On the Brink: A Novel About a Gay Man Trapped in a Loveless Marriage

By Paul Randolph

From the outside looking in, it appears as if architect Paul Randolph and his wife, Brenda, have it all. Theyve lived a comfortable life in the same house on Songbird Lane in New Orleans East with their two children, nine-year-old Jason and seven-year-old Janie, for the last ten years.

But Pauls life is a lie. None of his dreams of a vine-covered cottage with a little picket fence are anywhere near reality. He feels trapped in a loveless marriage and is emotionally unable to have an affair. Paul is not sexually attracted to women, and he is frightened to make a sexual advance on a man for fear the man will react unfavorably, or even violently.

On the Brink follows Pauls journey as he addresses the emotional and psychological aspects of his sexuality. He is torn between his love for his children, his societal position, and a desperate desire for integrity. Weary of suppressing his true self, Paul deliberates his fate, his only desire being wholeness.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Apr 19, 2013
• ISBN: 9781475977882

Paul Randolph

Paul Randolph is an architect in New Orleans.  He is also an archetype of a closeted, gay married man. He shares his struggles with millions of others who are trapped in a similar situation.

Book preview

Copyright © 2011, 2013 PAUL RANDOLPH.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

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ISBN: 978-1-4759-7790-5 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4759-7789-9 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4759-7788-2 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2013903372

iUniverse rev. date: 4/16/13

CONTENTS

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

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Chapter 1

A irports have always held a strange fascination for me. I love to watch the people come and go, and wonder what their stories are.

I observe the tearful goodbye of a couple, and try to guess why they are so distressed. Are they newlyweds? Is this the first time that they are separated? Perhaps they are lovers, and he is leaving after a period of mad abandon, to go back to his other life of family and everyday things. Are they parting never to see one another again? A twinge of sadness pierces my inner being as I enviously watch and wish that someone cared so much about me that they would mourn my departure.

I also note the individuals sitting, waiting for their flight to be called. I wonder where they are going, and why. Are they returning home with the big order, or after landing the big account? Are they returning home in defeat after losing to a fierce competitor? Are they off on a lost weekend with a new lover they have met on a previous occasion? Could it be that they are going in search of someone with whom to have a casual liaison? Perhaps they are looking for someone who will listen to them without criticizing them or telling them what they should be doing with their lives. Is the man with the anxious look anticipating a visit with his mistress? Some appear to be off on a well-deserved vacation, which has already been put off too long. What are they thinking about? Are they worried about paying their creditors? Perhaps they are thinking about their destinations; maybe a big seminar, where they will be challenged to perform to the limits of their ability.

My name is Paul Randolph. I am myself returning to New Orleans from New York City after attending the 1985 AIA seminar for architects specializing in old building renovations. It was a stimulating meeting; there were many ideas and materials presented that I will be able to share with my colleagues who are working on the renovations at Charity Hospital. Now there is a challenge if there ever was one. It was built in the 1930’s as the answer to an overcrowded previous Charity Hospital. In 1935, the hospital’s bed capacity was listed at 1814. In 1936, Charity’s annual admission rate of 70,400 patients exceeded that of Cook County, Bellevue, and Los Angeles County hospital, which averaged between 65,000 and 70,000 annual admissions each. The daily census exceeded the hospital’s bed capacity, and there were two and sometimes three patients to a bed. On July 15, 1937, ground was broken for the new Charity Hospital. It is a concrete monolith sheathed in limestone. A 2200 bed institution is far too unmanageable. Even closed down to 900 beds as it is now, the strain on services, personnel, and fiscal resources is almost unbelievable. However, they are paying me to renovate the monster, and so that I will do.

My mind is still disturbed over a commotion in the next room that caused me sleepless nights during my stay in the posh Plaza Hotel. I was kept awake all night by sex sounds between two men, who had a radio blaring to ostensibly hide the passion noises that they were making. I am looking forward to getting home to my own bed where I can relax, and catch up on my sleep.

The gate agent made the announcement that the herd had been awaiting. The flight is now available for check-in. As if for some priceless treasure, they all surge to the gate desk in order to be checked in and receive a seat assignment. Some, who are experienced in travel, had the foresight to stand at the gate before the call was made, sometimes only to be shooed away by the gate agent if they queued up too early. Once they acquire the Golden Fleece that is the little sticker for their boarding pass that designates their seat assignment, they return to their previous seat in the waiting area in anticipation of the next great rush to the plane. I stand in line with the great proletariat, and receive my usual window seat. As I return to my seat, I marvel at the wide variation of shape, size, color and design that is the group of persons with whom I will share the flight.

There is the usual non-assortment of black, navy, and grey business suits, for both men, and in increasing numbers, for women. I note that the women appear to have worried looks on their faces, and I wonder if that is because they have to try harder, and perform better than their male peers, and even in 1985 they are still being paid less. The injustice of that makes my blood boil. The attractive woman sitting across from me with the hair severely pulled back into a small bun sits in a pose that seems to say that she has been to the wars, has learned her lessons well and has the psychological and emotional scars to prove it. What a pity that women are compelled to perform better, jump higher, and work harder in order to succeed and still bump against the glass ceiling. I hope that in the future my daughter does not have to suffer these same trials.

I look up and notice another man staring at the female businessperson across from me, and I try to guess what the man is thinking. I wonder what they are doing in his mind’s bedroom, maybe some fantasy perversion about which he dreams and that one day he will act out in anonymity?

