The year Paul turns 40, his friends Wendy and Eve ask him to help them get pregnant. Nothing about the process feels natural to him. But for a gay man of a certain age, making a family still means finding your own way through a world with few ready answers. The 18-month journey reveals many insights about Paul’s past and present, from his strained relationship to his father, his overprotective relationship with his partner Michael, and the many friends around him whom he considers his family.
Alan and I met in the spring of 1994.
I had come out to myself (and my sister) in September of the previous year. At that time, my mother had been dead six months. Gone with her was any semblance of a normal life, so it was becoming increasingly difficult for me to look into the mirror and ignore what I saw. My sexuality was happy to keep my sadness company.
“Cool.” That’s what my sister said when I called her up to tell her in her dorm room at Trent. “Janet’s older brother is gay,” she added, referring to the bassist in her band.
By then I was 22 and in university, taking the train downtown to Concordia and hanging around the Village when I didn’t have class. I was pursuing a degree in journalism, which I had begun to doubt was for me. I never wanted to get the scoop or chase the story; all I wanted to do was research in the bars along Sainte Catherine Street East.
“Can you be a professional homosexual?” I asked Kate one day. “Could someone do that for a living?” The people publishing Fugues, the gay monthly I discovered coming out of a bar one night, seemed to have made a career of it. At home, I read the magazine cover to cover behind my bedroom door, my dad downstairs watching TV.
Whenever I was home, I avoided my father. I couldn’t stand the look of grief, the loneliness on his face when he tried to engage me: Hi son, how was your day? What time will you be home for dinner? His pain reminded me of my own. With Kate away at school, our big house was now home to only my father and me. It was hard to be there, alone with him, in that dark cavernous space with all of its complicated memories. I began to go out at night, even if I had nowhere to be. I just needed to get out of the house.
On some occasions, I’d stay out until the bars closed and take the night bus home; other times, I’d pack a book in my knapsack and wait at a coffee shop for the morning trains to start up. The next night I’d be back at the bars, chatting up the few people I recognized from going out as much as I did. These young men seemed nice enough, but I would hardly call them friends. They were like classmates, associates, pretty faces who would humor me and my silly jokes. One of them was a Psychology student named David. He grabbed me one night, as I was about to leave the bar, and kissed me by the coat check. He invited me home with him.
When we got back to his place in NDG, I found out he lived with his parents and younger sister. He led me downstairs to his bedroom in the basement where we had quiet, anxious sex in the dark. “You can’t be here when my folks wake up,” he said, before I had even caught my breath. He turned on the lights so I could get dressed, and then ran me up the stairs and out the door. It was my first time. It was clumsy, over so quickly.
Over the next month, I continued to see David. The subsequent hook-ups were not much better than the initial encounter, still dull and tepid. He’d invite me over when no one was home or arrange for us to use one of his friend’s apartments. One afternoon, while his parents were out shopping, he said he wanted me to fuck him. I’d never done that before. I didn’t know what to do. David got on top of me and slid down my cock. I panicked inside him. “But I’m not wearing a condom,” I said.
Afterwards, David insisted that what we had done was safe. “Relax,” he said, when I still seemed bothered. “You’ve never been with anyone—and the top can’t catch anything, so you have nothing to worry about.”
The whole thing made me feel ashamed and unsure. But it didn’t stop me the next time we got together, or the time after that.
One day, while reading the April edition of Fugues, I noticed a call for volunteers for the city’s Gay Pride celebration in August. Even if it wasn’t a paid position, helping to produce Montreal’s Pride parade would put me closer to my goal of being a professional homosexual. I took note of the date and time of the meeting, and asked David if he would come with me.
The organization’s offices were on the second floor of an office building on Saint Laurent. The room was half full when we arrived, about 25 people standing around metal folding chairs that had been arranged in rows. I hung out at the back with David and watched the room fill up as we waited for the meeting to start.
“It’s all older men and lesbians,” he said, disappointed.
