Sugar Heart

I clamped my hands snugly around my enormous cup of coffee, letting it warm them as I idly absorbed the noises of the bustling shop around me. Friends laughing together, cashiers taking orders, machines hissing, baristas stirring, pouring, squirting fluffy mountains of whipped cream over tooth-achingly sweet creations. These noises blended together with the voices of my mother and father, chatting away across the table.

"You okay, Rich?" my dad asked suddenly.

I looked up from my cup. Mom and dad were both staring at me curiously. "Sorry... kinda checked out for a while there," I mumbled.

"Something on your mind, honey?" asked mom.

I sipped my coffee and hesitated. "Yeah," I said weakly. "I... um... I need to tell you something, and I'm not sure how." I shut my eyes and breathed deeply.

"Has something bad happened?" mom wondered.

"No. I've just been... not quite honest about something... for a long time. And I need to come clean."

After a few moments' pause, mom replied softly, "We're listening."

"It's all right, sport-spit it out," dad added.

I squeezed my eyes tightly shut until they ached. My stomach churned like a washing machine. "Oh... lord..." I breathed, wanting to get up and just bolt from that coffee shop, and never speak to my parents again. I rubbed my eyes. "Sorry... I just... need a moment."

Mom reached across the table and touched my arm. "Richie... I've never seen you like this before! How bad can it be?"

I swallowed. It felt like there was a giant cotton ball in my throat. I lubricated it with a sip of coffee. My eyes wandered over the table. Mom had been idly filling in a crossword puzzle during our visit. I reached out and took her pen, and then grabbed a small napkin. After a few more moments' hesitation I put the pen to the napkin, shielding it with my other arm as if I were completing a test and guarding against cheaters. I wrote slowly in big block letters, "I'M GAY". I looked down at my confession and felt simultaneously empowered and terrified. With slightly shaking hands I folded the napkin in half, slid it across the table toward them, and sagged down, resting my forehead on my arm. I wasn't sure now that I was ready to see the reactions of my very conservative, traditional-values-centric parents.

There was silence at first, and then my father let out a long sigh. I immediately understood the tone of that sigh. It was a sigh of disappointment, impatience, annoyance, exhaustion, and skepticism.

More silence. I couldn't bear it any longer. Hesitantly, I lifted my head. Mom was clutching the napkin in her fist; her other hand covered her mouth. She looked close to tears. Dad was looking off into the distance, his jaw set, eyes flashing. They were both holding back. The one bright spot here was that I'd been right in my instinct to do this in a public setting. I didn't exactly want to bare my soul in a coffee shop with a bunch of strangers nearby and possibly eavesdropping, though this shop was one of my favourite places, always a small source of comfort, especially over the last few months that I'd been rather depressed. I'd debated the matter for some time, but in the end figured that if there were witnesses, I was sure that mom would try very hard not to cry, and dad wasn't likely to yell.

"Somebody say something," I whispered.

Mom crumpled the napkin tighter, her nostrils flaring. She took a few deep breaths, and finally looked at me, her eyes full of pain. "How can this be? You've always... had girlfriends."

I looked down at my hands. "Yeah, well... sort of. I mean... I wasn't exactly... into them. I didn't know how to handle being different." I inhaled deeply, and exhaled slowly, rubbing my eyes for a few moments. "I was a jock. All my friends were jocks. So macho, yunno? Always going on and on about 'chicks'... and everything bad or stupid or lame was 'gay'. I liked being popular, so I just... went along."

Dad was still glaring into the distance. Mom shook her head slowly. "I just don't understand," she said sadly. "You never showed any signs of being... that way. You gave us such grief when you were seventeen about letting you go out with that girl Amber we didn't like!"

I flushed with embarrassment. Amber had been the perfect cover for me. She was a beautiful, popular girl, dressed and acted like a promiscuous nymphet, and hung off me in public, stroking my ego and validating my masculinity. Behind closed doors she'd been frigid. I'd made moves on her as I felt was expected of me, despite feeling pretty gross about it, but she spurned my advances. I was never sure if she was uninterested in sex, deliberately teasing me to keep me on her hook, or in the closet like I was, but we'd kept up the game for nearly all of twelfth grade. After grad, we naturally split and hadn't communicated in the three years since.

"Amber... made me feel good about myself," I said cautiously, glancing back up at my mother. "She was the sort of girl everyone at school expected me to be into. We never actually... did anything."

Mom's face twisted into an expression of distaste and dread. "So you... did things... with boys...?"

