Identity

IDENTITY

Have you ever had a moment when your mind confronts a problem for which you have no frame of reference, for which even the barest outline of its solution is beyond your reach? I recognized the cable in my hand – I mean I could identify its connectors. One end had a mini-USB connector and the other, a standard USB. The thing was black. I just couldn't figure out why I was holding the cable. I had a moment of near panic as I struggled to identify the cable and remember its use. My heart clutched because somehow I knew that I should know what the wire was. I was holding my breath, and I felt what a Rhesus monkey must feel when handed an iPad, except that the monkey wouldn't be troubled by the vague notion that it should know what to do with the device.

I had started to connect my cellular WiFi hotspot to AC power as I did every morning in my office because I don't want all my internet traffic to be monitored by my company's system. Why I don't is another story. Then like a stalled car suddenly restarting, I recognized the cable and plugged one end of it into the hotspot and the other into the AC adaptor. The whole episode lasted maybe ten seconds, long enough for me to worry that something was wrong with me. The disquiet came not just from this problem, but from the fact that this kind of thing had been happening with some regularity over the past six months. Sometimes I didn't recognize what my keys were for and occasionally I couldn't figure out which way to turn at a familiar intersection while driving home. I wondered if these episodes were a normal part of aging, but I was only forty-three.

Back to the reason I use my own WiFi and not my company's – my partner; no, my lover; no, my life mate; all right, my whatever the guy you care about more than anyone else in the world and without whom you imagine your life spiraling into a dark whirlpool of despair should be called sometimes sends me mildly pornographic emails describing what he's going to do with me when we get home. I know – pretty adolescent for a pair of forty-somethings, but I was happy that we hadn't lost the edge of lust the we developed when we were first together.

Mark and I didn't celebrate anniversaries or Valentine's days, which led some of our friends to believe that no sentiment underlaid our relationship. They thought that lust was apparently enough to keep us together for fifteen years – silly friends. We didn't send each other sentimental cards or address each other in monosyllable infantile babbling. We had no pet names for one another. We also had never fought as far as I can remember, because we were honest and we valued each other. We could be clear about our feelings without giving offense; perhaps that's an advantage of starting a relationship when you are an adult.

We had established ourselves and we were well off financially. We were mostly happy, and not just with each other – we were generally happy about our places in the world. So, Mark would sometimes send me an email proposing that he show up at my office near lunchtime and that we have a session in a stall in the buildings large and busy restroom. The email wouldn't be a general suggestion, but a detailed account of the homosexual nastiness which we would commit within earshot of my colleagues. As they pissed or splashed water on their faces we would be splashing more intimate fluids on our faces. That's why I used a VPN to log on to my LAN account and had no fear about reading Mark's sometimes startling email suggestions – all through my hotspot.

At home, the evening of my cable episode and after dinner, we were on the couch and Mark was trying to get me into his pants. We're both versatile, but sometimes he gets in this bottoming mood and tries to destroy my ability to maintain a hard-on. Among the many reasons we're still together is that we're very talented. Thus, resisting Mark's less than subtle entreaties to fuck him senseless was no mean feat, but I was worried. Finally I pulled his face up from my still clothed crotch and away from my erection.

"It happened again."

"I know; I can feel it through your shorts." He smiled his sex-fogged, loopy smile.

I kissed him, which unfortunately he took as submission to his plan. But, before he could dive back down, I held tight to his head. Stopping his assault, he looked at me, concerned. "What's wrong?"

"I couldn't figure out how to get AC power to my hotspot."

"Power failure?"

"No. I mean I couldn't figure out what to do with the cable."

He sat back, lust replaced with curiosity and a desire to tell me that these episodes didn't mean anything. "How long?"

"I'm not sure – maybe a minute or so."

"This is really bothering you."

"Hell, yeah, it's bothering me. It's not just forgetting names or feeling lost in unfamiliar places. When it happens I feel as if I disappear."

Mark had my left foot in his lap and was tenderly rubbing its sole. "You have great feet." He was rubbing my foot over his hard-on.

"Don't try to change the subject."

"What do you want to do?"

"I think I should see a neurologist."

Mark and I aren't married. We never felt the need. Our finances are only minimally entwined, although we do own the condo together, and we split major costs down the middle – another reason our friends think we share no romance. After five years together, we executed durable powers of attorney so that either of us could make medical decision if the other was unable. I mention this because although we share a homeowners insurance policy, our medical and disability insurance is separate. Those policies come courtesy of our employers.

"You think it's that serious?"

"I need to know if something's going on upstairs."

"I'd be glad to go with you."

I nodded. "Right now, I want to eat your ass and then fuck it until I can't anymore." He smiled and pulled me up, dragging me to the shower.

The next day, I felt less distressed, and after a week I thought I had overreacted. The men and women who work for me seem so young, and when they approach me, they act as if they're in the presence of an oracle. I longed for an older guy on the team, someone who would push a pin in me when my ego inflated beyond reason. My kids – my team members – treat me as they do because I listen to decent music and because three years ago I won an Emmy Award. Understand that the award wasn't broadcast and I trod no red carpet; it was one of those awards given to techno-geeks in the basement of the hotel for some technical achievement the night before the main ceremony, in this case for the circuitry in a multi-channel digital recording device with simultaneous record and playback capability on each channel. That's right – no more going to the tape. My design made the company and me a shitload of money and attracted a lot of bright kids from MIT and Stanford to the company. It also made me a division leader.

If they don't tell me, I am utterly clueless as to the sexual orientation of any of my team members. Jeremy is the only one who has discussed his sexuality with me. I think his revelation was occasioned by the obvious presence of Mark in my life. In addition to being a technical mentor, Jeremy treats me as an example of how grown-up gay men ought to behave – no small burden. The kid, if twenty-four is a kid, came out in middle school and was fortunate to have parents whose love and support never wavered. He's confident but unusually empathetic for someone his age and kind, even to his more cut-throat teammates.