THIS IS YOURS

Copyright © 2012 by Val Kovalin

EPUB ISBN-10: 0985114533 ISBN-13: 978-0-9851145-3-4

MOBI ISBN-10: 0985114541 ISBN-13: 978-0-9851145-4-1

PDF ISBN-10: 098511455X ISBN-13: 978-0-9851145-5-8

Text and cover art published by Val Kovalin at VK-NOW Books

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, place, and incidents are
products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to
actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication can be reproduced or
transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without
permission in writing from Val Kovalin. This includes paraphrasing and/or
quoting beyond the limits of the "fair use" doctrine of copyright law, i.e.,
anything beyond brief quotations contained in critical articles and reviews.
The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work,
including copyright infringement without monetary gain, is illegal. This
document is registered with the United States Copyright Office.

Publisher's Note: This e-book contains non-explicit scenes of gay romance.

BLURB:

Alejandro Sandoval + Roberto Gallegos = love forever. Alejo looks back to
one night in June 1980, when he and Bobby were fourteen years old. Only
days before, they realized their attraction to each other. But now, Alejo’s dad
has invited over his buddies to watch the most anticipated boxing match of
the year. Anything could happen during the fight. And anything could
happen to Alejo and Bobby as they struggle to keep their newfound love
secret while soaking up the macho atmosphere of Mr. Sandoval’s Fight
Night. It is a night of love and revelations for Alejo and Bobby.

FREE short story, sex scenes: none, 11,000 words of story, not counting
additional text such as excerpts and blurb.

Author’s Note: In the universe with which you and I are familiar, pay-per-

view television was just starting to reach the sports world in 1980. That June, the
Durán-Leonard I boxing match in Montréal, Québec, Canada was one of the first
fights ever to be broadcast on pay-per-view and close-circuit television.

However, boxing fans who lived in a small city like Albuquerque, New

Mexico, USA, would have found pay-per-view television unavailable back then.
Instead, they probably would have waited a month and watched a replay of the
fight on ABC’s Wide World of Sports on Saturday afternoon.

They wouldn’t have seen the undercard fights. Nor would they have seen the

chaos in the ring at the end of the main event. In this story’s version of 1980, the
Sandoval family has pay-per-view, and Alejo and Bobby get to see it all – just as if
they were ringside in Montréal, watching that fight.

* * *

Alejandro Sandoval + Roberto Gallegos = love forever. Bobby, love of my

life. It’s our anniversary and this is my love letter to you. I want to explain how
much you mean to me.

I count our anniversary from further back than you might think. Not from

when we first moved in together as two guys starting college. Not from when we
first came out to our families. I look way back to the afternoon in June 1980, when
we first realized our mutual attraction. We were fourteen years old.

A few days later, my dad invited over his buddies to watch the televised

WBC Welterweight Championship fight between Panamanian challenger Roberto
Durán and American champion Sugar Ray Leonard. Dad’s big Fight Night event
showed me a world that I couldn’t wait to jump into with both feet. To be a man
among men. My mom and sisters were not invited. This all-male event centered on
watching the most violent and individualistic of sports, boxing. The word itself
filled me with awe.

Bobby, you and your brother were there on Fight Night with my dad and his

friends treating us as if we were grown up. You remember. You loved it as much
as I did. That night, I realized how much we might lose if you and I were
discovered to be a gay couple.

* * *

In 1980, my parents’ Mexican restaurant became very successful. My dad

bought his first luxury car, a midnight blue Lincoln Continental. He also got pay-

per-view television so we could watch the championship fight to be held at the
Olympic Stadium in Montréal.

Dad wanted to be the big man and host an amazing evening for his admiring

guests. On the day of the fight, June 20, he asked Mom to straighten up our
spotless house, as if his buddies would notice a speck of dust on the carpet,
especially in their excitement to see world-class boxing. Mom laughed at him and
went to work the late shift at the restaurant. After all, it was Friday night, a big
night for eating out.

My sisters were between their junior and senior year in high school that

summer. That night they were dressing up to go to the movies with their friends.
Dad thought they were going to see the PG-rated The Empire Strikes Back, but
they were really planning on The Blues Brothers, rated R, opening that night. Not
that I would ever tell on them.

Nobody else in my parents’ social circle had pay-per-view television, and

Dad expected a crowd to show up for Fight Night. In desperation, he handed me
the feather duster. Normally, he wouldn’t want his only son doing housework, but
he needed to plunge the Tecate and Dos Equis beer into the tub of ice resting on
our second-best coffee table. He had to set out the tortilla chips, guacamole, and
homemade salsa.

So Dad did all that while I dusted our wall shrine in the front hall. Bobby,

you remember that wall shrine. The little shelf held a bowl of plastic roses and a
seven-inch statue of the Archangel Michael with his sword poised to slay a
muscular, but cowering, Satan. Michael had his foot planted upon the head of
Satan, who was bald as a cue ball.

My sisters emerged from their bedroom to wait for their ride to the movies.

Both were gorgeous with big hair all fluffed and curled. Both wore platform
sandals with that cork wedge that looked so cool. Their shiny blouses glinted with
metallic threads. Christina wore designer jeans, but Graciela had on a stretch mini-
skirt that only reached to mid-thigh. Dad took one look and rushed over like a
watchdog, guarding the property line.

“No, no, no, mijita. That skirt? Your mother and I don’t let you wear things

like that.”

“Da-a-a-ad. I borrowed it from a friend.”

“Well, give it back. And wash off some of that make-up while you’re

changing clothes. I don’t know why you girls trowel that stuff on. You look so
much better without it.”

“Everybody looks like this. It’s normal.”

“Maybe, but that skirt? It’s too…it sends the wrong message. Teenage boys

have only one thing on their minds. I know. I was one. Why don’t you change into
your pink dress?”

“Dad, I wear that to Mass on Sundays.”

So they compromised. She would change into jeans like Christina, but keep

the make-up the way she wanted it. Graciela vanished into the bedroom, and we
heard her clock radio blaring “Funkytown” through the closed door.

Dad checked his watch. Tonight, he wouldn’t have time to interrogate the

glossy-haired boys who showed up in their fancy clothes and gold neck-chains to
date Graciela and Christina. Dad really enjoyed intimidating my sisters’ dates. But
now his buddies were arriving for Fight Night. Christina ushered them in, soaking
up the attention, the greetings, and the kisses on her cheek.

“Hi, Mr. Trujillo, Mr. Rodriguez, Mr. Armijo, Mr. Lucero, and Mr.

Archuleta.”

As she chatted with them, Dad confiscated my feather duster so I wouldn’t

look too much like a girl. He tossed it into the hall closet. “Mijo, go get some more
folding chairs.”

He had rented a batch of folding chairs with comfy padded seats, all stacked

on a cart in the garage. Just to look like a tough guy, I pulled off five and muscled
them inside through the kitchen to the rec room, which held the biggest screen
television you could get back in 1980. I set them next to the ones Dad had already
placed. It looked like enough. Christina continued to answer the door.

“Hi, Mr. Baca, Mr. Torres, and Mr. Aguilar,” she said. “Hi, Roberto and

Isidro.”

You and your brother walked in as I stood in the doorway of the rec room.

Bobby, I couldn’t breathe from excitement at seeing you. I remembered us kissing
for the first time just a few days ago: your tongue in my mouth, your hands all over
me. My face heated and I got super-aware of my cock. I wasn’t getting a hard-on,
not yet. But I would if I kept thinking about us.

You looked so cool. Your loose khaki trousers were nipped in tight with a

thin belt. You wore a white t-shirt under a black dress shirt fastened by the top
button. Isidro wore something similar. A watch chain looped from his belt halfway
down his thigh and up into his pocket. I think he had it attached to his wallet.

If you and Isidro had looked even more cholo, like wearing a hairnet or a

gang tattoo, my dad and his friends would have disapproved. As it was, they just
thought you looked formal and dressier than I did in my cut-off jeans and t-shirt.
They liked that and didn’t read any gangster vibe into it the way Anglo parents
might have. But Graciela emerged from her room and sneered.

“Nice threads, boys,” she said. “Very zoot suit. Very 1943.”

