Page 25 of The Holy Grail

“Sure you weren’t.” Jules looped her arm through his, and just as he thought she was going to ask what he’d been thinking about (because she was proving to be rather tenacious), she abruptly changed the subject. “Time to go find some shirts.”

After heading to the area of the store showcasing all the shirts and sweaters, they decided to split up to cover more ground.

“Let’s meet back here in fifteen minutes,” Jules said and immediately took off.

Like the seasoned shopper she was, Jules had amassed a giant armful of shirts (and a few sweaters) by the time they were supposed to meet, even though she’d spent a lot of that time discreetly watching him wander from rack to rack.

At one point, when she glanced over, it was to see that a pretty, female salesperson had approached him.

Jules assumed it was on the pretext (legitimate or not) of seeing if Malcom needed any assistance, but it was clear he was politely telling the woman he was fine on his own.

However, she seemed reluctant to take him at his word, and while Jules wasn’t feeling threatened in any way by the lady’s interest, Jules was starting to feel irritated on Malcom’s behalf, who was looking slightly uncomfortable.

She was on the verge of getting involved when, to her amusement, Malcom actually did get her involved by pointing in her direction, realizing as he did that she was watching the whole episode.

Now he looked a little unsure, as if he thought Jules was going to lose her shit over the sales lady, but Jules disavowed him of that notion by smiling and blowing him a kiss, then going back to searching the rack in front of her, all while ignoring the saleswoman.

When they met up a few minutes later at the appointed time, she didn’t even mention it. Instead, she gave his findings a look of disbelief. “Are you serious? Four shirts? That’s all you found?”

He looked at her stockpile with equal disbelief. “Are you serious? How many shirts do you have there? Fifty? We’re going to be here all night.”

Rather than responding to his ridiculous claim, she quickly led the way back to the dressing room, because the thirty shirts she was holding were pretty heavy. Inside the small space once again, she tossed everything down on the bench before sitting down and reprising her role as a judge.

This time, Malcom wasn’t as self-conscious as he undressed, although her unwavering gaze on him and his bare chest brought all kinds of life back to his cock.

He started with her shirts first, since she’d dumped hers on top of his (probably on purpose) and after the first three he decided Jules was indeed, an excellent shopper.

They were shirts he wouldn’t have looked at, because they were in colors other than navy, gray, and black (like the ones he’d picked out), but found himself really liking them.

Not only did they look good, but they also brought a look of feminine appreciation to her face.

The fourth shirt had him pausing because it was a graphic T-shirt, with Pink Floyd’s Dark Side of the Moon album cover on it. Holding it in his hands like it was something off a runway, he gave her a questioning look.

“You have a bunch of their albums, so I figured you were a fan,” she said.

“I am,” he confirmed, oddly touched at what was really a simple gesture, but felt like so much more.

“There weren’t any Donna Summer shirts, otherwise I would’ve snagged one of those, too,” she added, with a hint of teasing in her voice.

He chuckled and tried the Pink Floyd shirt on, not shocked when it fit like a glove. He was starting to actually enjoy himself when he came to a light pink, button-down shirt. The sight of it had his smile fading and being replaced with a pensive frown .

Jules noticed the change immediately. “I know it’s pink, but I think it would look great on you, with your coloring.”

Malcom swallowed hard, stunned that the sight of the shirt had him floundering … and borderline anxious.

“What’s wrong?” she asked.

A few seconds later, he felt her take his hand and pull him down next to her, the shirt still clutched in his hands. He turned his focus on her, seeing she was obviously confused at his reaction. “When I was in the tenth grade, I bought a shirt almost exactly like this one.”

“Okay. And?”

“And I was going to wear it for picture day because I thought it would look nice. Pastels were kind of a thing at the time, but anyway, my father saw me in it at breakfast and wasn’t … pleased … with my choice. He demanded I change into something else.”

“He wasn’t pleased because he didn’t like the shirt itself, or he didn’t like it because it was pink?”

