Love on the Wire: A Jamaican Gay Love Story

By Dennis O'Brien

Born and raised on an island paradise, Akime knows that no amount of sun and sand can hide the hypocrisy, hatred, and danger that fill his days. As a gay man in Jamaica, hes skilled at hiding the truth from others. When he meets Nathan, an Adjunct Professor at the University of the West Indies in Kingston, he dares to believe that he has found the one person from whom he has nothing to hide.

For one glorious year, Akime and Nathan live the dream together, even though they must keep their love hidden. They spend weekends on Jamaicas lush and more open north-eastern coast, but Nathan has dangerous secrets of his ownincluding an intensifying relationship with Nicole, an American woman. Without warning, Nathan leaves the island, and Akime, behind to start a new life with her in New York City.

Devastated, Akime decides to follow Nathan to New York, where the former lovers are touched by tragedy. In a desperate moment, one lays dying of a gunshot, and the other must act upon his own mortality. Meanwhile, Nicole has questions of her own about Nathans history with Akime.

Now only time will tell if the man left behind has any hope of happinessor whether the tortured ghosts of his past will haunt him forever.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Jan 29, 2014
• ISBN: 9781491720318

Dennis O'Brien

Dennis F. O'Brien is a private consultant having held senior IT security positions within Bell Laboratories, AT&T, Citigroup and other Fortune 100 financial sector enterprises. Dennis is a well-known technical expert having more than 30 years’ experience in the exploitation of controls, comes to us as a canary to discuss the kinds of “evil things” that can be done using well-intended, generally available, tools and services such as RFID. Examining the big picture and then presenting realistic scenarios, such as destabilizing public faith in the financial services industry or corrupting an asset database through input data tampering, are examples of his work. He is known for his annual predictions of possible mal-events may occur in the near future and what the results might be.

Book preview

Contents

Acknowledgments

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

I dedicate this book to the founder of KasheDance. Without your guidance and inspiration, I could not have completed this work. And to all the Jamaican men who identify themselves as gay, bisexual, fluid, sport, or whatever term they use, I hope I did justice in showing that gay love is real and beautiful. While this book is a work of fiction, it is my hope that it will give us all hope and belief in love.

Acknowledgments

With deepest gratitude I would like to thank every person who has come into my life and inspired, touched, and believed in my dreams, and those who, when I gave up on living, held on to me and allowed me to believe in myself.

I would also like to acknowledge and express my gratitude to the following people for their unconditional support and contributions to my journey and for letting me realize that it isn’t failure if you have learned from the mistake.

To my partner, Kevin, thank you for tolerating my madness, showing me love, and allowing me to be myself. My love for you is undying, and the years we have spent together have allowed me to question love. I now know for sure what love is.

To the creative founder of KasheDance, the lessons you have taught me will be with me for a lifetime. You were sent into my life for a profound reason, and I admire your courage, your strength, and most of all your ability to be who you are. I am happy to have you in my life and helping me define love.

To Romeo, thank you for your friendship, your support, and for letting me believe in myself and learn how to overcome my fears. Your friendship means the world to me. I now know that only fear beats fear, and I promise to show my love. You saw the first draft of this book and took the time to do my first edit, and for that I am grateful. Because of you, London is now my home away from home. I thank you for always telling me the truth. You’re now my new life coach, and you’re good at it.

To Nicole, thank you for all the love you have shown me, for always having my back, and for being a true inspiration to a friend. This journey I am on started because of you and that inspiring conversation you had with me; you let me know I could do better.

To Stafford and Courtney, the two men who are my rock, you both share the same stage together. I had so much doubt when I started Love on the Wire, and you both pushed me to just tell the story how I wanted it to be told. I am who I am because you both showed me unconditional love and saved my life when I had given up on living. You guys are more than just friends; you are the family that has kept me in check, and I am forever grateful for all you have given me.