Isidro’s eyes narrowed, his lips thinned, and he looked pained. I remember

him at age seventeen, so serious. He had a pencil-thin mustache coaxed together
from a scattering of baby-fine hairs. I sensed he spent much time grooming that
mustache while willing it to thicken and look more virile. And you, Bobby? You
laughed at Graciela and let your gaze linger on me.

Always kind-hearted, Christina guided you and Isidro past me into the rec

room. She started opening beers and handing them Dad’s buddies. They thanked
her and picked out where they wanted to sit.

Your brother took a deep breath. “Christina, can I have a beer, too, please?”

Talk about sticking his neck out. At seventeen, Isidro was too young to

drink. My sister was older and could have laughed in his face. Obviously, he
craved her recognition. He wanted to be classified as a man among men who could
have a beer with the rest of them. His dark eyes locked on her as if this were the
biggest moment of his life. Christina sent a questioning look at Dad, and Dad
waved in magnanimous approval.

“Let him have one. Alejandro and Roberto, too, if they want. It’s Fight

Night.”

Bobby, you and I looked at each other. We were being promoted to

temporary manhood for that one night. Isidro’s voice cracked as he asked my sister
for a Dos Equis, and he blushed. With a sympathetic smile, Christina handed one
over. She didn’t make fun of him, as Graciela might have. I took a Tecate because
I liked the name. You chose a Tecate, too.

“Have fun,” my dad told Isidro. “I can drive you and Roberto home after the

fight.”

Someone tooted a car horn and Graciela and Christina hurried outside. Dad

just hated that. He wanted all boys who aspired to date his daughters to present
themselves at the front door. I’d seen him pull boys from their cars and march
them inside for a lecture on manners. I loved that. Those slick, popular boys
always tried to push me around in school until I had to fight them. They never did
it with you, Bobby. You with your cool gaze and dangerous smile.

So, everybody arrived and picked a seat. Only Dad’s best friend Mr. Vigil

ran late because he worked long hours at the bar he owned. As the undercard fights
progressed, your brother chatted with the older men. Back then, Bobby, you and I
didn’t know about Isidro’s gambling problem. He wanted to bet on the fight, and
we thought nothing of it. And nothing came of it that night. All of Dad’s friends
were rooting so strongly for Durán that Isidro probably worried they might kick
him out if he put money on Leonard.

Nobody knew what might happen in the main event. The champion Sugar

Ray Leonard would enter the fight undefeated with a record of twenty-seven wins,
eighteen by knockout. According to the newspapers, the professional gamblers
favored him to win even though many boxing fans thought his trainer had
handpicked easy fights for him. Maybe Leonard was all flash, and no substance.
Did he have a solid chin or not?

The challenger Roberto Durán had won sixty-nine fights, fifty-five of them

by knockout. He had the ring experience that Leonard lacked, and he had destroyed
everybody in the lightweight division. But he’d had to put on ten more pounds to
move up to welterweight class. Even I knew you sacrificed punching power when
you moved up in weight.

So the pre-main-event hoopla continued. Bobby, you and I knew we had

some free time. We took our beers and slipped away to my bedroom. As soon as
we closed the door, you pinned me against the wall with your body. You wound
your free hand in my hair and pushed your thigh between mine, giving me a deep,
hungry kiss. You didn’t mean to be so rough. We both were unbearably excited.

I sucked your lower lip between my teeth. I loved your full lips – so soft and

pillowy. Our tongues met, sending a hot pulse of lust straight to my cock. We
stood against my bedroom wall, kissing and breathing hard. Unwilling to surrender
those beers, we clutched the full cans in our left hands. With our right hands, we
held each other. Sometimes we flinched when the cold beer cans brushed our bare
skin. I got so hard I thought I might pass out.

“What are we going to do?” I started to panic. “Now I got this huge…you

know. And we have to go back to the rec room and watch the fight with my dad
and his friends. They’re going to see. They’re going to know.”

“I could take care of that.”

“What do you mean?”

You gave me a bold look. “I could suck you off.”

“You know how to do that?” I thought I might die from excitement.

“I bet I could figure it out.”

More than anything, I wanted that. But you didn’t rush me. You let me stand

in your arms, breathing hard and trying to sort out my thoughts. “Our first time
doing…that, I want it to be safe, you know?” I tried to explain. “Not like now with
a house full of people. And us worried we might get caught.”

“Okay.” You gave me a tender kiss on the mouth. “You could wear extra

underwear.”

“What?” I let out a confused snicker.

“You know, like actors do when they have to film a love scene with an

actress. I read that somewhere.” Probably in your mom’s celebrity gossip
magazines, which she kept in stacks all over your house. “In case they get a hard-
on, they wear two pairs of briefs to make it less obvious to everybody on the set.”
Smiling, you stepped back. “That’s what I did today because I knew I’d be close to
you.”

I got a second pair of underwear from my top drawer. You sat on my bed,

watching with hungry eyes as I dropped my cutoffs and worked on the second pair
of briefs over my first pair. I was too nervous to flirt or draw out the moment, but
you made me laugh when you started humming strip-tease music. I pulled on my
cutoff shorts and added the longest, baggiest t-shirt I owned. I checked my watch,
but only a few minutes had passed.

We took our beers back to the rec room and claimed two folding chairs at

one end of the viewing area. The seats formed a crescent along with the couch,
located dead center of the TV. Everyone had ringside seats at the action. You and I
also had a clear view of everyone else.

Isidro, sitting on my other side, passed us paper plates filled with tortilla

chips, salsa, and guacamole. You and I stuffed chips into our mouths and pressed
together, shoulder to shoulder. Life didn’t get much better than this. Onscreen, it
looked like it was raining in Montréal at Olympic Stadium, steady rain, as we
almost never got in Albuquerque.

Dad and his friends were all talking about the undercard fights. In the last

one, the Jamaican-Canadian heavyweight had knocked out his American opponent.
I mean, literally knocked him unconscious. Hearing this, I’m sure we all felt some
nationalistic guilt for hoping that Durán would beat Leonard.

I mean, Sugar Ray Leonard was our American. But Roberto Durán was

Latino. He was one of us even though we were Hispanics from New Mexico and
not Panamanians. Besides, Durán was…Durán, for God’s sake! Nobody could
match his intimidating stare. In every boxing match, he would fight one hundred
percent for all fifteen rounds. He had no concept of coasting or playing it safe, and
we loved him for it.

The doorbell rang. I didn’t want to move from where I sat with my shoulder

pressed to yours. But my dad said, “Alejandro? You mind?” His impatient tone
meant I’d better hurry up.

I went to let in Mr. Vigil, who hugged me and called me mijito. He wanted

to know what he’d missed. I told him about the undercard fights. When we reached
the rec room, Mr. Vigil claimed the seat on the couch next to my dad, who
peppered him with questions as he reached for a beer.

“Did you bring the Panamanian flags?” Dad asked. “Where are they? I don’t

see them.”

“I said I would, didn’t I?” Mr. Vigil couldn’t hide a mischievous grin.

He pulled a plastic cube from the pocket of his windbreaker. Packed inside

were one hundred paper Panamanian flags on toothpicks. They were something
you might use to assemble hors d'oeuvres or maybe to spear a maraschino cherry in
a drink.

“What?” Dad’s face froze. “We’re supposed to wave these tiny things for

Durán?”

Mr. Vigil burst out laughing, and so did the others, crowding to see for

themselves. The cube passed from hand to hand as Dad’s friends chortled. Some

held the tiny flags up to the light. Others, including you and me, shook a few
across their palms to admire them.

Now Dad looked pissed off. Mr. Vigil had told Dad before not to take

himself so seriously. He loved Dad like a brother and considered it his enjoyable
duty to take Dad down a peg sometimes when needed.

“You try getting Panamanian flags out here in Albuquerque on short notice.”

Mr. Vigil snickered. “You want American flags? No problem, especially now,
right before the Fourth of July. But these little guys? These Panamanian flags?
These are party supplies. Good thing I’m in the food and beverage business.”

Of course, so was Dad. He might have kicked himself for not getting the

idea first. Or maybe he hated how ridiculous he thought he would look, waving a
tiny flag on a toothpick. Whenever Dad felt embarrassed, he tried to re-assert
himself as the big man at someone else’s expense. He zeroed in on me when I
blurted out how pretty the Panamanian flag looked.