“Because it was pink.”

Jules had a feeling she knew where this was headed, but remained silent, so Malcom could continue telling his own story.

“He told me it was too feminine, and only girls and, uh, gay men wore pink—”

“Oh, my God, that’s so not true.”

“—and he said he knew I wasn’t a girl, but ...” he trailed off, clearing his throat.

“But what?”

“But he was beginning to wonder if I was gay.”

Jules took in a deep, calming breath and released it slowly. She could tell he was uncomfortable telling her this, so she knew there was more. “That seems like a rather big leap to make, just because of a pink shirt.”

“Well, this was also around the time when most guys my age were having sex with girls, playing sports, drinking, and getting high on the weekends.”

“And I take it you weren’t doing those things?”

“Well, yes to the drinking and getting high, but sex with girls, and sports? No, because I was chronically shy when it came to girls, and the only sport I was involved in was track, which my dad didn’t think was a real sport.”

“I’m starting to really not like your dad,” Jules murmured darkly .

Malcom gave a short nod, then continued. “He was mostly concerned about my lack of a girlfriend, though, and by proxy a lack of potential sex—”

“Jesus Christ. You were only, what? Sixteen years old?”

“Yes, but that was old enough to have a girlfriend—and certainly old enough to have sex.”

“So, your father was actually worried because you weren’t actively trying to have sex?”

“With girls ,” Malcom clarified.

Jules wasn’t sure how to process what she was hearing.

A parent exerting pressure on their child to become sexually active, in order to assuage their concerns the child was gay?

That would be bad enough if the child was straight, but if the child was gay, it would be even worse, she imagined.

Especially if the child wasn’t in an environment where being gay was acceptable and they didn’t feel safe coming out, yet.

“That must have been pretty uncomfortable, being a young man and having your dad questioning your sexuality,” she finally said.

“It was. But honestly, our relationship has always been uncomfortable.”

“Uncomfortable, how?”

“Well, he and I have never been close, partly because he was forty when I was born, and partly because I’m nothing like him and my brother, Martin.

My father never understood me, or knew how to relate to me on any significant level because of our differences, nor did he ever really try.

But I think as I got older, our differences became … problematic.”

“Problematic?”

“Glaring might be a better word. He probably thought I would outgrow being shy and sensitive, but I never did. And he’s never said it outright, but I know he never liked my shyness and sensitivity, because those aren’t masculine qualities.”

“Yes, they are.”

“To him, they’re not. And in his mind, they made me a poor reflection of him, because image was—well, it still is—very important to him.

That’s why, when I chose a different area of law and went to work for another company, it really bothered him, because it looked bad.

Optics are everything, right? So, when his shy and sensitive son, who doesn’t compete in a real sport and isn’t actively trying to sleep with girls shows up at breakfast in a pink shirt, he jumped on the one explanation that seemed obvious to him …

that I was possibly gay.” He paused for a moment.

“A possibility he didn’t like very much. ”

“How much didn’t he like it? ”

“A lot.”

“Define ‘a lot’.”

“He was never physically abusive, if that’s what you’re wondering.”

“I was, actually. It seems like something he might engage in.”

“No. He considered physical violence to be vulgar and low-class, demonstrating an appalling lack of self-control, which to him is unforgivable. His choice of weapon was always verbal—”

“Because that’s not vulgar or low-class?”

“Exactly.”

“Well, that depends on who you ask, I guess.” After a long pause, Jules asked, “How long did this go on for? Him worried you were gay?”

“Not long. I started making an effort to appear more ‘straight’ because that seemed like the best solution at the time.”

“What did that entail?”

“Finding a girlfriend as soon as I could. That was the big thing. Unfortunately, I really was an introvert, and chatting up a pretty girl I had an actual crush on was almost impossible, so I started looking at girls who were, um …”

“Not as pretty?”

“That makes me sound like such an asshole, but yes. I found I could talk to girls who were more ‘girl next door’ than ‘prom queen’.”