I found the mix interesting. I only ever saw boys my age in the bars I went to, but here there were men. Handsome men, like the older one with the shaved head at the front of the room who led the meeting.
“Bonjour tout le monde, I’m Alan,” he said, alternating between French and English. “Thank you all for coming out to learn about this year’s march and what you can do to make it a success.”
He started off with the backstory for those of us who didn’t know—about how the parade began in response to a police raid on an after-hours party called Sex Garage. Montreal police had taunted the partygoers as they broke up the event, leading to multiple arrests and beatings. “I still have the scar,” he said, rolling up the sleeve of his blue plaid shirt to show us the gash on his forearm. “So you see, the police aren’t our friends. We’re going to need help with security on the day. And we’re going to need your help in getting word out too—making calls to make sure we reach as many people as possible.”
Alan listed all the jobs that were available.
“You sure you want to do this?” David asked, once the meeting was over. “Sounds like a lot of responsibility to me. I’d rather be partying.” David picked up his coat. We had plans to get to the bar before cover charge. “You ready to go?”
“You go ahead,” I said. “I’ll catch up with you later.”
I waited until Alan was alone and then went up to introduce myself. “Crazy about your arm,” I said.
Alan smiled, and lifted it again to show me. “Twelve stitches,” he said, running his finger along the smooth line of flesh. “Looks worse than it feels.”
“I’d like to help out,” I said. “I don’t think I’d be good with parade security, but I can help with other things. I know computers and I’m a pretty good writer.”
“How old are you?” he asked.
I told him. “I live in Pointe Claire with my dad, but I go to Concordia—so I can come by after class or on weekends, or on Fridays when I don’t have school.”
Alan searched for a pen and wrote down his phone number on a piece of paper. “Why don’t you come by the office on Saturday?” he suggested. “You can help me with the press list.”
That Saturday morning, I got up early and said goodbye to my dad as I headed out the door. “Be back late,” I shouted, and then ran to catch the train into town. When I got to the office, Alan was there, in a plain army green t-shirt, tufts of dark hair at his triceps as he sat at a desk in front of an old Apple computer smoking a joint.
“Do you think you could help us build a media list?” he asked. He led me to a pile of local and national newspapers and magazines on a folding table nearby. My job was to go through them and locate any stories about gay rights in Canada and around the world and then clip them out and put them into a binder.
“Do you know Excel?” he asked. I nodded. He led me to another square computer and showed me where he wanted me to enter the names and contact info of any journalists I came across that might be sympathetic to our cause.
That day, I spent two hours reading, clipping and recording names. I came back the following two weekends to new piles and did the same. Mostly, Alan and I kept busy at opposite ends of the room, me reading with my head down while he made phone calls to city officials and gay-owned businesses. Often, random people would buzz the office and come up off the street to chat with him and share a joint. I used to wonder if my dad could smell it on me when I got home, if I got any contact high from being in that room for hours.
Before long, I found myself at the office two or three times a week, stopping by after class or skipping school all together. Alan asked me to help with writing press releases, booking ads and pulling together the content for the program. I learned about how he had grown up in Ottawa and moved to Montreal at 21. “You’d have thought I couldn’t have disappointed my parents more by being gay,” he said one afternoon. “Imagine telling them that I was quitting law school to become an activist.”
After the first month, Alan trusted me enough to give me a set of keys to the office. Sometimes I’d crash there, sleeping on the love seat after heading out to the bars. Alan started to see a pattern in finding me on the tiny couch on Friday mornings, and he’d show up with an extra croissant. “You know, you’re welcome to crash at my place,” he said one morning. “I have an extra bedroom, and I live in the Village. You won’t have to come all the way up here and throw out your back on this shitty couch.”
Alan lived on Plessis Street, half a block south from the bars in the Village. I took him up on his offer. Once. Twice. Three times. Soon, my Thursday night ritual began with stopping by his place for a drink, dropping off my knapsack in his spare room and taking a quick shower before heading out to the bars. Alan would sometimes have a friend over (it was here where I first met Charles), but most of the time it would be just him and me. Alan would take out two Black Label beers from his fridge and we’d sit at the bar in his kitchen and drink and talk and listen to music. Alan played classical music at the office, but at home he’d play Pet Shop Boys. Their album Very had come out the previous year, and he was obsessed with it.