“I didn’t know what it looked like,” I said.

“Don’t they teach you anything in school?” Dad demanded.

Always protecting me, you said, “I didn’t know either,” with a disarming

smile.

Dad said, “Roberto, you need to apply yourself. School is your ticket to a

better life.”

You nodded, willing to draw his fire and make him feel important. All for

my sake. You knew I wanted him to be happy. For that and so much more, I’ve
always loved you.

“Hey,” Isidro said. “The main event is about to start.”

We locked our attention to the TV screen as the challenger emerged.

Roberto Durán looked eager to fight. He trotted through the crowd to the ring with
his trainers hurrying to keep up. The television cameras picked out celebrities
sitting in the crowd – movie stars, politicians, a famous golfer, and several boxers
including Joe Frazier of Thrilla-in-Manila fame. Finally, Sugar Ray Leonard and
his entourage appeared and climbed into the ring at a stately pace.

Leonard still resembled the innocent gold-medal winner he had been in

Montréal during the 1976 Summer Olympics. Motionless in his corner, he scanned
the entire stadium, looking overwhelmed by the crowds. Durán cruised around like

a shark, all higher brain functions switched off. Shadowboxing, he wove through
the secondary personnel standing in the ring. He sneered and snarled, drawing the
camera like a magnet.

Durán wore his hair slicked back from his face. When he bounced on the

balls of his feet, his shiny blue-black hair moved in longish spikes. Leonard’s short
Afro looked like a halo, framing his angelic features. Both fighters had seriously
cool hair. Leonard glowed from the oil his trainer had rubbed into his sleek
muscles. Maybe I was getting drunk off my one Tecate, but I couldn’t help
noticing.

The crowd gave Leonard a mixed reception. Some cheered but many booed.

Mr. Vigil said, “The Canadians prefer Durán.”

“Maybe they don’t like Americans,” somebody said.

“No,” Dad said. “They’re French, see? That’s why they like Durán. It’s a

Latin thing.”

You said under your breath, “It’s because Durán’s a badass.”

The time arrived for everybody’s national anthem. The Himno Istmeño

played for Durán and the Panamanians, who had traveled so far for this fight. We
all waved our tiny flags, even Dad, who gave a grudging smile. With enough time,
he always saw the humor in a situation. Our American anthem played for Leonard,
followed by O, Canada. The Canadians in the audience sang their song, some in
English, and others in French, in a good-natured struggle to drown out each other.

“Where’s Sarita?” Mr. Vigil asked. Years later, I figured out he had a crush

on my mom.

“Working the dinner shift at the restaurant,” my dad said.

“By herself?” Mr. Vigil sounded concerned.

“With our manager.”

“A pretty lady like Sarita having to put up with him staring and pestering her

all night?”

“No worries.” A sneer crept into my dad’s voice. “He’s a maricón.”

I understood almost no Spanish, but I knew that word. That, and joto, the

more common insult thrown around by guys at school. I couldn’t help tensing up

against your shoulder, Bobby. You gave me a comforting squeeze on the arm. But
I still felt angry and ashamed of my dad. The manager, whom I’d met once or
twice, probably wasn’t even gay. Soft-spoken and polite, he just looked the part to
my dad.

“Hey.” My dad grunted in approval. “The ref is the same guy from the

Thrilla in Manila.”

“He hasn’t aged a day,” Mr. Vigil said in wonder. “What’s it been? Five

years?”

The bell rang, starting the first round. Both fighters met in the middle of the

ring, measuring each other with cautious jabs. You watched them, Bobby, and I
focused on you for one breathless moment. You had a crumb of tortilla chip on
your lower lip that I wanted to lick off. The blood rushed to my face. I thought,
what the hell is going on with me?

The two fight commentators, the announcer and the analyst, were

outstanding. Often hilarious, they alone were worth the price of pay-per-view. The
announcer couldn’t wrap his head around Leonard’s decision to stand flat-footed
and defend against everything Durán dished out. Everyone had expected Leonard
to dance all over the ring.

“Notice how Durán is keeping that left hand high,” the fight announcer said.

My gaze shot to Durán’s left glove, shielding the side of his face. “He knows
Leonard wants to get him with a hook.”

The boxers feinted, trying to draw each other out. They circled each other.

The fight announcer said, “Would you believe that Durán is boxing him?”

It sounded funny to say this in a boxing match, and I almost snorted. But

even at fourteen, I knew that he referred to a certain type of fighting. He meant that
Durán started light on his feet and kept at a distance, not crowding Leonard, not
yet.

“Yes, but he’s stalking him,” said the analyst. “He’s slowly cutting that

distance between them.”

Leonard nailed Durán with lightning speed, and the fight announcer shouted,

“Oh! Durán took a hard left hook.” The two boxers pounded at each other.
“Leonard wants to trade with him. And Durán is willing to oblige.”

We all knew that the two boxers had opposite fighting styles. Durán was a

brawler in the classic Latino tradition. He would swarm his opponents, smothering
them, pouring on the pressure. Leonard was fluid and mobile like a young
Muhammad Ali. He excelled at keeping his distance and blasting his opponents
with long-range punches, especially his left jab. But now he chose to fight close-
up, where Durán liked to be.

“There’s a lot of bad blood between the two of them,” the announcer

confided in a grave tone. “At the weigh-in, Leonard blew a kiss at Durán and
Durán answered with a word which I cannot repeat. Durán does not like this man.”

We all laughed because it fit the personalities of both fighters. Imagine

having the self-confidence to blow a kiss at another man, another boxer, someone
like Durán, and not care about how it looked. Bobby, you gave me an amused
glance. You were probably thinking the same thing.

Suddenly Durán charged Leonard, forcing him to retreat under a rain of

punches back against the ropes. Leonard slipped away and Durán chased him to
the middle of the ring. The announcer said, “The fury, the intensity, you can feel
it.”

“The intensity of Durán is incredible,” the analyst agreed.

This time Leonard attacked. True to his fighting style, Durán planted his feet

and refused to retreat. Instead, he turned at the hips, weaving his upper body
around the punches, keeping his forearms and gloves up as a shield. He retaliated
by charging at Leonard like a madman, chasing him to the ropes for the third time.
He slugged at Leonard, who fought back hard.

The fight announcer shouted, “Durán goes to the body, but he’s wild. He did

not hurt Leonard. The punches were not well landed. Leonard goes to the body and
doubles up to the head. And Leonard is throwing leather. He is throwing bombs!
Leonard is throwing everything he has.”

And the bell rang, ending the first round. We all sank back in our seats,

panting with excitement. Your arm brushed against mine and the contact thrilled
me. I didn’t dare look at you, but I inhaled the faint scent of soap rising from your
skin. I remembered your hips and chest lining up with mine as you pinned me to
my bedroom wall, your fingers sinking into my hair. Heat flashed through me and I
shoved more chips in my mouth, washing them down with beer.

In the second round, Durán caught Leonard with a right uppercut. Leonard’s

face froze and his legs buckled – and everyone instantly knew he’d been hurt. The

crowd screamed and we all shouted in the rec room. My stomach dropped as if I’d
seen a tightrope walker slip. Leonard leaped back like a cat, regaining his balance,
but Durán went for the kill, battering Leonard back into the corner.

The fight announcer yelled, “He hurt Leonard! Durán! He hurt Leonard with

a left hook! And Leonard feels it. He’s holding on.”

This would be Leonard’s main defense – to clinch with Durán. By winding

his forearms around Durán’s biceps, he could trap Durán’s arms above the elbows.
With Leonard hanging on, Durán couldn’t punch until the referee broke them
apart.

“Leonard’s in trouble!” the announcer said. “Leonard’s in trouble in Round

2!”

We all strained forward toward the TV, as if our collective concern could

keep Leonard going. I mean, we wanted Durán to win, but we didn’t want the
match to end so soon. Isidro yelled, “Oh, my God! Oh, my God!” Mr. Vigil spilled
his beer and fumbled to right it from its sticky pool as he kept his gaze locked on
the TV screen.

Bobby, I realized you and I were clutching each other’s hands. We must

have looked like girls watching our boyfriends play football. Flushed and guilty,
we disengaged, but no one else even noticed.