“So did that … work out for you?”

“It worked out well enough. I dated a girl named Leah all through high school, went to dances, lost my virginity with her—”

“How was that?”

“It was fine. Good. I cared for her a lot, but if I had loved her, I think it would have been better. More meaningful.”

“Was your mom aware of what happened that morning with your father?” Jules asked, circling back, really hoping his answer wasn’t going to make her start disliking Beverly, too, because that would suck.

“When she found out I’d changed my shirt, she asked me why.

I told her what my dad had said about it being too feminine, and what he’d said about wondering if I was gay.

I asked her if she thought I might be gay, and she said even if I was gay, it wouldn’t make any difference to her because she loved me the way I was, however that was. ”

“Good answer, Beverly,” Jules murmured. “I really like your mom. ”

“Anyway, I got rid of the shirt, and my dad never mentioned my being gay again, but the damage had been done, and that conversation stayed with me for a long time.”

She squeezed his hand, knowing the conversation was still with him today.

“I’m sorry your dad was an asshole and made you feel like there might be something wrong with you, because there wasn’t.

There isn’t. Masculinity, like everything else, comes in different versions, and unfortunately your dad wasn’t comfortable with your version of masculinity, which is a poor reflection of himself, to be honest. And I’m sure he’s blind to the bad optics of that. ”

Malcom really did like the way she thought, but before he could comment, she was speaking again, this time slowly and with reflection.

“I actually have a bisexual friend who went through something similar, and his father wasn’t very tolerant of that lifestyle, to say the least. He thought his son was a deviant, because he was having sex with women and men—” she broke off at his slightly confused expression. “What?”

“I was just thinking that doesn’t seem very similar at all.”

“The similarity is in how my friend was made to feel like there was something wrong with him, and how his masculinity came into question, which is where my story was headed,” she gently admonished him.

“Oh, I see.”

She sighed. “Also, both of your fathers were wrong, because you’re one of the most masculine men I know, and so is my friend. Not to mention you’re both really hot.”

“You think he’s hot?”

“I do.”

His head tilted to the side. “How hot?”

“ Hot hot.”

“Even though he’s bisexual?”

“Yes. That doesn’t make him any less hot to me.”

Malcom blinked at that and then prodded, “Is he hotter than me?”

“You two are equally hot.”

“Have you ever thought about dating him? You know, since he’s so hot and all?”

She paused, a little amused at his dry tone. “Yes, I have, but … he was off limits. Well, I thought he was, anyway.”

“What do you mean he was ‘off limits’?”

“He’s best friends with David—Paige’s husband—and I didn’t want to start anything that might negatively impact our group dynamic if it didn’t work out, which I just assumed it wouldn’t, because of my track record.”

After hesitating for several seconds, Malcom asked, “So, if that hadn’t been an issue, you would have gone out with him?”

“Yes.”

“Because you were sexually attracted to him.”

“Yes.”

He cleared his throat. “It wouldn’t have bothered you that he’d been with other men?”

“No.”

“You wouldn’t be picturing it, and be …”

“What? Repulsed? No, not at all.”

It seemed to Jules Malcom had a lot more questions he wanted to ask, but instead he glanced down at the pink shirt which had started all this, looking conflicted.

“I think you should try it on,” she said, with gentle encouragement. “Give it a chance.”

Slowly, he got to his feet and put the shirt on, and when it was buttoned, she nodded. “I think it looks great. Damn, I really do know how to shop.”

“You seriously don’t think it looks … effeminate … in any way?”

“Well, I picked it out, so I didn’t think it would to begin with.

And I honestly don’t think it does, now that I’m seeing you in it, but your opinion is the one that matters.

So, if it makes you uncomfortable because of the bad memory associated with it, you don’t have to get it, although I wish you would, because fuck your dad. ”

Just then, there was another knock on the dressing-room door, and the male employee from earlier called out, “Hi, in there. This is just a friendly reminder that the store will be closing in ten minutes.”