The sassy timbre of Stan Getz music languidly seeps in one ear, the other protected by his body. With my head nuzzled onto the crevices of his chest, it allows me a view of the window, the outside world. Through the massive sheet of plate glass, the California sky is luminous from the brilliance of a full moon—perfectly illustrating my feelings of elation. Things are perfect. Perfect in their simplicity: slices of unspoken time that trump even the best conversations, the discovery of tidbits you know will bring you closer— profound little aspects that bond you to that person, that moment, forever. Like a beautiful moonlit night or a song, a certain feeling or smell, they are the things you vow never to forget about someone. They are the moments of your life, the marks on your memory, the words to your life sentence, to have and to hold.
In my mind, while my head lay resting in the cleft of his chest, I mentally duplicate the music, the moonlight, his smell. It is a moment I want to memorize. Forever. And then, like a car crash, I hear my next-door neighbors yelling at each other— their hollering, the ultimate intrusion on my feelings. I wonder if they’ve ever been in the same place, with similar feelings. It made me think about our differences, the variations of each relationship—then the ones that have lasted for 10, 20, 30 years and how they remember moments like mine, ours.
“I think there should to be a code word in relationships—a reminder word, a word that couples can use to avoid the dangerous pitfalls of routine,” I say.
“What do you mean by that,” CJ asks from his place below me on the bed—his question vibrating like a stereo through his body and into mine.
“Ya know—when a relationship gets stale and falls into monotony. You forget the things that brought the two of you together. The stuff that defines the union, times like this.”
“Hmm—interesting,” he vibrates back. “A word, huh?”
“Yeah, like people who are into S & M.”
Through the shifts in his body, I can feel his face make a funny expression.
Sitting up to meet his now-contorted face, his eyebrows scrunched into furry mountain peaks, I continue.
“I’m not into that,” I say, giving him a gentle kiss. “But they use code words when they’re doing stuff.”
“Stuff?”
“Yeah, like when one is tied up … or, or … things start to hurt too much. They use a word. And if that word gets said, it’s a sign that things are reaching a dangerous or uncomfortable place.”
He continues to process my rambling, his eyebrows calming to smaller mounds.
“Sooo, ummm. So, if you’re with someone for years and the relationship starts to hurt or feel dangerously close to ending, you can use the agreed upon word to remind you both of that place or time when you fell in love and how you grew enough to form a committed relationship. A word that defines the relationship. Your own word,” I continue.
“Hmmm—interesting theory.”
Later that night, once again my head had come to rest on CJ’s chest, and I could hear his heart rhythmically beating beneath his T-shirt. It was a familiar sound. Sort of. Something I’d heard regularly on television— incorporated into shows like E.R. or Grey’s Anatomy. Yet, as I listened from my spot, I came to realize, it was a sound I very seldom encountered intimately. And while Stan Getz fingered out sassy tunes, I blurted out, “I think we should have a code word to remember this moment, to define things. I think it should be ‘heartbeat.’”
I think it made his heart beat faster. In the weeks that followed my epiphany, as our relationship morphed, another occasion came along: the Fourth of July, a day to celebrate and remember our independence. Thus, there were parties. At one party— in between swimming and eating—the topic of marriage came up. As we debated the subject from numerous angles—every man basically having a different opinion— my hand (with drink) came to rest against my chest, my heart, and I thought about CJ’s and my code word.
“What if everyone had the same rights but the word wasn’t marriage?” I asked. “What if the word was butt plug? ”The room became silent, except for a few snickers.
Then someone asked, “Butt plug? Why butt plug?”
“I don’t know. Why not?” I offered back. “My point is this. Everyone should obviously have equal rights. But after that. if you could choose another word, your own word, something independent of “marriage”—made quotation marks into the air with my hands— something you created to represent what it means to the two of you, would you?”
“Sure. I guess. Yeah,” came from a few partygoers. “But marriage is the standard that everyone uses.”
“Exactly,” I said. “Everyone.”
Things got quiet. It was a holiday and we were all enjoying the beautiful day, so I left it alone. I wanted to remember different things about the day, other words, so I kept my independent thoughts to myself. But later that week, I got to thinking about words again and the standards people strive to obtain.
Throughout the 50-plus years of the gay movement, we’ve worn a lot of labels, from mentally ill to morally degenerate. But aside from the obvious equality rights, have we stopped to ask: Do we really want the word “marriage”? And do we really want to become the exact same thing?
As we seek the (much deserved and essential) equality of coupledom, it’s still important to remember that we are different individuals, a unique group. People are people. But homosexual is different from heterosexual. And the unions we create will always be distinct in their definition, their life sentence, their words. Who knows? Perhaps over time, we’ll be even more successful in our pairings than the heterosexuals.
Sometimes people go through their entire lives without questioning the words used to describe and define them—labels that are (most often) constructed and applied by others. Sometimes we never stop to question whether the words others have created are actually applicable. And sometimes, only when the words hurt, do we fight back. Other times we just follow.
As for CJ and me, I’m not sure where things will go. It’s still too early. We’re in the stages of discovery, of definition. But if someday we choose to apply the word marriage—obtaining the same rights as every other couple—I hope I never forget who we are, what makes us beat, our definition, our word. And you never know, as quick as a heartbeat, maybe one day we might be able to apply for it legally. But what’s in the application of a word anyway? Only the possibility of marrying together with other words, to make new and unique definitions and a completely gay sentence.
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