I dropped my eyes again, and shook my head. "No... never had the guts. I've never... had a boyfriend or even... experimented. But... like..."

"So how do you know?" she pressed. "How can you know you're... that way? Maybe you just haven't met the right girl."

I sighed deeply. "Trust me. There's no 'right girl'."

"Bullshit!" my father hissed, making me cringe. My parents were churchgoing people, and my father almost never swore. "You've been spending too much time on the Internet, is the problem. You never heard about all this 'gay pride' stuff when we were your age! This is a trend and nothing more-these days, everyone who wants to be special, and edgy, and modern suddenly decides they're gay! I can't believe a bright kid like you would fall for that propaganda."

I shook my head slowly. "Dad, come on... it's not like that. The Internet didn't convince me to be gay." I rubbed my eyes and sighed tiredly. "If I absorbed any 'propaganda', it was yours. Seriously, it was the influence of you guys, as well as all the homophobes at school, that made me feel for most of my life that it wasn't okay to be gay. I need to stand up and say 'no' to all that... to find a backbone... to be me, the way I was meant to be. This is me... thinking for myself, finally. This isn't some trend or phase. It's who I am. I was born like this."

"Yeah, and what if every pedophile used that excuse?" he pressed. His voice was beginning to ramp up, and a few heads turned our way. I slid down lower in my seat. "'It's who I am', 'I was made this way'! A pedophile! Huh? We were all born sinners, Richard. If I had urges to go out and shoot people, I'd go get my head examined, not justify it with some weak claim that it's how I was born and meant to be!"

"Dad!" I hissed in a hushed voice. "Please, people are staring." I covered my face with my hands for a few moments, and then let them drop. "That's a false comparison, and a really offensive one. I'm not some kind of predator. Me being gay... it doesn't hurt anyone. My sexuality does not create victims."

"Look at your mother-tell me you aren't hurting her!" dad growled.

I looked at my mother. Her posture had sagged, and she was dabbing at the corners of her teary eyes with my confession napkin. "Richie... honey," she whispered. "If you have... urges... you don't have to act on them. If you're not attracted to women, then maybe... maybe that's a sign that you're predestined to be celibate...?"

I felt as if I were deflating, shriveling up into a dry husk. Now it was my turn to be hurt. "So. I... I'm not entitled to be loved, like anyone else... just because it makes my parents uncomfortable?" I mumbled.

"Please don't twist my words that way," she sighed. "I'm concerned for you-I'm saying these things because I love you!"

I sipped my coffee slowly and shut my eyes, simply feeling exhausted. So exhausted with everyone and everything in my life. "I know you care about me, and you're worried about my soul and everything," I said as patiently as I could. "But my beliefs are different from yours. I'm all grown up, and you gotta let me go. You gotta let me have my own beliefs and values. You didn't decide to be straight-I didn't decide to be gay. I don't buy for a moment the idea that the way I feel love is some kind of perversion, and to suggest such a thing... it tears me apart. What you're calling 'love'... it's hurting me, mom."

"Stop playing the victim!" my father exclaimed, placing a protective arm around my mother as he continued to shoot darts at me with his eyes. "You've made a lifestyle choice. We don't approve of that choice. Give us a call when you come to your senses. Until then, your mother and I don't want to hear any more about this!" He stood up, pushing his chair back noisily, and helped my mother to stand. She leaned weakly against him, sniffling, and together they left the shop.

I stayed at the table, feeling empty and numb. Maybe my mother would get her way, and I'd be celibate the rest of my life. I felt pathetic-twenty years old, single, a virgin, living alone in a crappy apartment and barely scraping by with a job I despised. Once I'd been the popular guy, the star athlete, teen heartthrob to all the girls I didn't want. Now I was a nobody, barely venturing one foot out of the closet and already scarred from the experience.

I wanted a boyfriend desperately, but I didn't know how to get one; I didn't know how to be gay. The idea of flirting with a guy was terrifying. Maybe I would have to just creep back into the closet and go back to faking my way through life. That, or meet someone online like a loser. Maybe it wouldn't be the end of the world. The Internet provided a certain amount of anonymity. I could find someone who was as pathetic and desperate as I was, and take my time revealing my identity. But who would want someone pathetic and desperate? I wouldn't. How could I expect them to want me?

"E-excuse me... are you d-done with that?"

The question pulled me out of my reverie, and I glanced up to see a familiar blue apron with the shop logo on it. One of the employees stood next to my table. I frowned. This was a coffee shop-the staff weren't usually so eager to clear tables.