Alan didn’t have an extra key to his place, so he’d leave his back door open on the nights I stayed over, the yellow light on his balcony beckoning me as I stumbled through his backyard to a comfortable bed. He was always asleep when I returned, but he made sure to keep the lamp on in the spare room, two towels on the bed, and several packages of rubbers and lube on the nightstand.
I knew I had his permission to bring someone over, and as much as the thought thrilled me, there was never anyone I wanted to bring back. I had recently stopped sleeping with David, as he’d become entangled with another guy we knew from the bars. Sometimes, though, David would still try to hook up with me. One night, when he found out I had a place to sleep, he tried to get me to take him there. “No,” I said. “It’s not that kind of place.”
He continued to insist. I slipped out when he went to the washroom and went back to Alan’s. I caught him in the kitchen on my way in, a sleepy look on his face, fridge door open, pouring a glass of milk.
“How was your night?” he asked
“Frustrating,” I said, feeling the beer. “I don’t get gay guys. I thought it would be different after coming out. Dating never made sense when it was girls I felt pressured to sleep with. But then, after I realized I was gay, I thought that it would all click into place. That I’d feel more at home in my skin. But I don’t. If anything, I feel skinned alive.”
“How long have you been out now?” Alan asked. “A year?”
“Since September.”
He smiled. “Don’t worry. You’re getting your sea legs.”
“How long was it before you met someone you could trust?” I asked.
Alan shrugged. In his tired face I could tell it was too late for such contemplation. “I don’t know,” he said, and yawned. “It can take time. You’re starting all over again. On your first day of high school, how do you know who’s going to talk behind your back, who’d be happy to go with you to the prom? The great ones stand out from the rest over time. When you meet that person, you’ll know. Just listen to your gut.”
The next morning, my dad intercepted me on the way into the house. “Paul, why are you never home anymore?” he asked, standing in the kitchen doorway. He wasn’t angry, but I could tell he was bothered. “Where do you stay when you go out at night?”
“I’ve been staying at a friend’s place,” I said. “He lives downtown, and it makes more sense for me to stay there if I plan on being out late.”
“Are you sleeping with him?”
“Dad!”
“Well, are you?”
I couldn’t speak.
“You’re going to tell me to mind my own business, aren’t you? But why would you say that if it weren’t true?”
“What does it matter?”
“So, you are.”
“No, I’m not!” I said.
“Paul, just do me a favor, will you? Just be careful out there.”
“Dad!” I was flustered. Was this it? My coming out moment? “I’m not having this conversation with you.”
Over the next week, I tried harder to avoid my father. I thought about moving out, but how could I do that when I was in school and made no money?
The following Thursday night, I showed up at Alan’s place earlier than usual. We were two weeks away from Pride, and it seemed like much of the office had been moved to his house, papers strewn everywhere, an ashtray filled with expired joints next to his computer. Alan was busy, but he found time to put on Very and sit down with me to have a beer before I went out.
Alan yawned. He had been working on the procession order for the parade and could no longer focus. “I think I should call it a night. It’s too hot and my brain is fried.”
It was the end of July and the days had been sweltering. Thankfully, the beer was cold and refreshing. Sitting there, drops of condensation running down the neck of my bottle, I no longer wanted to go to the bar. I realized that part of what I loved most about these nights were our talks in his kitchen. I took my time with my drink. When my beer was empty, I looked at the time. It was shortly before ten. If I wanted to make it to the bar before cover, I’d need to leave soon. Or I could stay. Could I? But what would I say? Hey Alan, can I stay here with you instead? Want to watch a movie?
