"The Second Side of the Triangle" (1/3) by Susan Jameson

How in hell did I manage to live 35 years without ever before making a woman fall in love with me?

Okay, so it's a rhetorical question, or maybe just a stupid one. Women don't fall in love with me because I don't fall in love with them.

Or, as I put it when I broke the news to my mother, I'm not exactly straight.

By that time, telling her was almost redundant. She knew; and as she put it, in inimitable Teena Mulder fashion, "It doesn't make me dislike you any more."

Thanks for your support, Mom.

I figured it out for myself a long time ago. I never acted on it until college, which some people find strange, but I don't. Heterosexuals are notorious for initiating sexual activity in late adolescence, so why is it so strange that I did?

I never thought I was ready before that; and anyway, if you think your first sexual experience was scary, imagine if it had also been your first positive step into a world that's condemned by virtually every major religion, including your own.

People who think gay men inevitably start screwing in their early teens are just perpetuating the stereotype of gays as promiscuous fucking machines. Which, perhaps, for a while, I was -- or bordering on it, anyway.

My first time was in the shrubbery surrounding Balliol College, my college at Oxford. His name was James, and he was two years older than I. He'd been watching me for a while, and I him; I was wondering if he was gay, and he was wondering if I was interested.

The answer, in both cases, was yes.

There wasn't much to it, beyond the simple physical fact of sexual activity. He preferred a more active role, and I was content to be more passive my first time; that way, I suppose, I avoided some guilt, kept the illusion that this was something being done to me, not something I had wanted and pursued.

That illusion didn't last long. Before too much time had passed, I had learned a lot about what I liked, and what James liked, and as it turned out, we were a good match, sexually.

In other words, he liked to fuck, I liked to be fucked, we got along great.

Emotionally, however, there was nothing there. When he went home in the long vacation, I didn't write to him or call, and he made no attempt to stay in touch with me, either.

James never came back to Balliol. I heard later that he'd married, disastrously, at his father's insistence. Stupid -- as though marrying would change the way his brain functioned at its most basic level. His father might just as well have tried to make him into a cow by feeding him grass. It just wouldn't work.

Fortunately for me, my mother paid little attention to my love life, or what she perceived as the absence of my love life. My father was so drunk the few times I saw him during my college years that I could have told him I was fucking pink elephants and he would have simply grunted and taken another drink.

What I was fucking -- or being fucked by, if you want to be precise -- was a series of beautiful, milky skinned English boys, some from the university, some from the town, a few -- when I had the means to travel -- in London.

Once I got over that initial shock of actually having, and enjoying, gay sex, I went after it with the same intensity with which I've always pursued anything I wanted.

And they were beautiful -- pale, perfect English complexions, slender and gray-eyed, most of them. I spent hours getting to know the feel of their bodies, the hard planes, the taut muscles -- I reveled in them. I couldn't get enough.

They, for their part, found me almost exotic.

It took me a while to figure out why. It wasn't because I was American; most of them held a cordial dislike for America, and for most things American. Fucking an American could almost be seen as coming down in the world, whereas fucking me seemed to be something they wore as a badge of daring, or ultra- sophisticated I-don't-give-a-damn insouciance.

When I finally found out why, I had to laugh. It was because I'm a Jew. I'd never told anyone; it didn't occur to me.

Still, they knew, or actually, they assumed I was, because I'm circumcised -- the oldest sign of Jewishness on earth, and it didn't mean a damn thing to me. Circumcision is almost universal in the States; it never occurred to me that anyone would take it as automatic proof that I was Jewish.

After a while, I stopped laughing. It wasn't a terribly comfortable revelation, after all.

I didn't really realize just how deep the roots of anti- Semitism could go until I found out that to these boys, as a Jew -- even a non-practicing, totally assimilated Jew -- I was such a cultural pariah that fucking me could be interpreted as an act of rebellion.

I also found that I didn't really want to think too much about the other possible socio-cultural implications of gaining status by fucking a Jew in the ass.

But for the most part, those were footloose days, free and easy, filled with a sense of freedom that I've never had before or since. AIDS was a minor rumble back in the States -- and, hell, I was young enough and foolish enough to think that it would stay in the States where it was. I would have laughed if anyone suggested a condom -- I mean, who did they think was going to get pregnant?

We were all very young, and very foolish.