W & T, while time has passed and we have grown as men, I will never forget the fun times we had and the late-night parties. It was the conversations we had and the fears of living in a foreign country and being who we are that have helped inspire this story. We are examples of proud gay Jamaican men who are successful and who against all odds have come to live the American dream.

To Antoine Craigwell, you didn’t edit this work, but you have always supported me in all that I have done. I am happy to be a part of DBGM, and I am elated that you have the courage to show the world that depression within gay men is a serious mental health issue.

Chapter 1

Within seconds of turning around to tell him I loved him too, I saw Nathan flash a black Glock 23 pistol with a seventeen-round magazine in my face. Moments later, I heard a loud bang and a gush. I felt something pierce the left side of my chest, just inside of my left shoulder. I grabbed my shoulder, and I looked up at Nathan. Then I looked down at my hand, and all I saw was blood. Shortly thereafter, I found myself falling backward toward the kitchen counter.

I convinced myself that I was dead because I could no longer feel my body moving. I was in instant shock. The moment I was in didn’t feel real; it had to be a bad dream. Nathan was not capable of killing anyone, let alone knowing how to purchase a gun from the streets of New York. I had believed his love for me was too deep for him to even consider killing me.

Shortly after falling to the ground, I heard another bang. I felt the wood floor I was lying on shake from Nathan falling not far from where I had fallen. The moment was surreal. The man I had grown to love had shot himself in front of me. I now wished I had died; the bullet had pierced through my shoulder, and the pain was excruciating. I lay on the floor in dead silence, wondering if someone had heard the shooting and called the cops to come to our rescue.

I tried, with great pain, to hold on to my shoulder. I tried to lie on my side to lessen the pain. As I lay motionless with my eyes open wide, I felt tears pouring down my cheeks. I could taste their saltiness. I wanted so much to cry out, to scream, but no sound came from my mouth. I could no longer see anything before me; I saw my life flicker across my mind, and I not only felt pain from the bullet lodged inside me but also the pain I had caused Nathan that had forced him to want to kill me and take his own life.

In that moment of silence, as Nathan lay motionless on the floor, I earnestly needed to know if the man I had known for a significant portion of my life and grown to love was dead. I needed to ask him for forgiveness. I only wished I could turn back the hands of time and love him more and be faithful to him. I needed his trust, understanding, and unconditional love. All I wanted to do in that moment was hold him and tell him how sorry I was for all I had done to him. This wasn’t the life I had planned on living. I knew I had made mistakes and fucked up big time, but my heart was always with him, no matter his anger and rage. He was the love of my life.

I clenched my fist and attempted to move, but my body was numb. I felt no life in my legs. I was now lying on the floor in the fetal position, holding on to my shoulder, trying to cover the wound and not allow myself to lose too much blood. A part of me felt that this was all a dream and another part told me I was dead and this was the afterlife before I met my maker.

As tears flowed from my eyes, I remembered my grandmother and the way she used to cuddle me in the old armchair that rested next to the old coal stove in our kitchen back on the island. In that moment, I was a child once more; it felt so real. It felt as though it was yesterday, and I could vividly remember her holding me in her arms. I could smell the scent of the cocoa butter oil she used to moisturize her skin. She was telling me a story of how much of a man I would become and make some woman happy. She would have been disappointed if she’d lived long enough to find out that I betrayed her dream and made a man happy. Not only had he rocked my world, but I had given him my soul and my core.

I felt more pain from the memory of my grandmother because I had run away from Jamaica, my island paradise, and hadn’t been able to see her in her last days. We had spoken on the phone, but I was afraid she would see the true me and reject me. I did the unforgivable by refusing to attend her funeral. At this very moment, I needed her forgiveness also. I needed her love once more. I desired her soft touch, her comforting words, and her mesmerizing smile. I yearned for her to hold me, to give me her motherly touch, and to make me feel safe and secure once more.

As I lay on the floor with my eyes closed, begging God for his forgiveness and saying a humble prayer, I remembered the first time I had met Nathan. I was eighteen, and he was twenty-six, pursuing a master’s degree in international law at the University of the West Indies at Mona. He had completed his law degree the previous year at the Cave Hill campus but wasn’t ready to start practicing law. I was a freshman, and he was my tutor for international law.