I brushed my teeth and changed my shirt. Alan was starting Very up for a second time when I waved goodbye and left through his back door. I headed out to the alley and then up to Sainte Catherine Street where I made a right and darted into Sky Club, making it in time to beat the cover charge. I bought a beer, sat down on one of the windowsills near the pool tables, and waited for the place to fill up.
I recognized a few familiar faces, young men who, like me, came out every week without fail. In the distance, I saw the man that David was now dating with two of his well-dressed friends, visibly excited for their Thursday night. Normally, I would go up and say hi, make small talk before moving on, but I didn’t feel like it. I didn’t want to be here anymore. The DJ began to play a remix of one of the tracks from Very. I took it as a sign.
I left my beer on the windowsill and headed back to Alan’s place through the alley. He was in the kitchen as I entered, halfway through another beer.
“Back so soon?” he said. “Forget something?”
I threw myself at him. I grabbed at him with my mouth, all over his face, his neck, my arms pulling up his shirt.
Alan laughed as he kissed me back. “Easy, easy,” he said. “What’s the rush?”
I slowed down and let his kisses lead the way. Soon, his passion overtook mine.
It felt great being touched by Alan, his hands pulling my face, my body, close to his. This is the stuff, I thought to myself. This is the electricity I’d been waiting for. I loved the bitterness of his tongue, the warmth of his breath and the smell of his sweat. I reached for his shorts, and he pulled away.
“Follow me,” he said. He led me into his bedroom. I reached to switch the light off, but he grabbed my hand. “No,” he said. “Leave it on.”
Alan sat me on his bed and went down on his knees. He popped open my button fly and pulled down my shorts. Time slipped away as I disappeared in his mouth, my head rolled back, my body losing its shape in a profound blaze of roaring pleasure. When it was over, I came harder than I had ever did with David, falling back onto Alan’s sheets in a giddy exhaustion. “Wow,” I said, almost laughing. “Can we do that again?”
Alan was breathing hard too. He lay down on the bed, next to me. “Anytime,” he said.
I reached over to take off his shorts. “No, I’m okay,” he said, waving me off. “I’ve been wanting that to happen for a long time.”
“Me too,” I said.
Alan then sat up. He looked at me and smiled, but then that smile turned serious as his breath slowed and returned to normal. He put his hand on my leg and then looked down at the bedspread. “Paul,” he said. “If this is going to happen again, there is one thing you need to know. I’m HIV positive.”
I hadn’t met anyone HIV positive before. I sat there, still. “Sure,” I said, trying to be nonchalant. “That’s okay.”
“What we did was safe,” he said, “and I take my partner’s safety very seriously, but I need you to know now. In case anything happens between us again.”
I could tell he was nervous. It was the first time I had seen him this way, this man who I felt had all the answers, who spoke with such confidence when talking to businessmen, politicians and the police. It made no sense to me that anything could scare him. I sat up and turned to him. I placed my hand on his sober smooth face and extracted a smile from it as I moved up to rub the prickly hairs on his scalp and then pulled him towards me to kiss him squarely on the mouth.
We both went into the office the next day, but kept what had happened to ourselves. It thrilled me to sit there on the other side of the room, memories of the night before flooding back with each glimpse of him. That night, I went back to his place instead of going home. We had sex everywhere—in bed, in the shower, in the kitchen. The Pet Shop Boys playing every time: Very, Please, Behaviour. Alan’s body was softer than mine, still he was fit, with strong arms and legs, and a dimple on his stomach right underneath the spot where his jeans would button up. I loved these dents on his body; like the scar on his forearm, they were beautiful imperfections that made him that much more real to me. The signs of a life well-lived.
The next week was the beginning of Pride, and I packed up five days’ worth of clothes and left a note for my dad, telling him I’d be staying at a friend’s. Alan and I spent the days in the office, working hard, and then nights in the bars celebrating. One of the places he took me was this basement bar in the centre of the city called Le Mystique, where his friend Peter tended bar and where Charles was a regular. I had no idea there were gay bars downtown, and when I went down the stairs with him that first time it felt like we had walked through a time warp to the 1970’s: the decor, the patrons, the music. At the end of another fun night, we stumbled home, beer on our breath, to make love in his apartment.
