I had been following Berto’s development over the years; the son of neighbors, I knew
him since he was a baby. I never thought of him as a sexual object until one day, when he was
sixteen, I asked him to help me move some furniture. When we finished, he was all sweaty and
went to my bathroom to shower. I came over to bring him a towel and for the first time I saw him fully naked. He was breathtakingly beautiful; a nice, smallish penis, a perfectly round ass, a face that could have come out of a Botticelli canvas. As he reached for the towel, I noticed his long, slender fingers and, when our hands met, I was entranced by the softness of their touch.

​​

        Over the next five years an increasingly close friendship grew between us. I became sort
of a surrogate father for him, and he started revealing the small misdemeanors of youth, as well
as his insecurities, all rooted in a lack of self-confidence which I found charming.
        I never demanded sex from him, although I made my attraction plain through small
things – a squeeze on the side here, a pat on the butt there. I concluded that he was not ready to
open himself to me yet and decided to wait it out.
        Years went by. Berto was now a senior in college and we kept in frequent touch, although
much of our conversation dealt with his search for a job. I wrote to him: “Look, Berto, it seems
that you’re not going to get your resume done in time to search for a job before graduation. Let
me come down and help you put applications together.”  He finally invited me to come to his
school dormitory to spend a day on this task.
        I, of course, had more than one purpose in mind in traveling to see him. I was hoping to
move to the last step that would bring us together; this was the time to finally get Berto into bed.
        So, on that fateful day, I got up early and drove the two hundred miles to his school. We
met in his room and got to work on his job applications. Time went fast, soon it was lunchtime.
We got a bottle of wine and ordered a pizza. Lunch over, I leaned over and kissed his mouth. He
shied away. “What’s the matter?”  I asked.  “I don’t like that kind of thing.” I then put my hand
on his thigh. He took it away. “I really don’t like it. I’m into women, not men.”  I took a gulp of
wine. “I think that some physical contact would bring us closer together,” I offered weakly. “I’m
sorry, but anything beyond holding hands is very uncomfortable for me.”  “Is that the way you
want it; no contact?” I asked, giving up. “Yes.”  The romance was over.

​

***

​

        I spent the day after the calamity in a haze. There must be some mistake, this could not
have happened. He will call and we will meet and everything will be fine again. I had a quick
meal and went to bed early.

​

***

​

        On the second day, I sat by a phone that I soon realized would not ring. I checked my
emails every five minutes. I became an automaton, sitting by the phone and checking my
mailbox innumerable times. I lingered by the phone until bedtime.

​

***

        On the third day, I masturbated thinking of Berto. I had done this many times, but while on previous occasions I imagined us making tender love, this time I fantasized I was raping him.
I beat my meat furiously, imagining his whimpering, his frightened babbling, which I ignored.
He trembled, and then he cried. I started crying too, and my erection fizzled. I could not do it. I
loved him too much to violate him, even in my mind.

***

​

        On the fourth day, I decided to get busy. I became a whirling dervish; vacuumed the
house, washed clothes, went grocery shopping, cleaned the car, worked on the yard, jogged,
surfed for porn on the internet. At the end of the day, I was worn out. But as I lay in bed at night,
I was awake, my mind playing Berto over like a song that stays, uninvited, in one’s
consciousness. Finally, exhaustion prevailed and I passed out.

​

***

​

        The fifth day was "get back to work" day. I could no longer feign illness and being away
had not helped matters. I sneaked into my office and tried to concentrate on mindless things. My
productivity was low, but pretty high considering how I felt.
        The day was finally over and I went home. This time I went directly for the bottle of
scotch that I saved for special occasions. Later, I tossed out the empty bottle and crawled into
bed, again not to sleep.

​

***

​

        On the sixth day I could not get out of bed. Finally, I dragged myself to the kitchen and
poured myself a large glass of tomato juice to help cure my hangover. I hate tomato juice, but I
dutifully downed half the glass.
        I sat at the computer with the other half glass in hand and, for the first time in six days,
had the courage to look at my emails. Yikes!  There WAS one message from Berto, two days
old. It read:

Dear Jack:  Sorry for cutting you off the other day, but you really got me scared.
See, all my life people have thought I’m gay; I’m not. I like women and only
women, though I have trouble connecting because girls don’t seem to take me
seriously. Anyhow, I have known for years that you had a crush on me but did not
say anything because you were so nice to me and I didn’t want to get you upset. I
was hoping that you would not go any further but you did, which was too bad.
I hope we can remain friends. You have done so much for me, and I appreciate it.
As long as there’s no physical stuff, we can work it out. Please let me know what
you think. Sincerely, Berto.

        I was shaking so badly when I finished the message that I knocked over the rest of the
tomato juice. I went back to bed, agonizing:  What can I do now?  One side of me said: You must
get over this. Another argued: Old, you’re old. You’re forty, queens your age only belong in
retirement homes. Who could possibly love you?

        I reached for the sleeping pills. But I was too cowardly to take my life.

​

***

​

        On the seventh day, I managed to get out of bed.  I showered, shaved, put on my favorite
clothes, and went out cruising around the neighborhood. As I left the apartment, I recalled the
ending of Fellini’s Nights of Cabiria: the eternally optimistic streetwalker steps away from her
last disaster and walks alone on the road, crying. Then she smiles and nods at the camera, to
assure us that everything will be alright. She hasn’t given up hope. 
        And neither will I.  Life can be full of disappointments, betrayals and losses. But I will
persevere until I find true love. And I know I will succeed.

​