Situated on North Front Street in Pennsylvania's state capitol of Harrisburg, the elegant five-story apartment complex called The Parkway became our new home.  Warren and I had managed to bag ourselves a front facing two-bedroom corner apartment on the ground floor with an unobstructed view of the picturesque Susquehanna River.  The prestige of living at a Front Street address suited Warren's new status in the internal medicine residency program of the Pinnacle Health Group.  The three-year program would see him working between Harrisburg's main hospital further down Front Street and the Polyclinic Hospital further uptown on Third Street.  Our apartment afforded us panoramic views across the river, from a small park opposite the front entrance to a mile long recreational area further down called City Island to two bulbous industrial chimneys billowing away ten miles in the distance.  Despite how easy it was to confuse the conservative US state of Pennsylvania for the central Romanian region of Transylvania, the significance of the name Harrisburg meant nothing to me, nor did the name 'Three Mile Island'. Yet, I'd soon learn that those bulbous chimneys puffing away in the distance on 'Three Mile Island' were, on 28th March, 1979, at the centre of a partial nuclear meltdown in which radioactive gases were released into the environment.  To this day, TMI remains the worst accident in U.S. commercial nuclear power plant history. 

During our first few days in The Parkway, Warren and I settled in a lot quicker than did Dee Dee, who remained on the pillow we'd carried her on from Newark, only venturing off of it permanently once she was absolutely sure of her new surroundings. It wouldn't be long before she'd feel settled enough for us to walk her in the little park opposite our building, something we'd end up doing several times a day and in all weathers. It also wouldn't be long before Warren and I wanted to experience all that the local nightlife had to offer, which we soon learned, didn't amount to too much. At Warren's insistence, I'd disposed of most of my 'going out' clothes prior to leaving the UK so before hitting the bars I'd visit the local malls with him to buy new. Being financially dependent on Warren at the time, I felt obliged to accept wearing the type of button-down shirts, blue jeans and Timberland boots he picked out for me, and wore himself, although I couldn't help feeling I was being dressed up like a little Texan.

Resembling older and younger versions of each other, Warren and I ventured out one night to the city centre. Having reached Third Street, and just along from the State Capitol building, we came upon a rather dull and nondescript looking building with no signage whatsoever and nothing to identify it as a gay bar. Wondering whether we were in the right place, we pulled the door open and went inside. The song playing as we walked in, a catchy tune entitled 'My Boo' by Ghost Town DJs, I'd never heard before. I'd hear this song many times since and each time be reminded of one of the people I'd meet that night. While Jell-O and Goldschlager shots were enthusiastically passed among the small but lively crowd, Warren and I made our way to the bar. I'd take a red wine while Warren plumped for a bottle of the local lager, something by the peculiar name of Yuengling.

Being the kind of person who'd talk to anyone, and with my British accent something of a novelty in this middle Atlantic state, I began chatting at the bar to a lady in her late twenties or early thirties. As we talked, I asked her if she was single or in a relationship, to which she replied that she was straight, newly single and just looking to hook-up. Considering it unlikely that she'd find what she was looking for in a gay bar, I asked her anyway whether she'd seen anyone she liked, to which she shook her head. As she stood back from the bar, I noticed a Black guy sitting on a stool with his back to her in conversation with someone else. Singling him out for no particular reason other than his proximity to her, I motioned towards the guy and asked whether he was the sort she'd go for. Appearing not to have noticed him before, she discreetly glanced over her shoulder then looked straight back at me before leaning forwards and murmuring from the corner of her mouth about how her parents would have a 'fucking fit if she went home with a black guy'. Taken aback by the sentiment, I was left wondering about the kind of place we were now calling home, and whether hers was a common view in those parts.