“I want you to fuck me,” I said.
“What? I don’t know, Paul. I mean, have you ever….”
“No,” I said, quite drunk. “But I want you to be my first.”
“Well, that’s nice,” he said, distracted while we kissed. “But maybe not tonight, okay? What’s the rush?” We continued to fumble around in his room in the dark. I couldn’t get enough of him, of the night we had just had, of this life that I had only recently realized was worth living. In all the bustle and excitement, I reached took his cock and rubbed it towards my backside. He threw me off the bed and turned on the light. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”
“What?” I said. “I’m sorry, I just got into it and I⎯”
“No!” He was angry with me now. “You can’t do this, Paul! Jesus, Christ. You shouldn’t be doing this.”
I felt sad, scared for a moment. I was worried I had changed things between us. “I’m sorry, Alan. I just want to be close to you.”
He got up from where he had been sitting, a pillow in his hands. “I don’t think I can do this tonight. It’s better if you stay in the spare room.”
I felt like crying. “But Alan, no. I’m sorry. Can’t I just⎯”
“Not tonight,” he said. “We can talk about it tomorrow.”
Dejected, I went into his spare room and sat on the side of the bed. I felt dizzy, my ears ringing from the bar. I got up to get water and heard the sound of the bathroom door closing and then the run of the shower. I tried to open the door, to get in with him, but Alan had locked it. I turned around, and headed to bed. Almost immediately, I fell asleep.
The next morning, I awoke with a bad headache. I found Alan in the kitchen, reading the daily newspaper and drinking a cup of coffee. “Want some?” he asked.
I shook my head. “About last night,” I said, sitting down. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what I was thinking. I was drunk.”
“Paul, you’ve got to be careful,” he said, and put down the paper. “You’re going to meet men who will fall for you, and you will fall for them. You’re going to think that they can’t hurt you, but they can. I don’t want to be the reason you get sick.”
Finally, we arrived at the day of the parade. I could see the joy on Alan’s face as the procession got ready to leave, my own happiness reflected in the mirrored sunglasses he wore. I was dressed up too. Alan let me raid his closet. I found a rainbow-colored feather boa that I draped proudly around my shoulders. It was surreal walking the route with thousands of other queers, as spectators cheered us along from the sidelines. My face hurt from how much I smiled.
As the day came to an end, I ran back to the office to send out the final press release, and when I was done I rejoined Alan at the Pride stage in the park near the Village. After the last performer had gone home, I found him enjoying a joint in the backstage area with Charles. “Go,” Alan said, after I asked him if there was anything else I could do. “Go out. Have fun. Flirt. Meet a cute boy. Wish him a Happy Pride and then ask him to dance.”
I gave Alan a big hug and a kiss. I took my feather boa and hit the bars. I wasn’t drunk, but I did feel euphoric and invincible. There were still hundreds of people out celebrating along Sainte Catherine Street, hopping from party to party as midnight drew near. I decided to go to my favourite haunt, Sky Club, and treat myself to a beer, maybe dance a little before fatigue sent me back to Alan’s.
On my way to the bar, I passed the park at the corner of Panet Street. There, I came across the AIDS vigil. About a dozen people were still there, determined to keep the flickering candles company until they melted down to their ends. I stopped and, for a moment, was transfixed by the shimmering light. I sat down on the ground and immersed myself in the glowing faces of the men and women around me, as they looked inside the flames for flickers of their lost friends and lovers.
I thought of my mother. I realized that for the first time in months I had forgotten my sadness. I felt happy with Alan in my life. I didn’t say the words out loud, but I did say them in my head. Mom, I said. I really miss you. Things haven’t been the same since you left. Tearing up, I wiped my eyes with the back of my hands. I wish you could be here for this. I wish you could experience this exciting and terrifying time with me. It’s not the same without you. I wish things didn’t have to be so different now. But I think I’ve found what I’ve been missing. I think I’m going to be alright.