Normally, if I give my husband a good, mind-bending blowjob before telling him difficult news, it eases things and I’m likely to get my way – you know, a spoon full of sugar and all that. However, I didn’t get a chance this time. Here I was lying, rather lusciously I might add, in a king size bed, Egyptian cotton sheets carefully framing my tight Bruce Lee fit body, as inviting as any £6000 an hour courtesan could. But instead of coming into the bedroom of our London townhouse, eyes popping from hunger (we had just been apart for three straight months while I was finishing rabbinical school in America) and mouth-watering (fresh pretzels, his favorite food, steaming on the nightstand next to the bed), he entered in with eyes red from anger and a mouth twisted in disappointment. He dropped the half-completed application for a doctorate program at my feet so hard, I thought they’d sheared off my toes.

“I’ll be at my club,” he declared before storming out. Once downstairs, he slammed the door to the street so hard, I could feel it in my heart.

Shit. I had taken the paperwork out just to retrieve the email address of the admissions office. I had a few questions and I reckoned that once answered could help soften the blow. I must have forgotten to put the application packet back in my messenger bag where I had kept it hidden since returning to the UK after my ordination in June. He knew that I wanted to write, not tend to some congregation. But I hadn’t told him that one of my professors had recommended me to a great program that could increase my publishing possibilities three-fold. Angus was rich, very rich and had said he’d “publish whatever you write and buy every single copy” if doing so would make me happy. He didn’t understand that sales weren’t’ what I was looking for – my husband is an astute politician (a member of the House of Lords, after all), a shrewd venture capitalist (did I tell you he was rich and an Earl?), and a brilliant friend and lover (I’d accept nothing less) but he barely graduated from Eton and dropped out of his legacy admission of Oxford. On top of that, religion bored him (last year he fell asleep during Christmas services at our Cardiff estate’s local parish – his aunt Nora was furious when he started snoring!). So, although he was “supportive” of my studies and aspirations, he didn’t get it and had other dreams for our future. He wanted children, three to be precise.

The closer I got to ordination, the more he’d bring it up – during every FaceTime chat, during the weekend visits (he’d fly our private jet, the William Mason, to Philadelphia whenever he could – I did tell you we were rich, didn’t I?), and through video postcards of him playing with my younger sister’s kids. At one point, he even sent me applications for overseas adoption programs and surrogacy organizations. Don’t get me wrong, I love kids. Nothing warmed my heart more than hearing my four-year-old niece yelling “Uncle De De” when I came home to Morganwg, the estate in Cardiff, or hearing my baby nephew giggle when I picked him up. And I know how important it was now that Angus was this shy of thrity-five to have an heir, someone to pass on everything he and his ancestors had sustained while other British aristocrats and European royals had frittered away and diminished ancestry into useless titles. I wanted that too, it’s just, well, I’m four years his junior and still hungry for a bit of fame in my own right.

I decided to cover my disappointed penis with a pair of gray sweat pants and white tee shirt. Then I headed downstairs for a cupper – nothing may be solved by a cup of tea but things never got worse when one was in your hand. When I reached the kitchen, there was my friend and fellow spy colleague, Whitfield sitting at the inlet and my sister Ciara spoon feeding her baby.

“The kettle is still warm.”

I looked at her as if to ask How did you know? but all she did was roll her eyes.

“You two spend more time fussing with one another then days on days making up than any couple I know. Nothing has changed since you first got together, dear brother, only what you need to apologize for.”

“How do you know it’s my fault this time?”

Now it was Whitfield’s turn to roll his eyes. “I’ll go see how the construction is going – make sure Mishiko hasn’t killed the workers.”

He and his wife were supervising the building of an annex to the townhouse we called Churton Place. They, along with my sister and her husband (who used to be a lover of mine – long story but I’m over it) were part of our crew that handled spy campaigns for MI-6’s “Department of Alien Affairs”. We were more in the line of debunkers than Torchwood or Mulder and Skully. Our home space was getting rather tight so we acquired the adjacent buildings to make room for all of us and children, particularly since Ciara was pregnant again and Jenn, the adopted child of Mishiko and Whitfield was entering adolescence. Although we lived more like working class folk from off of Eastenders or Coronation Street - a mismatched family stuck under one roof - usually I loved it – except those times when everyone knew my business before I did. Did I tell you we also have a talking dog and cat?