My first encounter with genuine homophobia came from a doctor in the town who treated me for one of those embarassing gay ailments -- rectal gonorrhea. I mean, there's really only one way to get it, and that fact wasn't lost on this guy. His distaste for me was plain; he refused to be alone with me in the examining room, he clearly didn't want to touch me even to examine me, and he made his nurse give me the penicillin shot.

All the while, he gave me a running lecture about how God didn't intend for men to engage in anal intercourse.

"It's most unnatural for a man, even if it does happen at some of the best schools," he kept saying. "Sodomy's a sin, a crime against nature, don't you know. I should advise you to cease engaging in perversion immediately. Not at all the thing for a young man to involve himself in."

Still, in the midst of his lecture he managed to spit out a few terse words about prevention, and that was good of him, I suppose, because I had had enough.

I made up my mind that I would never go to a doctor with this kind of thing again.

My anger may have saved my life, because after that, I began to rethink the whole free-love concept.

For the first time, maybe the only time in my life, I did something smart: I decided to be careful. I found out what those little latex circles in the foil packets were for, and I made damn sure anybody who wanted me knew we were going to be using them.

Thank God for that. I managed to learn my lesson just before HIV began showing up in the UK. I'd been pretty lucky, but luck's never been one of my best friends, and I've never pushed it again.

Sometime during that period, when I was finishing up my studies and wondering what the hell I was going to do with the rest of my life, I met up with Phoebe Greene, who was an undergraduate student at St. Anne's College of Oxford. Just about any gay or bisexual man at Oxford was going to meet Phoebe eventually; for some reason, it took me a little longer than some.

Phoebe, as I would later relate, was fire. A damn dangerous fire -- a mindfucker from hell on steroids, a vicious enemy if you crossed her, and almost impossible not to cross.

Phoebe, you see, was born with a yen for "straightening out" gay men, a yen that both baffled and disgusted me. She was the kind of woman we used to call a fag hag. Sometimes, I still do. I avoid them at all costs.

Phoebe wasn't in the mood to be avoided.

I found out quickly that Phoebe was apt to take any kind of revenge she could if you turned her down, but there really wasn't any option for me. I had absolutely no desire for her or for any other woman I'd ever met. Pure, 100 percent homosexual orientation is rare, according to Kinsey, but if it exists, I've got it.

And even if I did want to try straight sex -- which I never have -- it sure as shit wouldn't be with a woman like that one.

She'd had a few successes along the way, I guess, enough to keep her going, anyway; some bisexual boys, one or two gay boys who wanted to try one more time for the blue ribbon of sexuality, the socially acceptable, biblically approved, heterosexual fuck.

I don't think any one of them ever changed one iota as a result of fucking Phoebe, but as I've said, even if it were possible for a leopard to change his spots, she wasn't a good advertisement for female companionship.

I figured she saw these seductions as proof of her overwhelming, powerful sexuality. I saw it as more of an insult, that men who basically liked men could find her face and form attractive. I wondered if she knew the contempt in which the Oxford gay community held her.

Probably not. Phoebe wasn't a deep thinker.

Like a damn fool, I asked her. She'd gotten me alone in my room, and she was running her fingernails over my chest in what she must have imagined was a seductive manner. My only response was to give voice to my snotty little question.

I managed to get away from her and back to the States without too much damage to my reputation. What she did to my soul -- well, that was another matter.

And no, I don't want to get into it, thank you.

It was a shock when I got home to be approached by a recruiter for the Federal Bureau of Investigation. It seemed my scholastic record, along with a word or two in the right place from my career-diplomat father, had gotten me their attention, and they wanted me to come aboard as a profiler in training.

Profiler. Jesus, what a concept. I'd read "Silence of the Lambs," and that was about the extent of my knowledge of profiling, despite having read extensively in criminal and abnormal psychology at Balliol. Profiling was still new, still fringe, and maybe that's why I went for it.

It may have been the smartest thing I ever did; it may have been the biggest mistake I ever made. Damned if I know.

I know I was pretty good at it, and I know my first boss, Reggie Purdue, liked me a lot. We got along well, despite a few -- missteps, let's say -- in my early career.

Bill Patterson, the profiler par excellence, the head of the Investigative Support Unit, was another matter.

Bill was a good profiler; hell, he was _the_ profiler, and he had my number in no time flat. He didn't much like it, either; Bill was the poster boy for institutional homophobia. He respected my skills, but he hated my sexuality and he made my life hell because of it.

All the easy acceptance I'd had at Balliol, the free and open expression of my sexuality, died forever while I was in ISU. Bill was all the lesson I ever needed in the virtues of staying deep inside the closet; at least, if I wanted to go on working with the FBI.