Durán worked his right hand free and slammed his fist into Leonard’s ribs.

He and Leonard staggered in a clinch, pounding at each other with short uppercuts
as the referee fluttered alongside, trying to separate them.

“The referee is very ineffectual,” the fight announcer said, stating the

obvious. “He can’t break them apart.”

The analyst pointed out, “That’s because Leonard is holding on too hard.”

The fight continued and the crowd screamed as the boxers exchanged

punches that could have taken someone’s head off. The fight announcer and
analyst launched into excited commentary.

“Would you believe Leonard, trying to match macho with macho?”

“He’s been reading the papers and that’s too bad. He should have been

fighting from outside. Movement is what he needs. Movement!”

The bell rang, ending the second round. Bobby, you and I slumped together,

shoulder to shoulder. You ran your hand over my bare arm, and I shivered with
contentment. Dad and his friends were talking all at once, as they mopped up
spilled beer and replenished their chips and salsa. The fight announcer narrated the
replay, pointing out Durán’s left hook.

“That is probably the hardest punch that Leonard’s been hit with as a

professional.”

So Durán and Leonard fought their first five rounds, past the point where

each usually won by knockout against his opponents. We watched, too enthralled
even to stuff a tortilla chip in our mouths or reach for a beer for fear we might miss
something. This would be a legendary fight.

Leonard had amazing hand-speed. Sometimes he threw punches faster than

the human eye could see. He fought with a stern look of intense concentration, as if
in the eye of the hurricane where instinct, intellect, and athleticism met in a vortex
of energy. And, Durán? His outstanding skill and ring experience went unnoticed
because everyone saw only one thing. Pure aggression. He had shark eyes, dead
and merciless, and he looked intimidating as hell.

The referee would break up a clinch – and then you’d see Durán, coming

after Leonard, relentless and patient. Sometimes Leonard covered up under the
blows. Sometimes he slipped away. Sometimes he stood his ground, exchanging
furious volleys of punches with Durán.

Between rounds, Leonard always stood up in his corner before the one-

minute break concluded. He could have been creating his own fight strategy, apart
from his corner men. Meanwhile, Durán would crouch on his stool for the entire
sixty seconds, held back by his trainer, possibly the oldest white guy ever seen in a
boxing ring. The trainer gripped Durán along the ribcage, pouring instructions into
his ear. When the bell started each round, he would pitch Durán forward with both
hands into the ring.

Mr. Vigil said, “Like he’s launching his rooster into a cockfight, no?”

I tried not to burst into embarrassed giggling at the word cock.

* * *

Bobby, you remember when we first met. It was 1972 in the cloister at Our

Lady of Sorrows after Easter Mass, and we were six years old.

I’d slipped away from my parents and sisters so I could get outside. I had a

new shooter marble, a big cat’s eye, and I wanted to roll it around on the pavement
as the sun came out, and see how it looked. It had taken all my will power to sit
through the entire service and receive communion. I couldn’t stop thinking about
my new toy.

But three boys who lived down the street followed me, and the biggest one

grabbed my marble. The unfairness of it made me so mad I was ready to fight them
all three of them. And you showed up like a superhero in that weird little suit,
handed down from your brothers, which your mom made you wear to Easter Mass.
It was robin’s-egg blue with a vest, pleated shorts, and no jacket.

I didn’t even know you yet. But you waded into our midst in a totally take-

charge way and dropped the F-word twice on the big kid, first in Mexican Spanish
and then in English. Later, I learned you were just repeating random words that
you’d picked up from your dad.

You said, “Give it back, you pinche little fucker!"

We were awestruck. Our parents would have washed our mouths with soap

if we’d used those words. It occurred to me that you might want my marble for
yourself. But you grabbed it away from the bully and pressed it into my hand. Your
sweaty fingers on mine gave me a jolt. You were so real and full of energy.

The big kid stared at you – apprehensive, and yet appreciative. I could tell he

wanted to win you over. I thought the four of you might end up beating on me. But
you gave the big kid a look of such righteous scorn that it closed down that
possibility.

He and his minions started jeering at you for using swear words on Easter.

But you didn’t care in the slightest that you had committed a mortal sin. That part
struck us as the ultimate in cool. You were a six-year-old badass.

Without a word, you punched the closest boy in the mouth. Nothing

personal. But it made sense to pick off the extra opponent. You hit him so hard he
started crying and lost all appetite for a scuffle. The other two boys charged us, and
the situation dissolved into a fistfight, us against them.

A deacon and some dads dragged us all apart. You squirmed against the

deacon’s grip, giving him a resentful look. You whispered to me, “What’s your
name?”

I recognized my dad pushing through the crowd, coming for me like the

Wrath of God. Worried and ashamed, I mumbled, “Alejandro,” and you heard it as
Alejo.

I didn’t learn your name until next week at church. You ran up to me after

the service as my parents stood, chatting with their friends. “Alejo! Alejo!
Remember me?” you asked, as if I could forget. I’d thought of nothing but you all
week.

This time, you weren’t exactly dressed for church. You wore jeans and a

faded t-shirt featuring the Rolling Stones logo with the tongue sticking out, an
image which my parents had always found obscene. Your brothers must have
passed down that shirt to you because its shoulder-seams sagged to your biceps.
You and I sat in the shade on the grassy bank that led to the front doors of the
church.

“My name is Alejandro,” I said. “But you can call me Alejo, if you want.”

“My name’s Roberto.” You gave me a radiant smile. You seemed so thrilled

to see me.

“If you’re going to call me Alejo, then I’m calling you Rob,” I said.

You flinched. “That’s a crime. Like rob a bank. Call me something else.”

“Can I call you Bobby?”

“Okay, but only you get to call me that.”

You lived only a few blocks away in my own Martineztown neighborhood.

That spring and summer, I couldn’t believe my amazing luck that you wanted to
spend all your time with me. I mean, the first six years of my life had been
dominated by an overprotective mother and two older sisters who liked to shampoo
my hair and dress me up in their clothes. Everyone in my family said I was so
pretty I should have been a girl.

I had no male role models. None other than my dad, bless his heart. But Dad

was so wrapped up with his looks, his clothes, and his status symbols. You became
my role model. You were such an unmitigated boy. You liked sports, riding bikes,
collecting die-cast cars, throwing dirt clods, and telling fart jokes.

We were inseparable for the next five years of elementary school. We

competed with each other in everything from grades to sports. We spent every
moment trying to make each other laugh or gross each other out.

I learned why you didn’t like the name Rob. In late 1971, your dad had been

convicted of armed robbery and sentenced to the Santa Fe prison for fifteen years.
You missed your dad so much that his absence was a wound that would not heal. I
could see it in your eyes the few times you talked about him.

Your mom had her hands full, working two jobs to support four sons. You

and Isidro had no one to protect you from getting beaten up by Miguel and Tomas,
who were already dealing drugs.

But it also meant you had no parental supervision. You could do anything

you wanted, such as show me porn from your brothers’ collections. I’d begged you
to let me see it. As a kid, I had a strong curiosity about male and female nudity.
Your brothers’ girlie magazines had the power to grab my undivided, heart-
pounding attention – but so did a glimpse of your cock whenever we were sharing
the bathroom during a sleepover at my house.

I guess all that should have given me an early clue about my bisexuality.

Meanwhile, you seemed bored by photos of naked ladies. At the time, I chalked
that up to you having seen it all many times before. But, of course, you were gay.

Even when we were kids, you would tell me to judge people by their

everyday actions. You sounded far older than your years when you said things like
that. It gave me a chill to think of you growing up around Miguel and Tomas,
learning to trust no one. But your own actions made me fall in love with you. From
day one, you treated me with such warmth, caring, and closeness. I mean, we
argued sometimes as we do now. I have a temper, and you’re only willing to put up
with so much crap from me. But we never seriously fought.

Sometimes you could be pushy and intense – even a bit overwhelming, such

as when you decided that we should go jogging together every morning for the rest
of our lives. You roped me into so many of your high-energy projects, and you
almost never quit on anything. You’re still making me jog to this day. I found it
easier to join you than to balk when you tried to include me. My laziness or
stubbornness was no match for your enthusiasm. Most of all, I wanted to make you
happy.