Baby Eliezer was giving my sister a tough time, and upon seeing me he stretched out his tiny arms for me to pick him up. Ciara nodded and, while I lifted him with nuzzles and kisses, she fixed me a cup of my favorite Glengettie.

“Did he seem really mad?” I asked after settling the giddy child on my lap.

“Yes,” she said plainly. “I mean really Desmond! How could you?”

Ciara only called me by my given name when she was upset with me, otherwise it was my nickname, Deetz. “Did he say anything to you?”

“Right. ‘Hey there sister-in-law, do you know why my husband is postponing parenthood in favor of some doctoral program?’ Not likely!”

“How do you know what it was about?”

My dog, Velvel, sauntered up to me, brushing against my leg – his indication that he wanted to go out for a walk. “I’m sorry Master but even I know why he is mad.”

Ames, my sister’s cat, lazily rose from a spot atop of a decorative shelf to turn over but not before adding, “Really, who knew psychic yelling could be so loud!” The cat laid back down, her back to us.

“In my opinion, Master,” continued Velvel, “if you want to resume intimate relations with the ‘Good One'...”

“Oi! Now I have to take sex advice from my dog!” I exclaimed. “Anyway, is Brandie around? She shouldn’t be subjected to this language.”

My sister shrugged, leaned forward to take the food caked bib from Eliezer. “Tom took her to the park. And anyway, we’ve convinced her that all that noise from your rooms are her uncles playing grown-up tickle.” She put the bib on the kitchen island and poured herself a cup of tea then sat back down.

“If I may continue Master?” asked Velvel.

“I’ve never been able to stop you before.”

The dog ignored my comment. “If you want to return to happy sexual relations with the ‘Good One’, I would suggest a note, a sad face, and a dog in the rain.”

“What?” I replied.

Velvel always referred to Angus as “the Good One”. I never questioned it, but wondered if it was a slight dig. “Leave it to me, Master. I will retrieve him for you,” he said proudly wagging his tail. “Write an ‘I’m sorry note’, like you humans are oft to do and I will bring it to him. He’ll come back with me for certain.”

Ciara shrugged again. “Better than most of your apologies, I’d say,” she said taking the baby from me. “But, if you win him over, keep it somewhat quiet, would you? I’m going to be putting Eliezer down for his nap in a few hours.”

I stuck my tongue out at her and the baby giggled. She left the room and I grabbed piece of paper and pen from the counter. Terribly strange, sad day when your dog, cat, sister and your cock are all in agreement. Once I finished, I folded it up and slipped it into a small, hidden compartment in Velvel’s collar. The chocolate lab wagged his tail as if he was about to go on an important mission for British ground troops on D-Day. “Don’t be too eager. This may not work. How are you going to get him out of his club anyway?” I opened the door to the street and he trotted off proudly on his romantic rescue mission, not answering my question.

“Damn shame, human,” said the ivory colored fur ball curled on the shelf.

One day, when my sister’s not looking, I’m going to kill that snarky cat.

**************************************

I finished my cup of tea, had another one, then went back to the bedroom. It was an early Sunday afternoon and the light patter of the rain against the window and a faint smell of Angus lingering from the night before was making me put more than a little hope into the idea that Velvel’s plan would be successful. Usually,when he got mad at me and went to the club, it would take him a day or two to return home and even then, he’d sleep on the pullout couch in the sitting room downstairs for a night or two before he’d talk to me, let alone touch me. It wasn’t that he was petty but my Angus was a sensitive sort and his heart was easily bruised – as a rule, he didn’t forgive readily. So, the idea that Velvel could get him to come home tonight was asking for a miracle. And if he did come back, what would I say other than what I wrote in my note, “I’m sorry. Please give me a chance to explain.”? Could I really put off my dreams, my life? Yet, he’d taken a chance on me, in more ways than one – marrying a man when he had never had any queer compulsions in the past, putting up with my moodiness, going along with a cross ocean, commuter relationship after being married only a year. Was I being fair to ask him to hold off, change his plans yet again?