Our eyes met the first time I walked into his small class of only fourteen. I was shy then, and I refused to make eye contact with him. He didn’t have his own office; instead, he used the office of his advisor. I always sat in the back of the small room and didn’t speak unless he asked me a question. While I was fond of girls at the time, something about Nathan struck me, and I wanted to be with him, not intimately, but just to have him hold me. He seemed to have an old soul and spoke with an authoritative tone as a father would.

He knew my name, but he didn’t pay much attention to me in class. I maintained a B average, and for that reason, we were cool. Then I missed classes for a week. The following week he asked me to stay after class. Not only was he upset with me for not attending class, but he was even angrier that my absence had caused me to miss a quiz and forced him to give me an F on it.

I am not sure if I should give you a make-up test, but your grades have been good thus far, and your analyses of the issues are excellent. You just need to pay more attention to grammar and punctuation. His voice was stern, yet something about his tone was commanding, and it evoked something within me.

I wanted so badly to come to class, but something came up, and I had to take a break from school and return to the country, sir. I stuttered a bit, not looking directly at him.

Where are you from? He was busy clearing his desk, which was covered with papers.

I’m from St. Ann, off Simanda Boulevard, close to the town of Ocho Rios. I’m not far from Fern Gully, sir. I had my book bag on, and I was facing the room’s small window in an attempt to ignore his stare.

Stop calling me sir. He now had a stack of papers in his hands, and he was looking at me with his piercing eyes.

So what else should I call you? I gave him a questioning look, but subconsciously I was hoping for something friendly.

Call me Nathan. I’m going to give you a make-up test, but you have to come over to my flat at Taylor Hall. I live in the flats overlooking Butchers Block. He no longer had a stern look on his face; he was now smiling.

What time should I stop by? I attempted to seem disinterested.

Any time after seven thirty. My last class ends at seven o’clock. He was no longer looking at me; he seemed preoccupied with trying to find something in his bag.

Okay, I will. I walked past him and felt a tingling feeling that excited me, which made me feel embarrassed and odd at the same time.

I walked away contemplating if I should go to his flat, knowing full well how I felt about him. I was certain I wasn’t gay. I’d never had sex with a man before, but I just needed him to embrace me with his strong arms. I wanted so badly to feel his warm embrace and for the first time in my life feel the love of a man. There was something within me that sent mixed feelings about my desire for Nathan, which seemed unnatural.

Nathan was six foot one and 190 pounds with a bald head, defined muscles, and a cocoa-toned complexion. His face was oval, and he had a thin upper lip. He had a deep baritone voice, and when he spoke it felt like the earth was shaking. His tone of voice commanded attention and that was what I admired most about him. I didn’t have a father figure at home, and something deep within me said I could trust him, confide in him, and allow him to be my friend.

Later that evening I stood at the entrance of Taylor Hall, contemplating if I should wait for him. I could see the library within walking distance of the entrance of Taylor Hall, and I saw him walking toward me. I felt excitement in my pants. The bulge was huge. It was weird; I had never had sexual desire for a man before. It was too visible, and I had to remove my book bag and hold it in front of me to hide my obvious erection. As he came closer, I saw a smirk on his face—a look that said he was pleased I was an obedient student.

We looked at each other, and he smiled at me. He said nothing; all I did was follow him as he walked toward his flat. His flat was small by American standards, with a standard size bed, two nightstands, and a closet. With little or no furniture, he was a man at heart. He had just the basics.

I sat on a chair in the living area adjacent to the kitchen, and he asked if I wanted something to drink. I normally would decline, but this time I asked if he had a beer. I needed to loosen up. I was nervous. He offered me a cold Red Stripe, and within minutes I had gulped it down.

I see you were thirsty. Or was it that the sun made you dehydrated? He stood next to me, looking at me with his mesmerizing gaze.