One conversation stands out with sharp clarity. We were eight years old,

lying on sleeping bags on the floor of the rec room. My parents had allowed us to
watch late movies on television until we fell asleep or the station signed off with
the national anthem and the picture dissolved into static, whichever came first.

You lined up your thirty die-cast cars on the flap of the sleeping bag

between us. You kept your collection at my house for safekeeping. “You want to
move in with me after college?”

“Sure.” That sounded great to me.

You waved one of your toy cars at me. “We could fill our house with these.”

Our house. I started smiling. “We can have our own house. Nobody can tell

us what to do. We can be with each other all the time.” Worry began to erode my
happiness. “What about getting married and having kids?”

“What about it?”

“We’re supposed to do that, right?”

“Not if we don’t want to.” You gave me an intense look. “Alejo, any time a

grown-up tells you that you’re supposed to do something, and it sounds weird, you
ask him why. If he doesn’t give you a good reason, then you shouldn’t do it. I
don’t care who he is. I don’t care if he’s the Pope.”

“But…” I tried to hide how enormously impressed I was with such a bold

statement. “How is getting married and having kids weird?”

“Well, maybe it isn’t, if that’s what you want. What’s weird is when you’re

supposed to do something that doesn’t make sense.” Your lip curled. “Like be all
respectful to that dirtbag Father Lucero.”

I caught my breath in thrilled horror. You’d just called our parish priest a

dirtbag.

“You know how he is.” Your eyes flashed. “In catechism class and all.

Calling the girls stupid and the boys clumsy. He told my mom she’s a drunk and
should be ashamed, and he made her cry. I’d like to kick his ass. He’s the meanest
priest I’ve ever seen. How does bullying people make him a good Catholic?”

“So why does everyone think he’s all holy?”

“That’s a good question. People should always look at what is really going

on.” You started rearranging your cars. “So, do you want to get married and have
kids?”

“Do you?” I stalled.

You started laughing. “I asked you first.”

So I looked at what was really going on. At what I felt in the everyday

moment. “I just want to be with you all the time.”

* * *

The bell rang for Round 6, and Durán came out, jabbing with his left fist. He

forced Leonard back. The fight announcer said, “Leonard has shown a lot of class
in these first five rounds, and Roberto has shown his animal intensity. It has been a
barn-burner, and it is a pretty even fight.”

“Those eyes…” My dad leaned forward, gaze fixed on Durán. “That beard.”

His appreciative tone grabbed my full attention. Dad only sounded like that

when talking about women. Bobby, you shot me an astonished look. Nowadays,
we’d probably call it a man-crush. Back then, we couldn’t believe our ears.

The oxygen seemed to drain from the room as I pinched myself on the arm. I

dragged my gaze from yours and stared hard at the TV screen, quaking inside.
Please, God, I thought. Don’t let me burst out laughing.

“He looks like…” My dad shook his head in admiration. “The Devil.”

Mr. Vigil crossed himself. “Yeah, I see it, too.” He got another beer.

Not to be too Catholic or anything, but I knew what they meant. Sugar Ray

Leonard could have been the Archangel Michael: innocent, heroic, cerebral, and a
bit detached. He resembled an angelic young warrior, and he fought with
superhuman skill, but he might not win the battle this time. And Durán? He looked
satanic with those burning coal-black eyes and that devilish beard. With his
demonic charisma, he had hypnotized the entire sports arena.

The seventh and eighth rounds passed. By now, the two boxers were really

digging into the trenches. No more feinting and circling, and not much clinching.
Instead, they clashed together and pounded at each other, standing toe-to-toe. Of
course, Durán had the advantage because this played to his fighting style.

He grappled with Leonard, pinning him on the ropes. Dishing out another

solid beating. But Leonard exploded into action every time he glimpsed an
opening, and the commentators almost couldn’t keep up with the action.

By now, my one Tecate had gone straight to my head. I started to find

everything the commentators said to be hilarious. I leaned against you, snorting
under my breath. Bobby, you knew enough not to chug your beer too fast. You put

your arm around the back of my chair, holding me up. No one cared. Everyone
leaned forward in his seat, riveted to the action onscreen.

“They used to question Leonard’s chin,” the fight announcer said. “You

think they do now?”

“No, indeed,” the analyst intoned. “Not his chin, not his heart, not his head,

and not his fighting ability. Sugar Ray Leonard is a sensational champion…” His
pompous tone already had me giggling, but what he said next just floored me with
its unintentionally homoerotic subtext. “But he’s got his hands full with Roberto
Durán who has given him all he wants and is on top of him every minute.”

I burst out laughing. Isidro hissed in annoyance, trying to concentrate on the

fight. Smiling, you elbowed me. You got it. Otherwise, no one else noticed. Dad
and his friends probably wouldn’t have paid attention to a bomb going off right
then in the rec room.

The ninth round started. The referee scurried in for the umpteenth time to

break a clinch. Leonard had wrapped his arms around Durán’s wrists, tying up his
fists. The two boxers struggled, locked together. Durán took full advantage of his
shorter height to grind his head into Leonard’s face. The referee slapped at
Leonard’s gloves, trying to break his hold on Durán.

The fight announcer said in utter frustration, “There’s the ubiquitous referee

in between.”

You and I exchanged a delighted glance. The word sounded way cool and

we didn’t usually hear words like that from sports broadcasters. I mean, aside from
Howard Cosell. At the time, I thought it meant annoyingly underfoot.

“I don’t know what he’s doing here,” the fight announcer said. “He is

interfering far too much in this fight. The way these two guys are fighting, they
don’t need a referee. There he goes again. They’re not even in the corner and he’s
there. But they are two master craftsmen, superb fighters.”

By the tenth round, I'd sobered up enough to see that the two boxers were

getting tired. Steam rose from their overheated bodies into the cool rainy air. They
were breathing hard through their mouths.

They looked half-dead by the eleventh round. Durán slammed his right fist

into Leonard's face. Dazed, Leonard clinched with him on instinct, shambling
against the ropes. His head drooped to Durán’s shoulder, rolling with their motion.

“They’re both exhausted,” the fight announcer said. “We’re in the eleventh

round. Four more to go. But Leonard fights back from the corner with a volley, and
Durán answers!”

The boxers clung to each other, struggling in slow motion. The referee tried

to break up the clinch. Leonard pounded at Durán’s lowered head as Durán pinned
him in the corner, too spent to do more than lean on him for that instant – and the
bell rang, ending the round.

“Who’s the stronger of the two men?” the fight announcer asked the analyst.

“Right now, you really couldn’t tell. What Sugar Ray Leonard has taken to

the body should have caved in a heavyweight.” The analyst added, “This is a
replay of Robinson-LaMotta.”

We didn’t need him to explain which boxer reminded him of the Raging

Bull. We watched as the referee managed to separate Leonard and Durán. He
curved his arm over Durán’s head as he turned Durán back toward his own corner.
A caring and protective gesture, it stood out for me after all the violence.

* * *

The 1980s started in a dark place for us. In February, your father was

murdered in the New Mexico State Penitentiary riot. I was so afraid I might lose
you to your grief. You drifted away from everybody, even your beloved brother
Isidro. Even me, your best friend since we were six years old. You talked less and
less, which totally wasn’t like you, Bobby. You skipped church, and got into
fistfights. Once, you were suspended from school.

But I spent every possible moment with you and we managed to graduate

from eighth grade. We left our middle school behind. The summer of 1980
stretched ahead of us with the big unknown of Albuquerque High School waiting
to swallow us when fall semester started.

That summer, only one week before my dad’s big Fight Night event, I took

a huge risk. I came on to you. We were alone in my bedroom, joking around. I
pushed you to sit in my desk chair. You were about to look up something in my
yearbook. And I sat on your lap.

You got the most amazing look on your face – amazing and amazed. Your

eyes widened in vivid excitement and your pupils expanded. The gold starburst
edging each pupil brightened like a sunrise in the rich brown of your irises. Your

full lips parted, and I could almost taste the cinnamon on your breath from the
flavored toothpicks you liked to chew. You grabbed my hips to steady me.

I’d sat on your lap because I didn’t know what to say to get through to you.