I tried to divert the angst by reading Rabbi Johnathan Sacks’ latest book on religious extremism – hardly a beacon of gay support but a modern-day sage of Jewish studies and an excellent writer. I was used to straddling multiple worlds. And as I fell asleep in the large leather chair next to the bed, I wondered how I would get my usual “win-win” out of this situation. I began dreaming almost immediately.

An hour later, “Right,” Angus said, “I see that you really don’t need me.”

His voice startled me awake. He stood there, along with Velvel, dripping rain water all over the wood floor and part of the area rug. I never knew a dog could grin. “I was asleep,” I replied while trying to inconspicuously remove my hand from around my swollen dick and pull up my sweats. “A man can dream, can’t he?”

“Ah, sarcastic as usual,” Angus groaned unpleasantly. “I’ll just get a pillow.” 

He leaned over me to get one off the bed but Velvel’s bark and low growl stopped him. “Master is stupid and sometimes selfish, as you knew when you married him. Let’s not drag this out and make the whole house miserable. It is a pleasant, rainy day to love each other. Get to it.” Velvel stuck his snout in the air and trotted out the room with the command of a determined schoolmaster. If he had hands, he would have closed the door.

We were at that awkward moment where it isn’t clear who should speak first and of course, hating the silence, I spoke up with my foot still in my mouth. “I gotta work on that dog’s manners.”

“He’s doing better than you. At least he didn’t lie to me.”

“I’m sorry, really I am. I was going to tell you! I was just waiting until the right moment.”

“And that was going to be when? When is it a good time to tell your husband, ‘Oh, honey, I’m going away AGAIN!’! And according to those papers, you’re already accepted into the program!”

“Yes, well,” I stammered, “I am uncertain that particular program is what I want.

I just wanted to see if they’d take me.”

“What? At another school in America? Another five years?”

“Two actually. I could do my research and writing here.”

“Gee thanks!” Angus walked around me like I had a contagion and sat on the corner of the bed. “Two more years of traveling back and forth, with me half the time spent trying to get past the jet lag and the other half with you finishing some assignment. Only for you then to come back home and lock yourself onto the computer for god knows how many years – I think not! Deetz Mac Innes-Reese, I need a full-time husband not some part-time, weekend shag.”

I decided not to comment on how good of a lay I was – the good therapist said this was called “deflection”, something I did when I was nervous and when I was wrong. “I love you. I’m sorry.”

“You love me? Then why don’t you want to be with me?”

I took in a deep inhale. “I do! When I’m gone, when you’re not around, I miss you. I miss being with you terribly.” I was looking at my hands, rubbing them together as if I could get my guilt off my palms. “It’s just that you have your fame and purpose – an earldom, a seat in Lords, a legacy – I need something of my own, something I can pass on to our kids.”

“You have the team, our crew. You are the undisputed leader, having got us out of many a scrap. Damnit man, you’ve saved my life a half a dozen times now!”

I shook my head. “That’s not about me. That’s about all of us, all of us working together - bringing all our talents into play. I have never thought of my role is as some strong man but as a guide or organizer, making sure we bring all we have to making the mission work.”

“Speaking of ‘the mission’,” Angus said while taking some folded papers from the inside pocket of his trench coat, “Stone reached out. We’re to meet her at Morganwg on Tuesday.”

Stone was our MI-6 handler and that she was meeting us at the estate in Cardiff meant Angus’s Aunt Nora was involved somehow. “Where are we going?”

“Greenland.”

“Huh?”

Angus shrugged. “That’s all Stone said. And Aunt Nora has already purchased a ship.”

“A yacht?”

“No, a ship, a refurbished ice-breaker. Where we’re going, the only airport is U.S. military and they don’t want us drawing any attention to ourselves.”

“And an ice breaker won’t?”