A little of both, I guess. I felt somewhat embarrassed; my intention had not been to drink the beer so quickly. I had just been trying to take the edge off.

So let’s get down to business. Did you get the notes from the classes you missed? He was professional yet demanding.

Unfortunately, no. But I do intend to get them.

"Well, you can read mine, and you can borrow my copy of International Relation Theories: Realism, Pluralism, Globalization, and Beyond."

My subconscious told me he being overly attentive. Thanks.

You can sit there and read, and after you are done with the reading, I will give you an hour to rest your brain. Then I will give you the test.

That’s going to be difficult, Nathan. That’s too much stuff to analyze and then take a test on after. I gave him an odd look because there was no way possible I could do so much in one evening.

Well, it’s your call. The ball is in your hands. His choice of words was somewhat seductive yet quite assertive.

After I read his notes and the eight Chapters of text, I was exhausted. He saw the tiredness on my face and offered me his bed. While I was reading, he had taken a long shower. He sat on his bed, quietly marking papers. The door to his bedroom was open, and I could see him.

I accepted his offer and lay next to him, thinking about him holding me, not in a sexual way, just a comforting one. Beres Hammond’s Love on the Wire was playing in the background. Without realizing it, I drifted off into a deep sleep. I felt very at home in his space.

When I woke up, apparently hours later, the room was so dark I could barely see the black on my skin. I looked around to see if I could find a clock, and I saw the flickering lights on his VCR; it was 3:38 a.m. A rush of blood flowed directly to my head, and immediately I had a headache. I questioned if I should leave or stay. I turned slightly onto my back, but he was nowhere close to me.

I heard voices of rowdy men outside the room playing cards or having a lime. Liming was a typical pastime on campus. It was a Trinidadian word that meant a group of people coming together and having a discussion. I wanted so badly to leave, but I knew it would look bad or rather odd if I were to walk out of his room like that. So I stayed, wanting the game to end so the other guys could leave and allow me to make my exit.

At 5:17 a.m., it was all over. I heard him shut the door and put the double bolt on the bottom grill. The lights beyond the door flickered, and I heard him making soft steps toward his room. He didn’t turn on the lights. I heard when he took off his shirt, pulled off his pants, and then threw them on the metal chair next to his closet. I yearned so badly to turn around and see his naked body, but I was scared.

I felt the shift of the bed when he pounced next to me. He gently pulled back the sheets and covered himself. I cleared my throat to indicate I was no longer asleep.

You seemed so peaceful sleeping; I didn’t want to disturb you, man. It’s okay. You have spent most of the night. You can leave when the sun rises if you want. He sounded seductive. I questioned if it was his sleepiness or the liquor he had consumed that was talking.

I wasn’t sure if I should say yes or if I should roll over and ask him to hold me. I lay in silence next to him.

I just felt that you missed my class because you had troubles at home and you needed an escape. This overly protective mannerism was so endearing and attractive that it made it so difficult to turn down his offer or even to read into it.

Tears flowed from my eyes; he was right. I was about to lose my scholarship, my mother had just lost her job, and my sister had just moved back home after leaving her husband. My finances were tight, and I could barely manage. It was as though he had read my mind and was piercing my soul.

Akime! Are you still awake? His voice was concerned, and I could sense his desire to comfort me.

Yes, I am, I said, unable to mask my sobbing.

Is everything okay with you? Do you want to talk? He was now lying on his back, and though he was still, it was obvious that he would not end the conversation.

It’s all good, man. I am sorry for impeding on your personal space like this. I was now very emotional and felt I should leave, but the voice within me insisted I stay, hoping this man could hold me and comfort me.

It’s no problem, man. If you need someone to talk to, I am always here for you. His tone was reassuring, and that made all the difference.

Thanks, man, I said with so much confidence and conviction. It was as though all of my problems were resolved just because he cared.

