bothers me when people don’t feel, for whatever reason, that they can just be who they are. Every now and then, when self-realization rears its ugly head, it dawns on me what a heterophobe I really am. I’m certainly not proud of it, but it’s a part of me and so I live with it.
Tom had the door open even before I reached it. We did our shake-hands-at-the-open-door-and-bear-hug-when-the-door-is-closed routine. Apparently his training at the academy had included a lot of physical workouts, because his hug was just this side of rib-cracking. Tom motioned me to a seat.
“Too early for a drink?”
I shook my head vigorously. “Perfect time.”
“I’ve got something to show you, first.” He went to open a drawer at one end of the credenza. Reaching in, he pulled out a small wooden case, which he unlocked with a key from his key ring. When he brought the case over and opened it, I saw that it was lined with cotton batting, in the center of which was…a gun in a small leather holster.
“It was Lisa’s dad’s off-duty weapon,” Tom said, obviously delighted. “…from when he was on the force. He sent it to me for my graduation from the academy. What a great thing for him to do.”
I recognized it as a short-barrel .357 magnum—much easier to conceal than the regulation model. It looked brand new—though, if Lisa’s dad had had it, it had to be at least 15 years old, if not older.
“Uh, doesn’t the Police Department furnish you with a gun?” I asked, hoping he knew I was kidding.
Tom grinned. “Sure. But we’re allowed to carry a weapon off duty, and everybody has their own. The rules vary from department to department: Some won’t allow anything but your service revolver, which can get a bit cumbersome when you’re not in uniform. I was planning on buying one, but then this came. It really means a lot to me. Our service issue is a .38, and I had to qualify on the police firing range to carry this one before I could carry it officially. I always keep it locked up when I’m home, though.”
I noticed, as I was slipping the gun back into the holster, that the small strap that attached the holster to the wearer’s belt was broken. Tom saw me looking at it.
“I know. I can’t figure out how in hell that could have happened. Leather’s not supposed to do that. But it is pretty old, so I suppose…. I had to order a new one; it should have been here by now.”
I put the gun and holster back in the case, which he took, carefully locked, then went to replace it in the drawer.
“So,” he said, turning back to me with a smile, “how about that drink? A Manhattan, I assume?”
“Great, thanks.” I got up from the settee and followed him into the kitchen while he went to the cupboard for the liquor.
“Grab the ice cubes out of the freezer, would you?” he asked as he reached for glasses. “And there’s some salsa in the fridge—chips should be in that cupboard right by your head.”
Between the two of us, we got everything organized. I carried our drinks back into the living room while he followed with the chips and salsa. I set the drinks on the coffee table, then sat back down on the love seat. After tearing open the bag of chips and putting the bowl of salsa beside it on the coffee table, he plunked down beside me, his hand immediately laying itself casually on my knee.
He turned to me with a smile. “Nice to see you.”
I put my hand over his. “You, too.”
He leaned forward and kissed me—not a “wow, let’s get it on right now” kiss, but a kiss that conveyed a lot more: the kind of kiss straight guys might give their best buddies if they dared. I recognized it for what it was, even though I had to send a mental shorthand message to my crotch to cool it for the moment. The good stuff would be coming along later.
We picked up our drinks and sat back, hands still joined.
“So how come you’re not married?” Tom asked, then broke into a broad grin. “No, not Lisa-and-Tom
Tom had the door open even before I reached it. We did our shake-hands-at-the-open-door-and-bear-hug-when-the-door-is-closed routine. Apparently his training at the academy had included a lot of physical workouts, because his hug was just this side of rib-cracking. Tom motioned me to a seat.
“Too early for a drink?”
I shook my head vigorously. “Perfect time.”
“I’ve got something to show you, first.” He went to open a drawer at one end of the credenza. Reaching in, he pulled out a small wooden case, which he unlocked with a key from his key ring. When he brought the case over and opened it, I saw that it was lined with cotton batting, in the center of which was…a gun in a small leather holster.
“It was Lisa’s dad’s off-duty weapon,” Tom said, obviously delighted. “…from when he was on the force. He sent it to me for my graduation from the academy. What a great thing for him to do.”
I recognized it as a short-barrel .357 magnum—much easier to conceal than the regulation model. It looked brand new—though, if Lisa’s dad had had it, it had to be at least 15 years old, if not older.
“Uh, doesn’t the Police Department furnish you with a gun?” I asked, hoping he knew I was kidding.
Tom grinned. “Sure. But we’re allowed to carry a weapon off duty, and everybody has their own. The rules vary from department to department: Some won’t allow anything but your service revolver, which can get a bit cumbersome when you’re not in uniform. I was planning on buying one, but then this came. It really means a lot to me. Our service issue is a .38, and I had to qualify on the police firing range to carry this one before I could carry it officially. I always keep it locked up when I’m home, though.”
I noticed, as I was slipping the gun back into the holster, that the small strap that attached the holster to the wearer’s belt was broken. Tom saw me looking at it.
“I know. I can’t figure out how in hell that could have happened. Leather’s not supposed to do that. But it is pretty old, so I suppose…. I had to order a new one; it should have been here by now.”
I put the gun and holster back in the case, which he took, carefully locked, then went to replace it in the drawer.
“So,” he said, turning back to me with a smile, “how about that drink? A Manhattan, I assume?”
“Great, thanks.” I got up from the settee and followed him into the kitchen while he went to the cupboard for the liquor.
“Grab the ice cubes out of the freezer, would you?” he asked as he reached for glasses. “And there’s some salsa in the fridge—chips should be in that cupboard right by your head.”
Between the two of us, we got everything organized. I carried our drinks back into the living room while he followed with the chips and salsa. I set the drinks on the coffee table, then sat back down on the love seat. After tearing open the bag of chips and putting the bowl of salsa beside it on the coffee table, he plunked down beside me, his hand immediately laying itself casually on my knee.
He turned to me with a smile. “Nice to see you.”
I put my hand over his. “You, too.”
He leaned forward and kissed me—not a “wow, let’s get it on right now” kiss, but a kiss that conveyed a lot more: the kind of kiss straight guys might give their best buddies if they dared. I recognized it for what it was, even though I had to send a mental shorthand message to my crotch to cool it for the moment. The good stuff would be coming along later.
We picked up our drinks and sat back, hands still joined.
“So how come you’re not married?” Tom asked, then broke into a broad grin. “No, not Lisa-and-Tom
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