Angus smirked, “It’s probably another project my aunt jumped into. You know how she is.” Angus had long ago given up on trying to stop his aunt from ensuring we had, what she called, ‘proper travel accommodations’ – everything from a luxury jet that was the envy of several Arab billionaires to Sugar, the £10.5 million recreational vehicle. “It is sounds like it will be a while before you can start your doctorate studies anyway.” He shuffled the pages in his hand before offering them to me. “I ran into Lord Rossberg while I was at the club.”

“Yeah?” Rossberg was a very well-connected MP and Orthodox Jew who represented a spot in the Oxford county. He was a friend of Angus’s father but not exactly a fan of the younger Reese’s marriage choice. “Surprised he even spoke to you.” I unfolded the papers but didn’t quite understand what they meant.

“He is a man of his word and he owed me a favor. I helped with some investment problems he had a few years back. I called in my marker.” Angus paused, giving me a moment more to comprehend the document’s meaning. 

“Angus, these are acceptance papers to King’s College.”

“Yes.”

“King’s College Theology & Religious Studies program. One of the most prestigious in Europe!”

“I know. But you wouldn’t start until next winter and we’ll have to stay in London most of the year, which won’t make Aunt Nora happy . . . .”

I interrupted him with a huge hug. “How did you do this?”

“Rossberg’s on their board. And as such, he can host a handful of students each year. It didn’t hurt that I promised a hefty donation as well.” 

I looked at Angus, tears swelling in my eyes. “I don’t know what to say,” I whispered. My clairsentience skills showed me that he went to his club not just because he was mad at me but to look for Rossberg and if the man hadn’t been there, he would have hunted him down to get the deal done. Velvel found him leaving the place and escorted him home after insuring Angus read my note.

He moved over to me. “I know how important this is you to you, being a rabbi, a theologian – it’s all you have really wanted since we were kids.” 

“That and you,” I added.

Angus blushed which caused him to pause a moment, remembering the stuttering starts and stops that infected the early moments of our relationship. Once refocused, looking at me directly, eyes stern he then added, “No more lies of commission or omission. And when we get back from Greenland, we commit to either surrogacy or adoption and get started. I’m not getting any younger and don’t want to attend my son or daughter’s graduation while toddling on a cane!”

“That’s fair,” I said but didn’t know what to do next. My usual M.O. was to turn everything into something sexual. Maybe it was time that I grow up. “Your pretzels are cold and stale now. I’ll make some more.” I got up.

But it seems Angus was just as addicted to our usual form of reconciliation. Before I could fully get to my feet, he grabbed my hand. “Ah no, sir. You don’t get away that easily!” He pulled me on the bed rather harshly. “You’ve been very bad, downright naughty, and deserve punishment.” He leaned over and tugged at my twisted tungsten slave necklace – a piece he darned on me before the wedding and after signing a generous pre-nup. “You need to be returned to your proper place in this relationship.”

“And where is that, may I ask, Your Grace?”

He pushed me down on my back flat on the bed and straddle me, leaned down then said in a husky tone, “Under me.”

“Of course, Your Grace!”

Ciara is right. We always ended up here after a row, in messy, sweaty, loud sex. So, after several minutes of hot French kissing that would embarrass any Parisian, I pushed him off just a bit and nodded at the open door. He reluctantly got up and closed it but immediately came back and stood over me like Burt Lancaster in the resolute beach scene in From Here to Eternity. Angus knows about my old movie addiction and plays his leading man role to the hilt. While undressing, he watched me with those steamy emerald green eyes of his. I’m no sissy faggot pretending, fawning like some queen acting through a well-staged drag show. We’re more like those “straight acting” types every gay man dreams of. But, at that moment, being Deborah Kerr laying in the sand wasn’t such a bad idea.

My husband is a yummy piece of man who looks like a figure ripped from the cover of a romance novel - long auburn hair, broad chest, and all. But my heart doesn’t sing simply because he is handsome and sexy but from a deep love I’ve had for him since we were kids – he is the love of my life. And I hate myself whenever I hurt him – sometimes I’m a selfish, daft cow.

“Stop it.”

“What?”

Angus sat up on the bed to finish undressing. “You’re still beating yourself up. Stop. It’s over.”

“I’m always fucking up.”