There was a brief silence, and I found myself moving closer to him, hoping he would hold me. He sensed what I was doing, and he turned around and hugged me. It was more than a hug; it was a warm embrace that made me feel secure and comforted. At that moment, I felt a heavy weight lift from my shoulders. It was my first time being hugged by a man. Not even my uncles had ever given me such a warm masculine embrace. I didn’t have an erection, and I didn’t feel one from him either. For the first time in my life, I knew what intimacy meant. I didn’t desire him in a sexual way, and I knew then that I had found a friend in him.

My back was turned toward him, and I lay in the fetal position. He had a long conversation about sexuality and comforting one another and not misconstruing those emotions with homosexual tendencies. Before touching me, he reminded me that he wasn’t gay and that I should not take what he was about to do out of context. I reassured him that I had never thought of him as gay and that I respected him for holding me and comforting me in silence without asking me about my problems. He held me the same way animals in the wild hold on to their babies. Not only was it animalistic in nature, but it was comforting and sensual at the same time.

As the night slowly drifted into daylight with Luciano chanting, Sweep over my soul, in the background, I fell asleep in the arms of the man who would later become my lover and my best friend. Who could have known that he would one day take his life and attempt to take mine as well? If only I could have turned back the hands of time. I wouldn’t have followed him to New York. I would have gone to London or somewhere far from him.

Chapter 2

It was the beginning of spring; the flowers were just starting to sprout out of the earth. The trees were bursting with buds, and pollen floated through the air. The earth was still damp from the heavy rain we had two days earlier. For the last week, I had been eager to attend to my tulips, hyacinths, and lilies, which had fully grown in my back garden. Spring for me brought about a sense of newness, renewal, and rebirth. The days weren’t as short, and it brought one back to being at peace with God and his creation.

In mid-April for the past three years, Nathan and I had taken the Metro North to Poughkeepsie, New York, to stay in the cabin of one of our friends for a weekend away from the city. The cabin was in the deep woods and had the luxury of a fireplace and a lake. The mornings were cold, but the evenings were the best. We would cuddle in a blanket his sister made as our wedding present, sit in a huge swing, and watch the sunset.

The view of the sun’s colors changing from yellow to amber to purple was majestic, and it reminded us both of Jamaica. We would lay in silence, most of the time in deep thought, or we would chat about the days on campus when we took weekend retreats to Negril. Negril was a tourist resort town about an hour and fifteen minutes drive from Sir Donald Sangster International Airport in Montego Bay. Located in the parish of Westmoreland, which was the westernmost parish in Jamaica, it was located on the south side of the island. Negril and the north coast had been our escape from the real world. No one knew we were lovers, not to mention the fact that he was my tutor.

Today was the day we were supposed to take the train at Grand Central Station to Poughkeepsie, but there we were, lying on the floor of our kitchen.

The air was dead and filled with the smell of blood and cinnamon from the air freshener we used in the kitchen. The air outside was moist, and the sun’s rays beamed through the huge kitchen window overlooking the sink.

We resided in a three-story brownstone in the heart of Crown Heights, Brooklyn, in the middle of the Hasidic Jewish community. We lived off Bergen and New York Avenue. We had bought the house together four years ago and then painfully refurbished and brought it up to scratch. We had done as much as we could on our own. For the first two years, we had not had much furniture, but the most important thing was that it was our own and we had each other.

To make ends meet, we did the basement first and rented it out, as most homeowners in the area did. The one area we didn’t neglect was our retirement fund in case we needed extra funds to sustain our lives when we got older.

The houses on the block shared side walls. I assumed someone would have heard the gunshots and called the cops. The neighborhood was a typical Hasidic community with a mixture of blacks, and crime was minimal. Someone had to have heard something, or they were just neglecting to find out what the loud noise was all about.

I was still unable to move. My entire body was paralyzed, but my mind was very much still alive. For some reason—I was not sure if it was shock—I was unable to hear sounds coming from my mouth. I heard my mobile ringing, and I knew it was Warren calling to tell us he was downstairs and ready to pick us up to take us to the train station. We lived in an area close to mass transit. Trains were a reliable means of transportation, and we had both decided we didn’t need a car, so we relied on the New York Metropolitan Transportation Authority (MTA) to get around. I figured Warren would just leave because he had been running late and we had threatened to take a cab if he did not arrive in twenty minutes, for which he was forty-five minutes late.