And I did. I really did. I liked the work; it was challenging, and interesting, if often depressing. I still do like it; no matter what anyone's done to try to make me quit, I haven't.

And I won't. Fuck 'em if they can't take a joke.

I thought about quitting, sure; Bill was watching me every minute, trying to trip me up, push me into coming out in some way, and I was getting pretty damn tired of it. I was seriously contemplating either handing in my badge or just forcing them to fire me by beating the living shit out of Bill, which would have been pretty satisfying, considering that he had me pegged as a limp-wristed fairy.

Then came 1991 and a happy chance discovery that would change my life forever.Just about the time I had decided I couldn't take one more fag joke from Bill, I stumbled across the X Files, and I took them to my bosom. Here, at last, was some hope of discovering what had happened to my sister all those years ago.

And the X Files were the files nobody wanted. I could work alone, and I could travel out of town alone, and that meant I could have some autonomy at work.

It also meant I could date again, and I did.

Some of the sense of freedom came back to me; if I had to be discreet in Washington, I at least had an opportunity to be myself in the field. I was cautious, of course, in case anyone from the Bureau was watching me, but still, I began to feel like a real adult human being again, not a closet queen lurking in the shadows.

That freedom wasn't meant to last for long. Just a couple of years after I got the X Files assignment, I also got -- most unwillingly -- a partner. And not just any partner, but a partner with brains, skepticism, toughness, a medical degree and red hair.

A woman. A straight woman, reared in a military family, which meant by-the-book, down the line, damn the queers and full speed ahead, right?

Wrong.

It meant Dana Scully, a woman who's made a career out of confounding people's expectations of her.

I was no exception.

I told her at our first meeting what I thought; hell, it was practically the first thing I said. She said she was looking forward to working with me.

"Really," I said, "I was under the impression that you were sent to spy on me."

She thought I meant my investigations. Maybe I did, in part, but what I was really convinced of was that she was there to out me.

So I'm stupid. Bite me.

Scully turned out to be the best thing that could have happened to me or to my career. I remember the first time I let the closet door creak open with her -- it was while we were on a short field assignment to Carson City, Nevada, about four weeks after she got stuck with me for a partner.

We were eating dinner together, and our waiter stopped by to see how we were doing. She smiled up at him, just a trifle flirtatiously, and I had to smile, because this kid was giving off unmistakable signals that I was the one he was interested in.

And that was okay with me. He had that blond, blue-eyed, All- American surfer look that I don't normally go for, and he was about 10 years too young for my taste, but my choices were limited. With Scully around, there wasn't any good way to meet anyone else, and he was right there, sending "how about it?" messages.

I sent back my own signal: Sounds good to me, kid. While he was serving our dessert, I asked him as casually as I could if his job didn't demand long hours. He said no, not really; he wasn't working late tonight, just until about 11.

At 10:45 that night I made some lame-sounding excuse to Scully about how I was going running or something, and I left.

It was okay, I guess; I really can't remember.

What I do remember is that after that, the enigmatic Dr. Scully seemed to have all the information she needed about her new partner.

I should have expected that, because I already knew she was a good agent. What I never expected was that she would accept it as matter-of-factly as she did.

She says she doesn't remember that waiter; in fact, she says now that she can't remember any one moment when she realized I was gay. She says, airily, that she's sure she always knew it.

Bullshit, Scully, I tell her, and she laughs.

I love to make her laugh; she's so pretty when she laughs.

And yes, thank you, I do know what a pretty woman is. I'm gay, not blind.

Anyway, I like women; I like them a lot, as a matter of fact, and I can make friends with them just fine without having any need or desire to fuck them. Possibly as a result, I have had a lot of female friends. Straight men could take a hint, if you ask me.

And Scully -- well, Scully is really, really pretty. Her laugh is pretty, and her eyes are pretty, and her smile is pretty and she is my partner and my best friend, the best friend I have ever had, and I love her dearly. I began to care for her almost immediately after I met her.