Someone sitting down in the chair next to me disturbs my wonderment. It is a handsome man with a shock of prematurely grey hair. The man is holding a Playboy magazine, and begins to leer at its pages. He is particularly interested in the picture of the nude woman as she fingers herself into some sort of two-dimensional ecstasy. I am fascinated by this prurient interest that the man is displaying, and amazed and troubled that I am not as fascinated by the nude woman as he is.

The call finally comes for which all of my fellow travelers are waiting: Ladies and gentlemen, flight 456 is now ready for boarding, anyone who requires special assistance, such as those traveling with small children, or anyone else who requires extra time in boarding the aircraft should now board through gate 44A. A few people come forward, and the rest begin to mill around and advance upon the gate agent. Then the second announcement, we are now ready to continue boarding flight 456, all those with pink or white boarding passes with seat numbers 35 through 67 may now begin boarding the aircraft. A number of the old seasoned travelers keep their seats in apparent disdain of the déclassé who are pushing and being generally discourteous in their attempt to hurry and board the plane. These old timers will wait until the flight is boarded, and then waltz on and crawl over the others to get to their seats, in an apparent attempt to be cool. I wonder if they take some unknown thrill in almost being left behind?

Once aboard the plane, I notice how people prepare themselves for a several hour flight. I see the panic that comes over the first time flyer when he finds his assigned seat taken by a claim jumper. An astute flight attendant sees the problem, and after checking boarding passes, smooths over an otherwise unpleasant situation by ushering the trespasser to his proper seat. On comes the little old lady with the armload of packages who begins to pack the overhead compartment as tightly as her size twelve stretch pants are stuffed with her size eighteen derriere. I wonder what she could possibly have in all of those packages that is too precious to check with the rest of the luggage. I begin to dig in the pouch in the seat back in front of me for some suitable reading material, but all I come up with is the inflight magazine, which I have read before. I also find the gift book, which is filled with all kinds of interesting, overpriced gadgets that are engineered to self-destruct three weeks after the bill is paid. I hope that no one sits in the seat next to me, and then again, I am almost disappointed when I see the figure coming down the aisle. I am sure that the man will sit in the seat next to me, but instead, he sits across the aisle, and one seat up. This young man is the last passenger to board, so he catches my attention. He is tall; though I cannot tell how tall, and he is wearing tight, corduroy jeans, and a very sensuous Chamois shirt. His hair is well groomed, and he has very finely chiseled features. I also notice the nice curve of his bottom as he plants it into the seat. I begin to wonder who he is, where he is going, and why? Is he going to visit a friend? Is it a man or a woman? I can’t take my eyes off of this handsome young man, and I begin to fantasize how he would look without his clothes. I begin to feel exceedingly warm as I look at him. My heart begins to race and my breathing becomes more rapid. I feel an almost irresistible impulse to get up and go over to him and start touching him.

The flight attendant comes by with the usual seat belt speech as the aircraft slowly backs away from the gate. The plane slowly taxies among the other planes, some larger, and some smaller, and approaches the taxiway. As the giant silver phallus moves onto the taxiway and increases in speed, the thrill begins to build deep within me. The takeoff is my favorite part of the flight. The pilot comes on the intercom and announces that we are fourth in line for takeoff. I watch admiringly as the other phalluses rumble into life and thunder down the runway. Finally, it is my plane’s turn to rend the air with its mighty thrust. I feel a familiar stirring in my groin as the massive jet engines roar into their full potency and the gleaming, strong symbol of masculinity pulses and thrusts itself upward into the welcoming openness of sky in a burst of orgasmic power. Once airborne, and the plane begins to feel becalmed, the post coital lull settles over my co-travelers as they settle in for a long flight, just as lovers settle into sleep after a passionate session of lovemaking.

I feel exhausted, and begin to play the scene over yet again in my mind that took place in the hotel room next to me that robbed me of my sleep, savoring the experience and frustrated that it was not me in that room:

I was in my hotel room and I was awakened a short time after drifting off to sleep by the sound of rather loud music that seemed to be emanating from the room next door. I would have normally tried to put myself back to sleep had it not been for the two male voices that I could barely discern over the music. I moved to the door that adjoined the next room, and the crack in the doorjamb was a good conduit for sound. It was obviously a visitor from out of town, a businessman here for the week. The other voice was that of a waiter that the visitor had picked up in the restaurant downstairs. From the conversation, I could tell that they were strangers, and that the purpose of the music was to relax the young waiter. I continued to listen intently until the room went silent. Curiosity urged me to knock on the door to ask if I could join them, but prudence prevailed. I turned on the TV and watched the late night pay-for-view soft porn and tried to go to sleep. After a while, I had fallen into a deep sleep, the music had stopped, and the sound of moaning awoke me. I went to my then familiar position at the doorjamb just in time to hear the bed creaking and the visitor earnestly, and passionately moaning. I listened after the moaning stopped, and waited for a sequel.

The young waiter got up and went into the bathroom for something. When he got back, the visitor asked, did you enjoy it?

What? the young man asked with a somewhat annoyed tone in his voice.

I asked if you enjoyed it. Came the response from the older man.

Why do you think that I have this shit-eating grin on my face? asked the young voice still somewhat annoyed.

I just wanted to know. The older man seemed to be trying to return the scene to a more relaxed tone.

A few moments passed, and the young waiter was heard to say I’m just going to put this on myself and then roll you over on your tummy…

I had heard enough. Not believing what had transpired, I went back to bed, and tried once again to go to sleep.

I am jolted out of my reminiscence by the sound of clinking ice, and the constant question "would you like something to drink? We have Coke, 7UP, beer, wine, mixed drinks… The flight attendants have begun cabin