"Uh... no," I said, mildly irritated. I'd been here a while, certainly, but my cup still had coffee in it. I wrapped my hands around it.

"Oh. S-s-sssorry," he stammered. "Well... you can st-stay a few more... m-minutes, I guess."

I furrowed my brow and glanced around. It had gotten dark outside, and all the other patrons had left the shop. It was just me, and the staff cleaning off tables. "Oh... shit," I murmured, glancing at my phone to check the time. My mouth fell open a little. I'd been sitting here for hours and had had no idea. The guy was trying to politely kick me out. "My bad. I'll get outta your hair." I picked up my cup, made sure the lid was secure, and stood.

"Uh, hey...!" the boy in the apron blurted out before I could walk away. "Do you like... cookies?"

I furrowed my brow at him. "What?"

He held out a small brown bag that bulged with the promise of several cookies. "No charge. They're j-just going to th-throw them out... anyway."

"Oh. Okay. Thanks, I guess." I took the bag, thinking a few cookies might help ease the pain of my miserable day. I'd been feeling insecure about my body recently as I'd put on a few pounds-fat, not muscle-and wasn't quite the ripped football stud I'd been at the height of my high school athletics days. At the moment, however, the temptation to eat my feelings was outweighing my desire to discipline my body back to its former glory. I might even eat them with ice cream.

I felt heavy as I walked outside. My feet dragged as if they had lead weights strapped to them. I let out a long groan as I slumped into the driver's seat, dropping my coffee cup into the nearest cupholder and flinging the bag of cookies onto the seat next to me.

"Fuck!" I growled, slamming my hands against the steering wheel. "Fuck, fuck, fuck!"

I clenched my hands into fists and pressed them against my eyes, finally feeling the flood of grief I couldn't give myself over to inside that coffee shop. During the months it had taken me to psych myself up to come out to my parents, I'd convinced myself that what they thought really wouldn't matter in the end. Now I was realizing just how much it mattered to me. I didn't want it to matter-I wanted to be strong enough to embrace who I was despite the challenges along the way-but their reaction, expected as it was, had broken me a little. I couldn't stop thinking of the anger and disgust shown to me by the man who had patiently taught me to ride a bike, throw a ball, and drive a car. I probably wouldn't ever forget the heartbreak in the eyes of the woman who had held me in her arms, soothed me to sleep with lullabies, and lovingly placed Band-Aids on my scraped knees. I'd alienated the people who had scraped together every spare dollar to take me to Disneyland for my eighth birthday, made every effort to attend as many of my sports games as possible, and helped me pay for my first car. They had been my mommy and daddy, and now they were just two old people who were too disgusted by the man I had become to talk to me anymore.

I felt like crying, but it wouldn't come. I simply wasn't a crier. Instead I sat and seethed and trembled, occasionally swore, and then at last started up my car and left the parking lot, breathing raggedly.

I reached for that little paper bag as I drove home, fishing out one of the cookies and shoving it, whole, into my mouth. It was a simple sugar cookie, nothing special, but it temporarily filled a void. I washed it down with the dregs of my cold coffee.

Nearly everything went wrong that night. When I arrived at my apartment complex, my gate opener for the underground parking refused to function. I sat idling for a few minutes, hoping someone would come or go so I could sneak in, but finally gave up and turned around to park on the street. There was very little space available, and I ended up having to walk nearly three blocks to get back to my building. I clutched the little bag of cookies as I walked, huffing and swearing under my breath.

When I got inside, there was a sign on the elevator proclaiming it to be "OUT OF ORDER". I already felt like a hobbled zombie, and now I would have to drag myself up six floors. I cursed the elevator and its ancestors and inhaled another cookie as I began the agonizing ascent.

I felt like death's arthritic grandfather as I finally reached my floor. I could barely lift my heavy feet. I shuffled to my door and let myself in with a heavy sigh, kicking off my shoes. Ice cream was an absolute necessity at this point. A steady groan rumbled up from my throat as I stumbled into the kitchen, dropping the cookie bag on the counter next to the fridge.

Then I stepped in something wet.

"Shit... ohh shit," I breathed, pulling my foot out of the cold puddle. I looked up and found my freezer door sitting several inches ajar.

"Noooo!" I moaned, wrenching it open fully and finding the contents almost completely thawed. My freezer door had been having issues sealing properly-it was fine if I pushed it firmly closed and took a moment to make sure it stayed, but apparently I'd neglected to do so this morning when I'd been in a rush grabbing a pair of Eggos for my breakfast.