Loving her, though, may be the cruelest thing I have ever done in my life.

~~~~~~

By the time we'd been partners six months, we'd worked out a pattern that suited me perfectly. I guess it suited her, too; if it didn't, she never said anything. When we were in the field, I dated. When we were in the District, I didn't.

Just like before; only now, when we were in town, I went to her apartment most nights and we spent the evening tying up loose ends, or sometimes just chatting.

I liked being with her. I hadn't been really close to anyone since Samantha was taken, and it was good to have a friend like Scully. It was good not to be alone with my thoughts, which could turn really dark in an instant and stay that way for days. Fighting a largely losing battle against a global conspiracy will do that to you.

Scully was the antidote to so much of that darkness.

Damn, it was good to be with her. I could talk to her about anything, from UFOs to safe-sex practices, and never feel that she discounted or condemned me at all. She was an absolutely brilliant agent, and her thinking was as clear and unmuddled as it's possible for human thought to be. She was a good counterpoint to my sometimes too-great leaps of logic; she kept me grounded in reality, forced me to think before acting.

If I was back to being closeted, the closet at least had an escape hatch now, a place where there was no pretending or covering up, and that place was wherever Scully happened to be. That was good.

What wasn't maybe quite so good was that I knew, even if she didn't, that I was using her as a beard. Ugly thing to say, but it was true. Everyone at the Bureau seemed to have leapt to the same, erroneous conclusion: that we were lovers.

Hell, even Bill Patterson seemed to think so, or at least to consider the possibility. I'll never forget what he said when he met Scully: "Strange company you keep."

He said it in reference to her being a scientist and working with Spooky Mulder on the X Files, but I knew him well enough to know that he was also asking a question: What's a pretty woman like you doing hanging out with a queer?

But her presence in my life actually seemed to have made Bill doubt his earlier conclusions, just a little. That was okay with me. If anyone wanted to think Scully and I were doing the wild thing, I didn't try to disabuse them of that notion.

Okay, so I was being false to myself. Nothing new there. You find me a gay man who hasn't been, at some time or another, forced to live a lie. But I was also being unkind to her, and that was harder to rationalize. I knew that as long as she was believed to be my lover, there wouldn't be any overtures toward her from any other man.

And I admit it -- that was the way I wanted it. I didn't want anyone getting close to her who might -- shit, almost certainly would -- be less open-minded and accepting of me than she was.

I didn't want to share her with anyone else, okay?

Still, as I said, she never seemed to mind it.

And that was good, because I needed her. She cared for me and doctored my wounds, emotional and physical; she calmed me and loved me and accepted me without reservation. When I went out at night, I didn't have to wear running gear and then change on the way to the bar. When I talked to her about someone I knew, or someone I'd dated, I didn't have to constantly remind myself to change pronouns.

She even seemed pretty cool about my dating. She bumped into my dates all the time, and it never seemed to throw her by a millimeter. She even smiled at me when she saw me kissing another man once or twice.

"Mulder, you old dog," her smile seemed to say.

Do you know how rare that kind of acceptance is from a straight co-worker? Does "virtually non-existent" mean anything to you?

And when she was abducted -- when the conspirators took her away and nearly killed her with their tests and their medical rape of her body -- I knew, irrevocably, that I couldn't go on without her. She was, simply, the most important person who'd ever come into my life. She had taken the place of Samantha, of my mother, even of the faith I'd lost as a child.

When she came back to me, I thought I had everything I could ever want. She was back, and I felt whole again. I regained the will to go on. It was all so perfect -- Scully took care of my heart, and for my body there were those beautiful, golden boys I met in every town we visited.

I don't think I ever gave much thought to Scully's sex life, except maybe for that one time, the Jack Willis case. Finding out that she'd dated Willis for a whole year surprised and intrigued me; I couldn't imagine Scully having sex, or even wanting it.

If anyone's writing a term paper on the Madonna/whore complex and wants to know whether gay men are subject to it, I'm willing to be interviewed, because I sure as shit put Scully on that sexless Madonna pedestal. It wasn't that I thought she was asexual; I knew she wasn't. I just didn't _want_ her to be interested in sex, because that meant she might be interested in a man, a straight man, a man who wasn't me.

Yeah, I'm a selfish bastard. You're not telling me anything I haven't already told myself.

But believe me when I say that I honestly didn't know I had no reason to fear that Scully would fall in love. I didn't know that she was too loyal and too loving even to look at anyone else. I didn't know that she wouldn't tell me how she felt because she didn't want to run the risk of losing me.

I didn't know that she wasn't going to fall in love because she was already in love -- with me.

I swear, I didn't see it.

I may be a behavioral profiler, but in this case I was just an ignorant prick, so goddamned stupid, and selfish, and emotionally blind that I wound up hurting her. God, I hurt her so badly. I just couldn't see what she had come to feel about me, any more than I could see that the real threat to our partnership wasn't that she might meet a man and fall in love.

It was that I would.

And, as it turned out, I did.