For me it wasn't and before long I began talking to him, a young chap a few months older than me by the name of Ron. Being another of those Americans with perfectly white teeth, Ron hailed from the nation's capital, Washington DC, approximately two hours to the south. A recent graduate of Messiah University, Ron's Christian faith provided the kind of grounding and steadying influence that had drawn me to Michelle, and would in turn draw me to him. Warren and I would discover that the bar we'd found ourselves in, called the Strawberry Cafe, was one of three gay venues in Harrisburg, alongside another bar called Neptune's, located around the corner, with the town gay club, Stallions, next door to the Strawberry Cafe on Third Street. It was a sign of the times in the mid nineties in conservative Pennsylvania that none of the venues were allowed to display anything outside which identified it as a place where homosexuals would gather, which I suspect had just as much to do with their protection as their marginalisation.

Not until August the following year would I be able, under my new student status, to register at the local college, Harrisburg Area Community College, or HACC, as it was known for short. Meanwhile, under the terms of my current visitor's visa I was also forbidden from working. While Warren worked between the two hospitals, I'd spend most of my days keeping house, doing the shopping and cooking and, of course, keeping Dee Dee company. Being a productive person, I soon grew weary of the lack of variation in my routine and figured that while I couldn't undertake paid employment, surely there was nothing to stop me doing volunteer work. As luck would have it, Warren's employers, Pinnacle Health, operated a hospice service providing palliative and end of life care to patients in their homes in the Harrisburg area. Having made contact with the volunteer co-ordinators and working the accent in the process, it wasn't long before they asked if I'd be interested in working in the main office and manning the phones. Ideally, I wanted to help care for cancer patients and those living with AIDS, however, working in the office was as good a way in as any in addition to which their telephone system turned out to be similar to the one I'd used at The Lanesborough.

With Warren having settled well into his residency, while I threw myself into my volunteer work, we appeared to have reached a period of harmony and mutual contentment, or so I thought. As 1996 drew to a close, events occurred which would suddenly undermine my sense of stability, and began following our first visit to Stallions nightclub. As usual, I had a habit of taking note of the song playing whenever I walked into a venue. This time it was another I'd never heard of called 'Be My Lover' by German Eurodance group La Bouche. Set over four floors, Stallions, particularly its upper floors, had the air and appearance of a disused warehouse while the mirrored panels dated the two lower floors. With Ron having joined us at the main bar and dance-floor on the second level, we were greeted that night by an outwardly friendly barman named Phil, who'd regularly excuse himself to serve other customers although not before introducing us to his boyfriend, Bobby. With his straggly shoulder length brown hair, ball chain necklace and slender frame, Bobby had a unique style. However, it wasn't lost on me that he and a number of others in the club that night were wearing clothes similar to those that Warren had insisted I dispose of back in the UK. Particularly unique to Bobby was that he appeared to be slightly cross-eyed. After having left Stallions that night, we ended up at an after party at a house where a keg full of Yuengling lager perched atop a mountain of ice in our host's bath tub became the focal point of our late night revelry. To drunken musings before I fell asleep that night, I reflected on how Ron's bonhomie was evident for all to see, while Bobby left me with a feeling that he may not be all he seemed. Nonetheless, I wondered whether we still might be friends. However, little did I know then that time would prove my concerns about Bobby to be entirely well founded.

Following our first night at Stallions and despite his busy work schedule, Warren started to want to party at every available opportunity, be it in the bars of Harrisburg or the various after-parties held around the city. With Warren being the bigger drinker between us, his consumption began to increase, while I began to limit mine in order to drive us to and from the bars and various after-parties. Perhaps by virtue of Dutch courage, Warren began suggesting that we had sex with other people. On account of him being my first proper partner, and taking at that time an altogether traditional view of relationships, I found the idea objectionable. However, Warren remained undeterred and persisted until one drink-fuelled night we brought a chap a few years younger than me back to The Parkway where he and I had sex while Warren looked on.