To let you know that I loved you and I feared losing you. An instant later, fear
coursed through me. You could have dumped me to the floor, called me a joto, and
stepped over me on your way out – but you didn’t. Instead, you hung on to me.
Much later, you said I’d saved your life. I’d given you something to live for.

What I remember is our first kiss when we moved to my bed. You lay on

your back with me straddling your hips as if I’d pinned you in a wrestling match. I
leaned down and our lips fitted together. It sent a thrill through me, raising every
hair on my body. You made a throaty sound, which ramped up my excitement until
my heartbeat slammed in my chest. We sucked and kissed at each other’s lips, each
learning the contours of the other’s mouth.

We couldn’t help smiling as we kissed, which led to soft caresses, tongue to

tongue. I thought my head would explode, and we were both trembling. When I
drew back, you stared up at me, your beautiful eyes dazzled and clouded with lust.
You looked totally in love with me. I will never forget it, Bobby.

That night, I knelt at the bedside and said my prayers. I didn’t pray for

forgiveness because I didn’t feel I’d done anything wrong by kissing you. And,
you know me, Bobby. I have the most fine-tuned sense imaginable for guilt and
sin. I have always known I could trust my instincts to distinguish right from wrong.
So I prayed for your safety, healing, and happiness. I thought of you in your
mother’s house, asleep in the bedroom you shared with Isidro. I already missed
you.

The next morning, I woke with a crushing sense of my responsibility to you.

Your dad’s death had almost destroyed you. It had filled you with grief so
immeasurable that you couldn’t cope with it. Especially not at fourteen years old
and alone because you’d withdrawn even from Isidro and me.

So you had enough to grapple with – and then I had changed our deep

friendship. I’d made it romantic and sexual. I hadn’t done it just to save you. I
wanted you. I was in love with you. But the morning after, I realized that I held
your precarious happiness in my hands. If I could save you with just a kiss, then
did I have the power to destroy you? If I did something stupid that you took as a
rejection, I might lose you forever.

I agonized over this as my dad sent me out to mow the lawn. The smell of

gas fumes and cut grass mingled as I shoved the mower along, trying to cut along
the precise parallel lines that Dad wanted.

What would happen to our friendship now? I had nothing but my sisters’

stories to guide me. Both had tried and failed to transform friendships with boys
into dating. Graciela’s friend had turned into a selfish pig, pressuring her for sex.
(Good thing for him Dad hadn’t known about that.) Christina and her friend went
from easy closeness to tense bickering all the time over misunderstandings. You
and I would face additional challenges. Would you understand that my need for
secrecy didn’t mean rejection?

Every time I closed my eyes, I saw your face. I didn’t know if we could hide

what we were feeling for each other. What if my parents found out? What if they
forbade me to see you? We were only fourteen years old. We had an eternity to get
through before we could graduate high school, get jobs, and start our lives
together.

I went inside to shower, get dressed, and eat breakfast with my family.

Knowing that I would see you at church filled me with excitement, longing, and
apprehension. Then I saw you waiting for me at the doors of Our Lady of Sorrows.

You were dressed in pressed khakis and a short-sleeve dress shirt. Your

damp hair, combed back from your brow, made you look like you’d stepped out of
the shower. As you greeted my parents, I imagined you naked – or even jerking off
– in the shower. Once you had mentioned you did it there because you had no
privacy at your house, and I had never forgotten it. Now I had to think of
something unpleasant, such as confessing my sins to Father Lucero, to keep from
getting a hard-on in church.

You and I went apart from our families to sit in another pew. We’d been

allowed to do that since we’d turned thirteen and proved that we wouldn’t
embarrass ourselves with too much nudging and whispering. We sat side-by-side
with the same distance between us, as any other boys would have had.

We looked at each other. You looked like my friend, nothing more. Relief

spread through me and my shoulders relaxed as I realized that you knew how to
keep even something this big a secret. But had anything changed? Had you already
forgotten our kiss?

I looked closer, stirred by the warmth in your eyes and the steadiness of your

gaze. Underneath your casual demeanor, you were incandescent with joy. There

was shyness between us that hadn’t been there before, but also a sense of
deepening closeness.

“If you like, I could come over tonight,” you whispered. “Knock at your

window.”

Sometimes you did this if you needed to get away from your family. Late at

night, you would walk over to my house. I’d help you climb in through my
bedroom window. We’d stay up talking or we’d sleep and set the alarm early
enough for you to leave without my parents finding out.

“Yeah.” I nodded, knowing what we’d do. Joy flooded through me. “I’d like
that.”

* * *

Durán and Leonard caught a second wind in the next three rounds. They

fought as if possessed by demons. Breathless, the fight analyst declared this match
to be as good as the famed Thrilla in Manila, where he had served as corner man
and physician to Muhammad Ali.

The suspense in the last round had us all gripping the edges of our seats

when we weren’t frantically popping chips into our mouths. Each fighter must
have thought he was ahead on points. So both held back, taking a conservative
strategy to avoid risking a last-minute knockout. Each feinted, trying to make his
opponent attack so he could counterpunch.

Neither boxer knew what we all did. As the commentators had pointed out,

this fight was incredibly close, even now. Either Durán or Leonard needed to
explode into aggressive action, if he wanted to win. But now Leonard advanced
and jabbed with excruciating caution.

And Durán? He stopped punching. Instead, he stood toe-to-toe with Leonard

and put on the most amazing display of defensive skill I’d ever seen. He ducked,
pivoted, bobbed, and weaved as Leonard got mad and fired punches at him. He
slipped Leonard’s scary-fast shots, letting them glide past his face. My mouth went
dry with wonder. I forgot to laugh when he stuck out his bearded chin at Leonard
and tapped it with his glove in an obvious dare. Hit it, if you can.

So the fight ended with the bell after that fifteenth round. Roberto Durán

refused to touch gloves with Sugar Ray Leonard. In fact, Durán snarled something
at him, probably a wasted insult since they didn’t speak each other’s languages.

Leonard returned to his corner and waited in gloomy silence as both

entourages climbed into the ring. Durán started hopping all over the place like a
maniac – totally out-of-control as he let out all his pent-up energy. Since neither
boxer had managed to win by technical knockout, the judges had to score on
points. So everybody waited for the winner to be announced.

You could see how short both fighters were. They disappeared from view,

surrounded by their taller handlers, who filled the ring within two hostile mobs.
Sugar Ray Leonard was only five foot nine. Durán, at five foot seven, was my
dad’s height. That’s about as tall as I thought I might get.

Suddenly Durán appeared, shrugging off his elderly trainer’s attempts to

restrain him. Charging to the ropes, he screamed in Spanish at someone in the
audience. He grabbed his crotch with his boxing glove in a blatant suck-this
gesture. Dad and his buddies exchanged disbelieving glances and cracked up
laughing.

“What did he say?” Isidro pleaded. “Come on! I don’t speak Spanish.”

“You don’t want to know.” Mr. Vigil folded his lips into a prim line. Our

evening of temporary manhood had ended.

The fight announcer, who didn’t speak Spanish either, guessed, “He’s

yelling at Benitez,” meaning Wilfred Benitez, a great Puerto Rican welterweight,
sitting ringside with Leonard’s family, “and saying, ‘I will take you now!’”

But the post-fight drama hadn’t fizzled out yet. Someone inside the boxing

ring shoved through the crowd, unnoticed in all the chaos. He came from
Leonard’s group, working his way behind Durán, his bare fists clenched.
Obviously, he meant to attack Durán. We all stared in shocked disbelief. What
kind of pendejo would try to ambush a boxer who had just exhausted himself,
fighting fifteen rounds?

“It’s Sugar Ray Leonard’s brother,” said one of Dad’s friends.

I think you spoke for us all, Bobby, when you burst out, “What a total dick!”

Just in time, Durán turned and flattened Leonard’s brother with one punch. I

mean, literally knocked him sprawling on the canvas. We all burst into excited
cheering. Dad slammed his beer can down on the second-best coffee table, and
yelled, “¡Arriba Panama!” We all remembered our tiny Panamanian flags and
started waving them for everything we were worth.

