Page 9 of Written in Scars

Sam nodded.

Relieved, Logan continued. “Tell me what’s upset you. Whatever it is, we can talk about it. If that’s what you want.”

Sam, chewing his lip, nodded. He blinked rapidly, seeming to hold back tears, before reaching for his beer and taking a long draught. “I … I don’t know what made me call you. Maybe it’s what you said; there was a connection between us.” He sighed.

Logan took a slow sip of beer, waiting.

Sam told him about the scene he discovered at home. About his husband and the strangers, the drugs, the uncaring attitude. He didn’t cry as the sorry tale unfolded but fiddled with his wedding ring throughout. It seemed to Logan like an unconscious gesture.

Logan listened quietly, without comment or judgement. Johan must be the biggest arsehole in the world. Selfish and self-centred; an ungrateful pig. Married to a wonderful guy like Sam, he got his kicks having drugged-up sex with strangers. The man was an idiot. A complete loser.

“Is this kind of thing out of character?” Logan asked at last. “Picking guys up? Taking drugs?”

“I wish it were,” Sam said sadly. “It never used to be. Things were pretty great in the beginning. I always thought so anyway. We had four good years before it went wrong. Johan had some kind of mid-twenties crisis. He wanted to sleep around and get high. I thought it was a phase. I know other couples who are open to stuff like that, so I agreed. I thought he’d grow out of it after a while. That the novelty would wear off. How stupid was I? It didn’t wear off, it became an even bigger addiction. Hook-up apps, late night parties; the drugs went hand in hand with all that. Soon, he couldn’t separate them. Couldn’t have one without the other.”

“Why do you put up with it?”

“We’re married. That means something. At least to me it does. I’m not sure it means much to Johan anymore. I thought I could change him, help him get better. He OD’d at a party last year. The men he was with dragged him out into the street, so he wouldn’t die on their property. Can you believe that? He called these people friends. It seemed to be the shock he needed. He stopped going out after that, kicked the drugs. Or so I thought.” Sam took another drink. The glass was almost empty. “He’s been using again for a while. I kidded myself he wasn’t, but the signs were all there. I didn’t want to see them. I wanted to believe we were fine. What an idiot.”

“No,” Logan said softly. “Your husband is the idiot. If you ask me, he should be committed.”

Sam laughed bitterly. “I blamed myself. Thought it was my fault he wanted to sleep with all those other men. That I was lacking in something and couldn’t give him what he wanted.”

“If he’s an addict, nothing will ever satisfy him. Not even the chemsex. It will never be enough.”

Sam sat back and wiped his eyes on the palm of his hands. He sighed, long and low. “Thank you. For listening. I haven’t told anyone all this before. There’s a friend at work, Alison, she knows some of it, but not everything. Another friend, Mark, knows a little too, but I’ve been too embarrassed to share it all. But it feels good talking to you.”

“I’m happy to listen,” Logan said. He pointed at Sam’s empty glass. “Let me get you another.”

“No,” Sam said. “I’m starving. I can’t drink anymore on an empty stomach. Haven’t eaten since lunch time.”

“Me neither,” Logan admitted.

“There’s a café around the corner. A twenty-four-hour place. Want to get a late bite?”

“Love to,” Logan smiled, not wanting the evening to end.

****

The café was like any greasy-spoon; cheap, basic, and unpretentious. Logan felt more at home here than in the swanky cocktail bar. They ordered at the counter, a ham and mushroom pizza to share, and found a table near the window where they could watch the street traffic.

“I’ve always loved this place,” Sam said, gazing around at the Formica topped counters and plastic seats. “The very first time I came on the scene, we ended the night in here. Ordering bacon sandwiches at four in the morning, surrounded by drunks and staff from the bars closing around us. The atmosphere was amazing.”

“I haven’t really experience the gay scene,” Logan admitted.

Sam’s eyes widened. “What? Never?”

“I’ve been in a few places, usually while working away, but can’t say they hold a lot of appeal. One gay bar seems much like another, whether it’s in Newcastle, New York, or Berlin. Too crowded, too noisy, too gay,” he laughed. “By the time I’d sorted out my life and was in a place that allowed me to go out, I was too old for it. Had no interest.”

“You’re not old.”

“Trust me. When it comes to banging dance beats and a crowd of sweaty men dancing with their shirts off, I’m too old.”

“You’re funny,” Sam said, fixing him with wide, earnest eyes, that were no longer red from crying. “I do know what you mean though. I’ve grown out of that stuff too. I did it all when I was young and moved on.”

“I’m jealous of you, that’s all,” Logan said wryly. “I wish I’d done it all when I was younger too. But I was trapped firmly in the closest. Did you always know you liked boys?”

“Always. I first came on the scene when I was sixteen with my fake ID. I loved it. I grew up in a small town and knew no other gay guys until I came out. It was a whole new life.”

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