No matter how disturbing I'd found Warren's previous suggestion, his next would leave me stunned. Around this time, Ron had introduced us to a friend of his named Laura. Laura in turn introduced us to her older brother, Dean, who lived outside Philadelphia in a place called Phoenixville, approximately two-hours to the east of Harrisburg. Dean would often join us all for a drink whenever he was in town. Having seen how easily he and I hit it off, Warren suggested after one particular night out with Dean that I leave with him and spend some time in Phoenixville. His suggestion left me speechless and wondering why on earth he would want me to go away, especially with another gay man. When I asked him why, all he could offer was that he felt we needed some time apart. With Warren never having expressed any frustration with our relationship or a desire to have me spend more time away from him, his suggestion that I leave absolutely shattered me. In addition, despite us being the assertive characters we were, we'd had very few cross words between us. Reluctantly, and reduced to a state of teary bewilderment, I consented to go, fearful that if I stayed he'd tell me to leave permanently, and believing that if I went, he'd soon miss me and ask me to come back.

Needless to say I couldn't settle at Dean's and despite his attempts to console me, nothing he said or did could relieve that sick feeling in the pit of my stomach. Desperate to be united with Warren, by the third day, I asked Dean to drive me the near two-hour drive, in near blizzard conditions, back to Harrisburg. Being the kind and good natured man he was, and realising the extent of my despair, Dean drove us westbound along the Pennsylvania Turnpike, at one point skidding off to the side of the road as he battled to maintain control his car amid the merciless storm.

As I opened our apartment door and went inside, I saw straight into the bathroom and observed Warren stepping out of the shower. Making my way to the bathroom doorway, I stood before him and began blubbing about how I couldn't bear to be away any longer. Appearing more shocked than pleased to see me, Warren said he had to make a phone call. In hushed tone from the next room, the secrecy surrounding Warren's call left me wondering whether my reappearance had scuppered the plans he seemed to have made for the evening. Having ended his call, he then announced that if there was to be any reconciliation between us, there was something he had to tell me. Thinking he was about to admit how he'd planned to have someone over that night, instead, Warren stunned me anew by revealing that while down in Fort Worth collecting his belongings, he'd met and had sex with a guy with whom he'd had a number of casual hook-ups. The tone of Warren's admission felt less like an apology and more like an ultimatum that if I wanted to stay with him, I'd have to accept it. Although with this revelation my feelings for him by now were beginning to wain, I still loved him very much and felt compelled to accept what he did. However, what occurred during the early months of 1997 would turn out to be the last straw and utterly destroy my remaining feelings for him, and for this, Warren needed an accomplice, which he'd find in Stallions barman Phil's boyfriend, Bobby.

Although I always made a point of saying hello whenever I saw Bobby at Stallions, we'd never have the kind of friendship I'd enjoy with Ron. In fact, Bobby didn't appear to have many friends and, on the contrary, I'd sometimes see him arguing and squaring up to other guys in the club. Employed as a waiter at TGI Friday's north of Harrisburg, Bobby had the reputation at work of being something of an easy lay. Nonetheless, each Friday and Saturday night that Phil worked the bar, Bobby would be right there on the opposite side chatting freely with him, only pausing when Phil went to serve customers. Furthermore, there was never any hint of the kind of hostility between them that Bobby had displayed on occasions towards other club-goers. Consequently, when Warren came to me one day during the early part of 1997 and revealed how Phil had been beating Bobby up, I initially found this hard to believe. Notwithstanding the lack of any obvious bruising, Bobby and Phil's public interaction never betrayed a hint of any private animosity in addition to which, if anything, it was Bobby who appeared to be the more volatile and belligerent of the two. However, Warren remained convinced and announced that he'd invited Bobby to move in with us. Although privately sceptical, I wouldn't have been able to forgive myself had Warren's assertions turned out to be true, so I offered very little resistance to the idea.