The mobile stopped ringing, and I heard the sound that indicated a voice mail had been left. Warren had no way to get into our house, so I knew he was going to leave, thinking we had left already. It was Sunday morning, and the tenants downstairs had already left for church, so I had no hope that they had heard anything either. As I lay motionless, I could now feel the warmth of Nathan’s blood as it slowly moved in my direction. My body became numb knowing it was Nathan’s blood and this was the end. The idea that no one might come to my rescue was nerve-racking, yet at the same time I felt relieved that I would die next to Nathan.

Reality hit once again, and I feared the worst. The blood flowing from Nathan’s body had seeped through the cotton Bob Marley T-shirt I wore, and the dampness of my shirt freaked me out even more. It also brought back more memories. I remembered the day we got married in Canada in a secluded nature park. We both got wet because of the water sprinklers. It was fun for both of us, and we had stood before our guests and God and said our vows as we were joined together as one till death do us part. This was what it meant; on this day, we were going to die together, not in each other’s arms but right next to each other. It was at that moment that I realized the inevitable had happened; Nathan was dead.

I was scared, but I wasn’t scared of dying because death was a certainty. It was inevitable; we just never knew our time or place. I was petrified of living. Most of all I was petrified of living without him. Nathan was all I knew, and he was all I had. What would I do and what would I be without him? I no longer saw myself existing without him in my life. I wanted death to take me. I now hoped against anyone having heard the shots and coming to our rescue. I needed the messenger of death to take me away from this misery. I knew God would not allow me to go so easily. There was a lesson to be learned in all of this. If I survived, he was going to make an example out of me so that others would not make the same mistakes I had made with Nathan.

As I lay there pleading for the angel of death to appear, I felt a pain in my soul. How could I change the past? It was inevitable. True love was only a figment of our imagination, and it didn’t last forever like we believed. I had dreamt of the day I would die, and I had seen myself lying next to Nathan. Today was that fateful day.

I heard chatter outside. The neighbors had gathered. I wondered if they had heard anything and come outside to investigate. Our neighbors on both sides of the fence pretty much kept to themselves, and we didn’t have much of a neighborly bond. The lady on the right lived with her husband and three children. The fact that we were gay caused her to frown at us each time she saw us outside. It was so sad because her younger son was gay; he epitomized everything a flamboyant gay man represented. But I assumed she had no clue. I pitied him because I knew the day she found out, he would forever lose her love, and it would kill his soul.

The neighbors to our left were a mixed couple, one black and the other Asian. They were more tolerant of us, knowing both their cultures had looked down on their union. They had two lovely children who were fond of me. During the summer I oftentimes gave them apples from the tree in our backyard. During the winter, they allowed me to take the kids snowboarding a few blocks away in Prospect Park. I saw them often during the summer also. I was a part-time tour guide at the Brooklyn Museum one weekend each month. I enjoyed giving the boys tours of the museum.

At times, Nathan objected to me being kind to the twins. He feared that one day one of the boys would accuse me of touching him inappropriately. Most people have the mind-set that all gay men are child molesters and that gay men find pleasure in having sex with little boys.

I always kept my distance and only played with them in public spaces. In the three years I had been acquainted with them, I had never invited them inside the house, and I dared never to do so. I didn’t fit that stereotype. I was young, black, and gay, and it was a known fact based on my involvement in the community how much I hated child molesters.

Despite that, sadly enough, society—especially the black community—still had a skewed view of sexual abuse of male children. They strongly believed it was the fault of the child, and when the child got older, he too would commit this heinous crime, creating a vicious cycle. I knew my boundaries within society, and I never attempted to cross that line.

The noise outside got a bit louder and closer. My heart skipped a