saying. I have to get something off my mind. What I'm about to say is stupid and inappropriate and dumb and very immature, I know. But I figure once I get it off my chest it will go away, and we can both laugh about it and I can push it aside and move forward, I said.

Oh-kaaaaay, she said, my serious tone getting her interest.

Alright. Well . . . I'm just going to say it. I hope you're not going to be offended or anything, but . . . I cowered, wincing. I think I'm attracted to you.

Gabrielle's face went blank, her head lowering into her hands as the meaning became clear. She rubbed her forehead as if trying to scrub her brain clean of my statement: Ohhhh . . . no. No. No no no no no no.

I agree! I jumped in. It's stupid and really inappropriate, which is why I think I'm feeling it in the first place. I'll admit right now that I have issues around intimacy. I'm incapable of acting in a mature and responsible way. But there it is. I had to say it.

We've just started a company together, Marco! The project's going so well. No. There's no way, she said.

You're right. I know. Like I said, it's completely immature. I have a thing with sabotaging my own life, as you can see. So I figured I'd get it out of my system, and once I told you then you'd be able to tell me how dumb it is I'll be able to let go of it.

Yes. It's dumb. Let go of it.

Good. I will let go of it. I feel better already. I really do. I'm sorry I had to do this. Things are going well with us and the company and I'm pretty sure I'm just freaking out about it.

Good, because we're not going to start anything like that now. We have the company and the film to do together. Let's just focus on those things, and leave the personal stuff out of it.

I totally agree. Consider it done. I was relieved that she was still speaking to me.

Fine. Now let's go back in there and do the reading, she said, getting up.

Okay but just one sec, I took hold of her arm. Just to be clear here, you think it's stupid that I'm feeling this way, right?

It's not stupid, but the timing's all wrong.

No! Of course it's not stupid that someone would be attracted to you. Sorry, that's not what I meant. But yeah, the timing's wrong.

Yes. All wrong. She turned away.

Okay, but just hold on, I said, pulling her back into the kitchen. Are you saying it's the timing?

Right.

Soooooo, am I totally off base here? I mean . . . is it just me, or do you feel something too?

"Ahh . . . I really haven't thought about it until now Marco. I guess . . . No, you're not totally off base. But we have the company and the film and I don't want anything to screw them up."

No. Me neither. But you do think . . . there might be something? I asked.

I don't know, Marco. Let's not get into right now. I think we should really get back and start the reading, she said.

Yes! Right. Let's go do that.

We returned to the group, but my mind would not let go of the hairline crack it had perceived in her response.

_______________

From that point on, every time Gabrielle and I got together we'd discussed how we were not going to get involved with each other, which only brought us closer together. Three weeks later I'd invited her to a family function in L.A. I rented a van and removed the back seat so we could lay out a mattress and camp on the way down. It was January, and the old Highway 101 was deserted as we made our way down the coast.

We came upon a long stretch of deserted beach somewhere in Oregon. The sun had temporarily broken through the clouds and I pulled over. We got out for a stroll through the mid-winter mist, removing our shoes to feel the cold sand on our feet. Overcome by the sun and its warmth, our being together, and a feeling of freedom, I took off my shirt and Gabrielle took off her top and bra. We held hands and walked along in silence until she spontaneously let go and ran ahead. I marvelled as she put on a show for me, leaping and twirling through the air with all the grace and beauty of her former days as a dancer.

She met my entire family in L.A. On the way home we discussed hypothetical wedding ideas, and both agreed that an outdoor costume wedding would be fun, with everyone dressing up in Renaissance clothing.

Seven months later, that was exactly what we did.

Gabrielle was pregnant with Orlando by our first anniversary, and with Beatrice by our second. We dropped the artsy stuff. Got real jobs. Having kids was serious. Unlike a pet or a house plant, if you lose your kids, or let them die, people tend to notice. Like many overwhelmed and terrified new parents, Gabrielle and I assumed our roles like ill-fitting suits, based upon off-the-shelf ideas floating around somewhere in our subconscious.

I remember stepping out onto our front porch to take a breather from a family gathering one afternoon. The kids were still babies. We'd all been on our best behaviour, smiling politely at each other, pretending to be people we were not. I sat on the porch, exhausted from keeping up my façade, wondering how much longer I could hold onto it, although we'd only been married two years.