"Son of a bitch!" I growled. "You stupid idiot!"

I grabbed two pints of Ben & Jerry's out of the door rack-Cherry Garcia and Half Baked-and squeezed them gently. Completely melted.

"Goddamn fucking hell!" I roared, flinging the wasted pints into my sink. Fuming, I threw a handful of kitchen towels onto the puddle on the floor and fished out a trash bag to empty the entire perished contents of my freezer, which included several thick steaks I'd been looking forward to barbecuing. I tied the bag tightly and left it next to my door, not having even a fraction of the energy it would take to carry it down six floors and back up again.

"Moron," I lamented, grabbing the cookie bag and staggering to my couch. "Such a moron!"

I turned on the TV and watched numbly, pulling a blanket around myself. I took a cookie out of the bag and looked at it. It was heart-shaped. I glanced into the bag. They were all in the shape of hearts. I pressed the cookie against my chest, where my own heart would be.

"Tin Man," I mumbled to myself. But no-that wasn't right. The Tin Man didn't have a cookie heart. Gradually I pictured an ancient, white-haired man holding the cookie-it was Vincent Price-and then it dawned on me that I was remembering a scene from the movie "Edward Scissorhands". When was the last time I had even seen it? I loaded up Netflix, found the film, and started it playing. I slowly ate my way through the rest of the heart cookies as I let the sweet, sad story take me away.

Halfway through, I started to hear the girl in the next apartment moaning away. The walls were about as soundproof as cardboard. I turned up the volume on my TV, but I could still hear her. Soon her boyfriend started up, groaning and grunting as she caterwauled, as if they were both determined to rub their raucous fucking in my face. I had become somewhat accustomed to this over the last few months, but tonight I had zero patience for being so explicitly reminded of how regularly and spectacularly my neighbours were getting laid.

"Shut the hell up!" I shouted, turning to slam my fist against the wall a few times.

Laughter-I heard laughter. They giggled and said a few things I couldn't hear, and then started up again, even louder and more exaggerated than before. Their bedsprings squeaked frantically.

"Oh yes, oh yeah, your cock makes me so hot!" the girl shouted. "Fuck me harder, baby!"

"Fuck yeah, baby!" the guy bellowed. "Take my big hard dick! I'm totally fucking your sweet wet pussy! I'm gonna make you cum so hard!"

"Yeah, fill my pussy with your cum!"

I growled and turned the TV even louder.

"Assholes!" I muttered. They sounded like a terrible porno. Virginal as I was, I was reasonably certain real people didn't talk like that during sex. I reached into the paper bag for another cookie, but the bag was empty.

* * * * * * * * * *

* * * * * * * * * *

My phone alarm woke me in the morning. I'd fallen asleep in front of the TV in a very awkward position, and my neck and back were stiff and sore.

"Son of a..." I groaned, peeling myself up off the couch. I stumbled into the shower and stayed perhaps too long; the hot water was soothing, and I got a bit carried away taking care of something else that was stiff. I recalled having an intensely sexual dream about a pale-faced, innocent-eyed Johnny Depp, which, fortunately, had NOT featured scissors in any way.

Johnny Depp. Nice cheekbones... sweet, innocent mouth. I wrapped my fist around the base of my hard cock and slid it up to the tip, wrapping my fingers briefly around the blushing, bulbous head, teasing myself a little, and sliding that fist firmly back down with a satisfied sigh. I stroked up and down, increasing my pace, squeezing my balls with the opposite hand. I grabbed some soap and slicked myself up a little.

"Mmmmm..."

My hand moved faster, and my cock throbbed, gleefully lubricated. I preferred a younger Depp, cleanshaven and babyfaced. Such a shame he was straight. I daydreamed about that sweet mouth kissing mine, softly. Kissing a line down my neck, chest, belly... I jerked myself faster, pumping hard, huffing.

I wanted to slow down, let the urge to cum subside a little, and edge till I couldn't bear it anymore, but a little nagging voice in the back of my brain reminded me of work. Another part of my brain insisted this was important. For lack of anything else good in my life, I at least had my own hand and my own hard-on. Maintaining an eager libido in my loneliness and misery was both a curse and a blessing-the lack of a sexual partner in these desperately horny moments emphasized my loneliness, but a good jerk-off session was always a reliable temporary mood-booster. Orgasm: nature's free, organic, zero-risk antidepressant.