Before I knew it, Bobby had moved into our spare room. Currying early favour, he began bringing home large portions of TGI Friday's latest desserts and offering to walk Dee Dee on the narrow stretch of grass opposite The Parkway, taking the opportunity for a smoke while he did so. One particular day, he and I even jumped in his red Mazda Miata for a mini road trip down to Baltimore. At no time did he speak about having been the victim of domestic abuse and I on my part didn't want to pry. Yet, this entente cordiale wouldn't last and Bobby hadn't been with us for more than a week before Warren approached me and suggested we have sex with him. Foolishly, I hadn't seen this coming and couldn't have been more appalled at Warren's proposal. Unable to hide my disgust, I flatly refused, to which he tried a different tack and attempted to persuade me that as Bobby's friends, we should indulge him. In reply, I told Warren that while he might be in the habit of having sex with his friends, I certainly was not. I should've realised this wouldn't be the end of it, although following what came next the penny finally dropped as to what really motivated the sudden change in Warren's behaviour since we moved to Harrisburg.

For me, sleep's always been rather hit and miss, something in which my overactive brain has played no small part. Such is my capacity to recall events in great detail beginning before the age of two that I would often wake up with a start in the middle of the night to find myself passively observing my brain replaying past events of either great or no significance. Needless to say that during this period my sleep took a real nosedive, although having been so sleep deprived on successive nights, there'd come a time when I'd just crash, and enjoy some semblance of a good night's sleep.

On one such night, I wouldn't sleep so deeply that I didn't feel Warren getting out of bed. When, after a few minutes, he hadn't returned, I got up to see where he'd gone. Thinking he was in the bathroom, I went to look and saw no light shining under the bathroom door. Next to the bathroom was the spare room, the door to which was ajar. Stepping gingerly on the hard wood floor, I reached the door and peered through the crack. While he lay there fast asleep, Warren slipped into bed alongside Bobby and had begun cuddling him. Devastated by his shameless betrayal and sickened by sight of them spooning, I crept back to bed and sobbed uncontrollably. Spilling over into the next day, I balled down the phone to Michelle while trying to explain what had happened the night before and expressing my frustration at being unable to make my relationship work. At this, Michelle asked me to put Warren on the phone, following which the two of them spoke at length, with Warren listening more than he talked. With me now back on the phone with Michelle, she explained that she'd asked Warren if he loved me to which he assured her that he did. However, in that moment an epiphany occurred when I realised how truly devious Warren had been in telling Michelle what she wanted to hear. Right there and then I knew this couldn't go on and that I had to bring my own torment to an end.

Indeed, I wouldn't have to wait too long to bring matters to a head when, the very next night, Warren crept out of our bed and slid in once more beside Bobby. This time I wouldn't merely peer through the crack in the door, I force the bloody thing open and, having woken Bobby up in the process, stomped round to Warren's side of the bed, yanked a gold band he'd bought me off my finger, slammed it down on the bedside table and announced that I was done.

By this time, I'd finally realised that what Warren truly desired, and had done perhaps ever since we'd arrived in Harrisburg, was the end of our relationship. He'd started going out partying and had enjoyed a taste of the kind of life he could enjoy more of as a single man. I suspect this was the point at which he regretted bringing me to the US with him, by which time it was too late. Lacking the courage to say so outright, Warren instead began to indulge in tricks and manipulations designed to drive me mad and drive me away, thereby placing me in such an untenable position that I'd be forced to end the relationship and leave. It worked, in part.

Having been open with him from the outset about my own disrupted childhood and abusive parents, Warren had counselled me to learn something of the self-respect he felt I lacked. How ironic then, that the man who taught me about self-respect would behave in such a way as to attempt to relieve me of it. However, it was my newly acquired self-respect which ultimately gave me the courage in the middle of August to finally end our relationship. Yet, having already changed my immigration status and enrolled to begin studying at HACC at the end of the month, I'd remain at The Parkway, where Warren and I would live together separately for another year.

As for Bobby, I never did find out if he and Warren were in cahoots, whether Warren was using him, or whether they were merely using each other. Whichever it was, it didn't really matter, as Bobby moved back in with Phil shortly after the ring incident. While my battle against Warren was largely over, the biggest battle I'd ever had to face was about to begin. Bringing the torment of 1997 to a head were two events occurring two months apart, one quite unexpectedly during my first week in college while the other had taken root earlier on that year and at the heart of which lay a terminally ill young boy.