Aching For It Read Free Page A

government is bloated with litmus that severely limits
legal immigration for that targeted group, red-tape landmines designed to
cripple a young man like my Étienne.
    But still, we forged ahead. We had to. Our very happiness
was at stake.

Chapter Four
     
    Upon my return to Los Angeles, I consulted with a lawyer
friend, Brando Heywood, who is as hopelessly romantic as I am, and who had
great sympathy for my circumstances. Being in a long-term relationship with the
man of his dreams, Brando has always been known as the designated yenta
of Southern California’s same-gender- loving community.
    But Brando was an entertainment lawyer and it was the first
year of the new millennium, the first year of George Bush’s presidency and a
new power surge for the evangelical mindset. He was well aware that he could do
more harm than good if he were to undertake something as complex as
transnational gay men in love versus an unelected president hell-bent on
keeping them apart.
    “I’ll tell you what I know,” he confided in me as we lunched
on protein shakes and Jamaican spinach patties at Simply Wholesome over on
Slauson Avenue and Overhill Drive. “Immigration is not going to let you bring
Étie over here as your lover, spouse, partner, significant other, etcetera,
etcetera, under any circumstances whatsoever. Bush is totally beholden to the
evangelicals, and the chances of you getting him over here under any kind of
romantic notion are about as slim as gay marriage in Utah. Now, I have this
immigration lawyer friend who’d be perfect for you. He used to be an
immigration officer, so he knows the politics of that game. And he thinks he’s
Bill Maher, which certainly can’t hurt. He’s straight, but he’s a great ally of
the community. His name is Wells Caitlin. I’ll give him a call, set something
up for you.”
    * * * * *
    “It’s not quite as bleak as Brando may have made it out to
be,” Caitlin assured me when we met a few days later. “But the Dominican
Republic is certainly on the US backlist and immigration for your friend,
without significant resources, wouldn’t be impossible, but pretty damn close.
We’re talking a long, long wait.”
    “How long?”
    “Two years. Maybe more.”
    “Two years!”
    “Maybe more.”
    Although this was not encouraging news, I had a long talk
with Étie and we decided to proceed. I gave Mr. Caitlin a retainer and he began
filling out preliminary paperwork.
    Even as Étie’s case trudged through the system like molasses
through a cocktail straw, we made the best of it. Every chance I got I flew
down to Santo Domingo to be with him, and in between my photo shoots back in LA
and his work schedule at Bodega Colonial, we managed to make some sense of this
long-distance relationship we found ourselves in.
    During those torturously infrequent rendezvous, we lay
snuggled on the warm white beach, serenaded by the gentle swoosh of sea to
sand, under the saving grace of gleaming stars that hung in the clear blackness
of the Caribbean sky, and planned our lives together like good children
confident in their Santa requests.
    I found myself telling Étienne about the only city I’ve ever
called home, the city that would soon be his home, my city of angels, my LA.
    “The weather is much like the weather here,” I mused as we
stared up toward the stars, “only dryer. The Santa Ana breezes rustle the palm
trees back home just like your tropical breezes rustle your palm trees here.”
    “I cannot wait to be there,” he said dreamily. “Your city
sounds so beautiful.”
    “Our city,” I answered with a kiss. “Our city, my love.”
    We found ourselves in each other’s arms. A pink-orange shard
of light suddenly illuminated a tiny piece of sky.
    “Wow!” I marveled. “Did you see that?”
    “It is beautiful, no?”
    “Very beautiful.”
    Then tiny drops of rain began to fall, a welcome cooling
balm. We relished the mist. And then it was gone, leaving us refreshed by its
brief