Totally blasé, the Québécois official took the microphone and read the

scores from the three judges. Because he insisted on giving the numbers first in
French, we all had to seethe in incomprehension until he repeated them in English.
We shouted when he announced, “The new WBC Welterweight Champion…”
Durán had won the fight by unanimous decision.

The fight analyst, who spoke fluent Spanish, climbed into the ring and tried

to get Durán’s attention for an interview. Finally, he planted himself in front of the
much shorter Durán, addressed him in Spanish, and stuck a microphone in his face.
Durán started screaming his response, and the analyst translated: “Durán says he
knew he would win. He says he was more of a man, he was more strong, he…”

He was more everything, apparently. Smiling, Dad and his friends rolled

their eyes. They were getting it first-hand without the translation. But you and I,
Bobby, we’d had enough boxing excitement for one night. We helped ourselves to
our second beers and slipped away, going outside to the back patio.

No one had remembered to turn on the outside light. We sat on the wrought-

iron bench in the velvety near-darkness and opened our beers. Mom’s cat Gordito
strolled up and sniffed at our shoes. He hoisted his chubby body into your lap,
purring as you petted him.

I was too keyed up to sit still. I chugged half my beer, set the can on the

concrete, and jumped up. To let off steam, I started pacing back and forth,
shadowboxing. Images of my dad flickered through my head. Dad sneering,
maricón. Dad smiling and telling Christina to give beers to you, Isidro, and me for
Fight Night. I worshipped my dad. I couldn’t even sleep well on nights when I’d
made him angry or disappointed.

The pressure mounting in my heart became unbearable. I realized I might

soon be forced to choose between you, whom I loved with all my heart, and my
dad’s love and acceptance. And not just my dad, but also the world of his peers
into which he had briefly ushered you, Isidro, and me that night.

As a family man and a successful businessman, Dad occupied a place of

honor in the world of Latino men. With every molecule, I yearned to take my
rightful place in that mysterious and enticing fraternity. Dad and his buddies –
short, weary, middle-aged men, who battled high blood pressure and receding
hairlines – could have been hero-gods from the Toltec pantheon in my eyes.

“Sit with me,” you said. “This is our chance, man. No one can see us.”

“Chance for what?” I croaked. Dear God, why did I have to choose?

“For whatever you want.” Smiling at me, you patted the bench at your side.

You looked so beautiful, poised between the kid I knew and loved and the

grown man you would soon become. Your smooth dark skin, heavy expressive
brows, and full lips – all of your strong features made you look strikingly
masculine. The sight of you smiling up at me with hope and desire filled me with
overwhelming lust. And love, helpless love.

“We could kiss,” you said. Oh, you were far braver than I was. “Or, you

know, cuddle.”

I sat down beside you. Gordito, bless him, stretched out across both of our

laps, giving us an excuse to sit close together. He rolled over, displaying the furry
flab on his stomach, and his purring shifted into a deep rumble. You draped your
arm across the back of the bench and started rubbing the muscles of my upper
back.

Guilt flooded through me, and concern for your feelings. I knew I was being

a killjoy by not snuggling up to you. That’s what Dad always called me, a killjoy.
He meant that I was too much like my mom, too serious and sensitive. So was
Christina, which is why Graciela with her fiery extroverted charm was Dad’s
favorite. But he gave me, his only son, even less slack than Christina and Mom to
be a killjoy.

Your hand lifted to stroke my hair. Even back then, I knew that you wanted,

and deserved, nothing less than to be the center of my life as I was the center of
yours. You wouldn’t tolerate me reducing you to my dirty little secret, not as soon
as we got old enough to have our own lives. But I knew you would work with me
to get there, whereas my dad would try to force me to be like him. Not to blame
Dad or anything. That was the only way he knew to raise a son.

In a daze, I put my hand on Gordito’s soft exposed underside. A total glutton

for attention, he didn’t even claw at me, as most cats would have. I stroked his
ample stomach while you rubbed my back, and I let my shoulder settle against
yours as the beer coursed through my bloodstream and thoughts crowded my mind.

Peace flooded through me. It should have terrified me to see my choice so

clearly. I could have you – or please Dad and join our community of Hispanic men
at his side. But I felt a sense of peace and purpose, though my heart broke when I
thought of my dad. I thought my calmness came from realizing you were on my
side even if my dad wasn’t. Now, I know it was because I’d already chosen you,

even though I wouldn’t fully realize it for a few more years. To make a choice and
go forward is easier than to stand still, too afraid to choose.

I crowded against you and planted a big, open-mouthed kiss on your neck.

You let out a startled but appreciative murmur. I rained kisses upon your hair, the
side of your face, and your neck. You turned and we locked lips for one of the best
kisses of my life. I swear to God, Bobby, the earth moved. The universe narrowed
down to just you and me.

The sliding glass door rumbled open. You and I leaned apart, blinking and

swallowing hard. Isidro looked out, unable to see much. He went back in, switched
on the outside light, and stepped out on the patio.

“Roberto? Mr. Sandoval’s going to drive us home.”

“Okay,” you said in a hushed tone. You gave me a smoldering look as if to

say you would count the moments until we could be together again. I couldn’t
believe how lucky I was to have you.

* * *

They say that after Roberto Durán won that fight in Montréal, he went home,

a national hero. This, after a childhood on the streets of Panama City, stealing food
to survive. He even got to address his countrymen.

(I picture him standing on a balcony, reaching out in benediction like the

Pope to a huge crowd. And he’s a boxer, right? He doesn’t know how to make
eloquent speeches.)

But it was a moment of great emotion for him because he had brought home

the world title. He stood before the huge crowd of fans, wearing his WBC
Welterweight Championship belt. And he pointed down at the belt and said
something like, “This does not really belong to me. This is yours, my people.”

The Panamanians started laughing because they misunderstood and thought

he was pointing at his cock. It was a pricelessly funny moment to them and,
eventually, to him.

Even so, I remember that story whenever I think of everything I want to say

to you, Bobby. This is yours – my past, my present, my future, my heart, my body,
my soul. Everything that makes me who I am.

* * *

ABOUT THE AUTHOR:

As a reader, I like humor, strong plots, passionate attraction, vivid cultural details,
and complicated characters, and as an author, I hope to offer you the same. My
titles in the Alejo and Bobby series include Fall into the Sun, This is Yours, and
Reach for the Moon. You can find my upcoming and current fiction listed at

my

author page at Goodreads.com

. Thank you very much for reading!

* * *

Author’s Note on the Alejo and Bobby series:

First, I wrote Fall into the Sun set in 2006 when Alejo and Bobby are forty years
old, followed by This is Yours set in 1980 when Alejo and Bobby are fourteen
years old, followed by Reach for the Moon set in 1984 when Alejo and Bobby are
eighteen years old. All three books are stand-alone and can be read in any order.

The way they fit together is a bit complicated. Are you familiar with the Many-
Worlds Theory?

Think of Fall into the Sun as a story that happens on a different timeline in all the
possible futures involving Alejo and Bobby after the events of This is Yours. It is a
story of what might have been.

Fall into the Sun starts with Alejo and Bobby at age forty. On this timeline, they
broke up at age eighteen, and the next twenty years swept them apart. How can
they manage to come back together and earn their happy ending? Fall into the Sun
is a one-time story of second chances in midlife.

Reach for the Moon, centering on a road trip they take at age eighteen, happens on
a different timeline. Alejo and Bobby do not break up soon after their high school
graduation. Their life circumstances are different and they stay together. All other
stories in the Alejo and Bobby series flow from the timeline set by Reach for the
Moon.

* * *

BLURB: FALL INTO THE SUN

They should have spent the past 22 years together, but life took some unexpected
turns for Bobby Gallegos and Alejo Sandoval. Heartbreak and rejection can harden
the hearts of two passionate, stubborn men. One, deeply devout, wanted to attend
college. One, who perfected a tough act to deceive his brothers, might have

followed his dad to prison. Now, at 40 years old, they maintain a long-distance
relationship as sex buddies, who don't quite trust each other.

Their lives have sharply diverged. One is now divorced with two teenagers, who
bring him joy and despair. One has just had a near-death experience on the job.
When Bobby returns to Albuquerque, he will use sex, persuasion, and memories of
their shared past to try to convince Alejo to take a chance on him and reach for the
future together that they were meant to share. (41,000 words.)

