for an insurance company in the city, but I’m unemployed at the moment.

Forgive me for being this blunt, but I am the man who tried to touch you up in that park. I

thought at that moment I saw in you a kindred spirit, a lonely man seeking release, however

superficial and imperfect. I have to admit I was wrong.

I was also one of the men who left you in the hands of those bashers. I know none of us had this

intention, because we all assumed you would be familiar with the unwritten rules and risks of this

meeting place and that you would run away with the rest of us. Those thugs, I used to think they were

mostly ridiculous in their behaviour, more of a nuisance than a real danger, had been bothering

cruising men for months. I guess we got used to them. I, at least, had long been resigned that it was

simply an unavoidable risk of this particular activity. The noise they produced had always been

enough warning to get away unharmed. I never even contemplated going to the police to bring this to

their attention.

Now I have to live with a guilt that is unbearable and yet has to be carried for the rest of my

life.

For months, I’ve tried to give myself reasons and excuses, but I have found none. I’ve tried to

blame my upbringing, society, the pressure to conform, loneliness and the need for human, or rather,

male touch, but they are all cheap pretexts.

I’m not writing this letter because I’m hoping that you will forgive, perhaps even understand

me. Even if one day you would grant me this precious gift, I still wouldn’t be able to forgive myself.

I saw the news the next day after our meeting in the Queen Elizabeth Park and while it didn’t

happen immediately, my life changed. But I’m not going to bother you with that.

I just want to tell you and Mr Borghart how much I regret my lack of common humanity and

courage that night. My silence of the past months has not been one of indifference, but of shame and

confusion.

I’m willing to accept any consequences, legal or otherwise, concerning you following from that

particular night.”

Daniël drops the letter on the floor. He sighs and pulls Steve closer. “What does that man want

from you? Pity? Attention?”

“There’s another one from the same person? Read that one too, please?” Perhaps then he will

feel something, anything, more than this bone-eating indifference. Anger, or compassion, or even the

beginning of understanding. All that he’s able to feel is geared towards Daniël, with nothing to spare

for this stranger. Indeed, what does the man expect from him?

Daniël gets the letter out of the envelope. “This one is longer.”

“We have time before training? That’s after lunch, isn’t it?”

“Next week, I’ll start in the mornings, too.” Daniël drinks his now lukewarm tea. He tries to

get as much as possible of Steve in the curve of his left arm.

“Dear Mr Gavan,

Please forgive me for writing you a second letter, but I just watched the press conference you

and Mr Borghart gave and, against my better judgement, I cannot keep silent.

Although I didn’t tell a single lie in my first letter, I didn’t tell the truth in its full honesty. I

have to admit, though, I’m still in the middle of finding out the truth for myself.

I’m not proud of it, but I had my doubts about the reasons you were in that park even after that

first press conference Mr Borghart gave, when you were still in a coma and it was very much unsure if

you would survive. I even kept my reservations after I read the true reasons in his blog, when you were

able to tell them. I had become that cynical and mistrustful. I had learned to lie with an honest face

and expected nothing better from the men I met for one particular reason only.

It was easy enough to place all the blame outside myself. To focus on the superficiality of so

much of the most visible gay lifestyle, the lack of healthy role models, the obsession with often extreme

and unhealthy sexual practices. I was keenly aware of social and legal discrimination and, until

recently, almost no support for or acknowledgement of gay relationships. But I was also blind to the

committed couples, the friendships and the available support.

In the end, it all came down to a lack of courage to face myself, accept my true nature and look

in the right places for a potential mate to share my life and love with.

I married my wife nearly twenty years ago, knowing what I was. But I thought I was wise in

trading a meaningless life filled with empty sexual meetings with strangers for the adult

responsibilities of starting a family. My sexual attraction to men was just that, sexual attraction.

Nothing stable or worthwhile could ever come off it. Or so I told myself.

How wrong I was. My wife and daughters gave me something I so very much craved, but they

couldn’t lessen the other need. So after the birth of my youngest daughter, I started to visit the

anonymous meeting places again. Telling myself it was just to get the tension out of my body and that

my family was my true love. My real life.

Then that night happened. I hope I don’t offend you, or especially Mr Borghart, but I’ve always

found you an attractive man. You certainly got my attention when you started to play for Kinbridge

Town. And I don’t even care for football all that much. I just had to take my chances with you. I

honestly interpreted your behaviour as shyness. I thought I witnessed the moment when the need to be

touched by another man grows simply too strong, even if the risks, as in your case, are enormous.

I guess I saw what I wanted to see.”

Daniël pauses, takes his time to kiss Steve, caress his face with a gentle hand. He drinks the

last of his tea. “Shall I continue?”

Steve nods. “Thank you for doing this for me.”

“There is nothing I wouldn’t do for you.”

As terrifying as that statement is in its final consequences, Steve knows it to be true.

Daniël starts to read again. “No matter how many excuses I try to use, I ran away at the first

signs of danger like I always did. I felt no solidarity with, no commitment of any kind to the men I

considered my potential sexual partners. And I expected no such thing from them.

The next day, I watched the news and read the papers. I soon became aware of the rumours

spreading on the internet like wildfire. I saw the press conference Mr Borghart gave and I still tried to

deny the truth about myself: that my successful career, my marriage and my beautiful miracles of

daughters were the result of a false choice. I saw the face of love and I hated it because I feared it and

I envied it.

I also looked at the pictures and video made of you after the assault. And I wondered what

made me any better than the monsters who did this to you.

I landed in a deep depression. By the time I had crawled out of its deepest pit, I had lost my

marriage and my job. While I deeply regret the pain I caused my wife and daughters, in a way, it was a

relief. But it also means I have to start all over again, a man in his forties. I’m more afraid than I’m

able to express, but also strangely thankful.

As I said, I watched the press conference yesterday. The consequences of what I had done, or

rather had neglected to do, stared me right in the face. But I also saw the immense courage and

fighting spirit. If I’ll be allowed to keep only one image from all this for the rest of my life, it will be

this: love.

Nothing that has happened can be undone, but I can take my responsibility. I will go to the

police and make a statement. I don’t know what will happen, or if anything will happen at all, but I’ll