“Yes, this is true.” He got up and turned on the entertainment system to let some Miles Davis fill the room and then to open the curtains more and light the sandalwood soy candle on the window ceil. “This is why I’m here – to return you to the straight and narrow.”

“You call this straight?”

“No,” Angus said taking off his pants and underwear, revealing a very nicely hard cock, “but I call this good and straight.” 

I grinned even though I’ve seen him naked many times. And it still isn’t old. I turn onto my side, sitting up on my elbow. “I don’t deserve this.”

“No, you don’t. You’re constantly naughty, in need of correction and discipline,” he said in a stern tone, laying down next to me on his back. “However, the fates of Reese and Mac Innes men have been sealed to Crown and one another for nearly 200 years. I will not break that bond.”

“Oh. Okay.”

“And I love the hell out of you, you silly fool!” He reached over, stuck his hand inside my pants and squeezed my ass, likely leaving me a bit bruised. He was teasing though for he knew what I really wanted was his fingers and cock in my ass. 

So, I started kissing his neck, nibbling his chin, and whispering my pleadings in his ear. “Angus, please.” I took hold of his dick, squeezing slightly, feeling the vein throbbing against my palm. “You’re so fine, so wonderful. Please.” I moved down his chest and bit his nipple, hard. He yelped and moaned then shoved the first knuckle of his middle finger in my ass - finally. 

I kept squirming around, trying to get more of his finger inside and the more I did, the more he kept me at bay. He used his other hand to grab me by the tuff of hair on the back of my head, pulling me back. “You’re not the only one who likes to hear the pleading, Deetz. You’re not the only one who finds the demanding lust exciting, exhilarating.” I sat up which meant his finger came out of my ass, creating a quiet, popping sound. I considered the green pupils surrounded by redness and salty water that was falling down his face. “I will never stop you from being happy. You’re right – I don’t get it. Talmud, Torah, I don’t know what it all is or the difference. All I know is that reading it, chanting it, thinking about it gives you a smile that I don’t. And that smile, that joy gives me a bigger hard on than anything else on the fucking planet.”

We looked at each other, probably seeing one other differently than we had before. A shift had happened in our relationship, like at other times - when we decided to sleep together, get married, and stay married. With light rain falling in the background and our hearts beating at the same time, we were at some new space. Somehow things were about to be different, although neither of us could quite say how or in what way. But we were in love all over again.

So what do relatively young men do when they’re in love?

Angus moved around me to get to the nightstand drawer to pull out the lube. I took my pants off and turned onto my stomach while he applied it to my asshole, like a barber preparing to shave you. He massaged me slowly, methodically, as if preparing me for something momentous. When he silently pulled me up by my hips, setting me doggy-style in front of him, I was relaxed, appeased, and longing. He didn’t move immediately. I felt him study me. I sensed him wondering why the brand on my back - a druidic oak key tattooed there when I was a child symbolizing my psychic heritage - was glowing in a dark purple hue rather than the reddish brown like it usually did when we shagged. Likely this was because this fuck was going to be different – more like an adult couple savoring a dinner at Restaurant Gordon Ramsay in Chelsea than two randy virgins at McDonald’s.

Then Angus entered me – slow, steady, fulling and expanding me so that my core shook and my mind instead of my body exploded. Once inside my ass, he did not move but shook and moaned, clenching the sides of my hips like a lifeline. Once he got his composure, he leaned in and ground into the deepest part of my soul. He found and released a piece of me I didn’t know existed. Angus pushed me down on my stomach then laid across my back, going in yet deeper. His heart began whispering entreaties of love and promise – I never felt so deeply cared for. I sighed into the expanse and started shaking, feeling the roar coming from a faultline wider than anything planetary or systemic. I reached behind me and grabbed his head pulling it closer so to hear him growl in multiple languages – my husband was a natural linguist. When a guttural groan started to escape my throat, I buried my head in the pillow while he howled something in French, starting to plow me like his life depended on it. It was glorious and now I appreciated why I needed to get some sound buffering for the bedroom.

Before finally falling asleep, we made love like this several times, not stopping until the rain ceased outside and the moon rose. Sometimes it takes several attempts before forgiveness is complete.