EXCERPT: FALL INTO THE SUN

Albuquerque, New Mexico.

May 2006

Chapter 1

Bobby sat at the bar, fidgeting with the knot in his tie. Tension always went

to his neck, and planning how and when to confide in Alejo about the thing in
Texas made him nervous, no question. He couldn't face throwing something
complicated between them now that they were seeing each other again after so
many years apart. But it wouldn't stop weighing on his mind, the thing that had
happened in Texas, his brush with death only two months ago.

He had no idea how to explain it to Alejo, or if he even should tell him,

considering their history. Well, he had to tell him, but not in a manipulative way. If
only he could take back those times when they were eighteen and he had pushed
Alejo so hard to love him and put him first. Also, that time when they were twenty-
nine. He would do that differently, too. He sighed and took another sip of his beer.

Conversations overlapped, swirling around him. He had eaten dinner alone

after Alejo had called, held up with work. He couldn't exactly criticize someone
else's workaholic tendencies so he'd reassured Alejo, who had sounded even more
regretful than usual, and they had arranged to meet in the hotel bar. They had only
seven days to make the most of Bobby's vacation. Only one week before he had to
return to his life and job in Houston, but he didn't want to think about that.

This year Alejo had booked him in the new Sandia Resort and Casino, and

he tried not to read too much into the location – north beyond city limits, on tribal
land, and probably not somewhere they might run into his kids. Not that Alejo
treated him like a secret mistress. Not exactly. They were still sorting out their
renewed relationship, including what to tell friends and family.

I know what I want, Bobby thought. That thing in Texas had clarified

everything.

He checked the doorway again and heat flooded through him as he

recognized Alejo scanning for him. Oh, man, Alejo looked good. His tailored gray
suit accentuated the trim lines of his body. His fuchsia tie looked flamboyant like
something their granddads might have owned back in the zoot suit days, but Alejo
wore it well. Velvety black hair. These days, he had an elegantly trimmed beard.
Threaded with silver, it gave his refined features a devilish edge.

His dark eyes lit when he saw Bobby, and he hurried through the crowd.

Bobby knew he looked good in his best outfit, the navy blue suit he wouldn't wear
for funerals, weddings, or court appearances, but reserved only to see Alejo. They
stood the same height, a not-very-impressive five foot eight inches, but he loved to
look straight into Alejo's eyes. Too many months since I last saw you, he thought.

“Ah, vato, you're looking good.” Alejo gave him a hot stare.

“So are you,” he said.

They went through their multi-phase cholo handshake from high school,

each trying to keep a straight face. By the time they'd tapped fists in conclusion,
they couldn't hold back their smiles as they devoured each other with their eyes.
Time passing had smoothed away Alejo's youthful shyness. Underneath his
reserved demeanor, he radiated a quiet self-confidence in his accomplishments. I'd
be kissing you now if we were alone, Bobby thought.

“Sorry about dinner,” Alejo said. “Is your room okay? How do you like this
place?”

“It's great. Grand opening and all. I mean, the place is really hopping.”

Okay, so he'd shoveled on the false praise, but at least his room was quiet.

The casino environment struck him as hectic and false, but he didn't want to be
ungrateful, not when Alejo had to pry himself loose from work and kids to spend
time with him. Crowds swarmed past the bar toward the maze of slot machines,
arrayed in a room the size of an airplane hangar. Tomorrow morning, he would
probably see stragglers lingering there, staring at the screens like zombies, jabbing
at the buttons as electronic tones blared.

“I got us a deal on the room,” Alejo said. “Mom has a membership.”

“Your mom gambles? Since when?”

“For years. She and her friends play poker.”

“You think we'll see her here?” Bobby couldn't imagine Alejo taking that

chance.

“She's taking a break from the casinos,” Alejo said. “She gave up poker for

Lent, but the weekend after Easter, she had extra cash and she got a little reckless.
Lost a hundred bucks. She took it as a sign from God and donated what she had
left to the church. No more gambling for a while.”

Mr. and Mrs. Sandoval had always been devout as far back as Bobby could

remember. Half the time when he had slept over, Alejo's parents also had the priest
to dinner, and Father Lucero always wanted to know why Bobby never came to
confession. The priest liked to cut other people down to size, especially kids, and
Bobby had to struggle not to retaliate with a smart remark. Only Alejo's pleading
stare would make him hold back.

One time after dinner, they had all knelt in the Sandovals' living room to

pray the rosary for no reason that Bobby could see except to impress Father
Lucero. Alejo had to lend Bobby a spare rosary, and it took an eternity to move
past each plastic bead as they all prayed aloud. He couldn't help eyeing Mrs.
Sandoval's collection of scary religious things such as the tin retablo of the
disembodied Sacred Heart, floating within its crown of thorns that looked like
barbed wire.

The statue of the Blessed Virgin, stepping on the serpent with her bare foot,

always triggered his borderline snake phobia. Over the mantel hung a large crucifix
emphasizing the bloody wounds of the Lord in what Bobby now knew to be the
hyper-realistic Mexican style of religious art. He and Alejo used to joke about how
a crucifix in every room kept the Sandoval house safe from vampires.

“Let me buy you a beer,” Bobby said.

“Trying to get me drunk?” Alejo gave a flirty smile. “So I'll lose the game?”

“We can skip the game and go up to my room now.”

“Yeah, but this is what we do. And I like to win.”

Bobby nodded, his mouth going dry with anticipation. The tradition had

started with their renewed relationship one year ago. Since then, he had returned to
Albuquerque as often as he could get away from his job, and he and Alejo
celebrated each reunion with a game of pool. They both liked to win because the

winner got what he wanted later on – on top, on the bottom, whatever he craved
and dared to ask for.

Sometimes Bobby went cold with fear when he realized that he and Alejo

might not have ever found their way back to each other. Alejo had married so
young. After ten years of waiting for him anyway, Bobby had moved on and built a
life with Quinn, who had finally left him early last year, right after Alejo's divorce
had come through.

Thank God, he had found the courage to call Alejo to tell him what had

happened. It had made him the happiest man in the world when Alejo had invited
him to visit. After months of long-distance calls and visits, the thing in Texas had
happened. So where did that leave them now? In a cautious sex-buddy relationship
in which no promises had yet been exchanged. But at least they were seeing each
other.

The bartender approached to take their drink order. Bobby handed over a

twenty and nodded at the neon sign that spelled Dos Equis for his second and
Alejo's first. They both declined a glass and took their beer bottles through the
crowds and cigarette smoke to the pool table where nobody played. Too retro,
especially when the casino already offered poker, roulette, craps, blackjack, and of
course the slot machines. Twenty-six years ago, he and Alejo had first played eight
ball on the rundown table on the cracked concrete patio behind the restaurant that
Alejo's parents owned.

“What do you want to play?” Bobby asked.

“Eight ball.”

He loved that Alejo remembered their oldest game. “Sure. Why not?”

Sipping his beer, he watched Alejo gather the pool balls into the triangular

rack. Click, click, click – and, oh, God. Alejo leaned to get the last one, and the
fine weave of his trousers outlined the curve of his ass. He didn't seem to be
wearing anything underneath. So sexy and so risqué for Alejo. Bobby stared,
lifting his gaze just as Alejo turned and held up a quarter to flip.

“Call it.” He balanced the coin on his thumb.

“Heads.” Bobby offered up a swift prayer to win the break-shot.

The quarter spun through its arc. Alejo flashed a pleased smile at Bobby.

“You lose. Stand back while I clear the table.”

“Yeah, you do that.” He managed a mocking tone.

The cue ball struck, scattering striped balls and solids across the green felt.

The number 3 ball dropped into a pocket. Alejo sauntered around the table, sinking
two more solids before missing a shot. The cue ball banked off the rail cushion and
coasted to a stop.

“You can only stay a week?” he asked.

“Let's make the most of it.” Not for the first time, Bobby considered quitting

his job.

Nothing mattered to him anymore apart from Alejo, but he needed to wait

for the right moment to argue his case. His palms got sweaty as he imagined Alejo
listening, but turning him down. Refusing to make a life with him. Or asking him
to settle for what they were now, something between sex buddies and old friends
from childhood. So much less than they both needed and deserved.