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When Semele found out that her lover, the one who had found her out of the multitude, was really Zeus -- not just a god, but the king of the gods, and not just the king of the gods, but the married king of the gods -- in disguise as a mortal... well, she freaked out. She was unknowingly having an affair with a god. But now she knew. What the hell was she supposed to do?

He loved her, he said. A god loved her. And though she knew better, she still insisted that her great and glorious boyfriend prove that love by appearing as a god before her, and giving her his embrace. Knowing that he was a god, and knowing that he belonged to Hera, Semele made her fatal request.

But no mere mortal can survive that knowledge. No mere mortal can withstand the sight of the mighty Zeus.

She made love to her married, godly boyfriend, knowing full well who and what he was.

And for that she was consumed. For that she burned.

90s-Something | By Patrick Raymond
1997, Part Ten (Conclusion): Lucky

« Previous (Part 9: The Flame) | Next (1998, Part 1) »

11AM. Day after Christmas.

I throw some clothes on and brave the post-holiday madness at the mall. I am a man on a mission: to I buy Ben Fold Five's "Whatever & Ever Amen" and Radiohead's "OK Computer." I've wanted these albums for a solid month and, finally, I have them.

This is the highlight of the whole holiday for me. It's been a long, hard December and a lonely Christmas.

Life is well and fine, but I'm just not satisfied. I try to recognize how far I've come, how much better my life is now than when the year began, but I can't help but be selfish, to want more.

My activism efforts still bring me joy, they're still going well, but the sting of backlash grows as time moves on. The status quo begins to creep back into school and I wonder, Have I made a difference at all?

I've met a few guys, but no one I connect with. I hook up a couple times, but sex in the woods or in the backseat of a car is starting to lose it's magic.

College has me stressed out, too. My father won't pay. I don't know where I'm going. The future is hazy.

I've seen what's out there. I've tasted happiness, young love, and success. And I want it back. And I want more.

So that night, the day after Christmas, I lay awake, thinking, brooding. And I sort of pray in my agnostic way. Never a big believer in God, I sometimes still pray, on my terms.

I have always had this odd way of doing so -- it's more of a monologue with the higher powers, a conversation with the Almighty. But that night -- whatever could hear me, whatever had the ability to answer my prayer -- it didn't matter.

"God or Buddha or Satan or aliens or whatever -- I don't care anymore. Just... listen up."

On that cold December night, in that state of mind, I curse the fates and, eventually, try to strike a deal.

My plea is simple. To whomever or whatever can hear me, give me two things: love and luck.

First, let me find the man of my dreams before the New Year. That guy, the one I'm supposed to meet in college? Bring him now. Give me someone to love -- who will love me back.

Second, let me find the place I'm supposed to me. Get me into college, allow me to pay for it, make me choose the right one.

That's not too much to ask, right?

In exchange, I bargain, I will make myself a better man in the coming year. I don't know what that means, I don't care what that means. Go to Church? Do more volunteer work? Change the world?

"You tell me."

My prayer/vent-session ends and I am satisfied.

I fall asleep quickly, unusual for me, and I completely forget my vow.

"I was terrified of the day he would figure it all out."

It's an unused line from an unfinished chapter of "Make The Man." Sam, our hero, has fallen for closeted Adam Duncan -- whether he wants to admit it or not. This bit is a flashback to the beginnings of their behind-closed-doors relationship. Duncan returns to Sam's dorm room after a night of partying, with the revelation that he'd played a drunken (is there any other kind?) game of Spin the Bottle. Duncan proudly boasts to his lover that he kissed not just girls, but two guys during the game -- one straight, one gay. The boy is obviously pleased with himself, intoxicated and innocent, boasting not out of conquest, but out of sheer "I kissed a boy in front of my friends" novelty glee.

And Sam? Sam is shattered. As Duncan lays his drunken frame atop him, Sam forces himself not to react, to hide his hurt and rising jealousy -- but in that very moment, he realizes the truth about his relationship.

Fiction? Call me the Anti-Frey.

I just came across the scene in this current fit of insomnia -- it's approaching 1AM, and my 6AM alarm is quickly approaching; why did I take a nap this evening? -- and I'm finding myself struck by it. Fuck, I've just been punched in the face, thrown to the ground, and kicked in the gut repeatedly by this find.

As Sam struggles with his desire to forbid Duncan from kissing other men, as he realizes that their relationship is enabling Duncan to stay in the closet, he finds himself happy to be trapped in the closet with him, in his dorm bed, under Duncan's weight.

"I'm holding you back, I thought. And I was, I knew I was, or at least felt it in that moment. Adam Duncan was new, new to all of this. Sure, he'd fucked a guy, and I never had. But I had experience, or something like it, that he didn't. I was nineteen and out. I thought I knew what it was all about. I was terrified of the day he would figure it all out."

And then...

"An image of his first night out at some gay club flashed in my mind. He'd go alone, probably with a fake ID, and he'd be so nervous he'd have to get wasted as quickly as possible. But then he'd be shirtless and sweaty before it was done, the center of attention. I pictured him giving in, kissing all those guys, those guys that weren't me, exploring, getting lost -- and I cringed.

"The knowledge that everybody wants you is intoxicating. I'd never felt it, but Duncan would."

My greatest fear during my two-and-a-half year relationship with the "real" Duncan was the day he'd come out. Though I cursed his closeted status every day, though I thought I wanted him out so we could really be together, I knew that once he was, we would be through. And I knew it and I feared it from the very beginning. This is one of the only pieces of the story I began to construct after I met my real-life frat-boy-friend; in fact, I wrote this in the first months of our involvement and, as the "Last Modified" date on the file reminds me, I haven't touched it since 2003.

So now, in 2006, he's out now and we're not together. He still says he needs me. He says I'm his best friend. And for once, I really don't know how I feel about any of this. Except, you know, kicked in the gut by an old Word file...

"No matter how much I suspected he thought he loved me, I wouldn't be enough. I wanted him so much. Wanted him to love me, all of me, and only me. And yet I knew I would never get what I wanted.

"I knew what I was signing up for back in January. But this wasn't it.

"I was trapped there in the dorm bed, his weight against me. Was this love? The routine, the jealousy? What a strange thing to crave."

The moon was full or nearly so, and I was feeling bold. We stood side by side overlooking the city of Burlington at 1a.m., my six-foot-two frame nearly towering over all five-eight of him, just like I like it. The view wasn't much from the top of the mall parking deck, but when his shoulder lightly nudged me, I knew I wasn't the only one who saw something in that night.

I turned to him, my intentions clear.

"Kiss me," he breathed, as if he had a choice.

I slipped one arm past him, placing it on the small of his back, and drew him into me. He looked up and then -- we kissed. We were kissing. The cold November air swirled around us. And it was good.

Conversation was decent -- not as sparkling as it was online or the phone, but it was playful and smart, slightly better than average, equal parts comfortable and awkward. But midway through the meal, I realized that I was following his lead with conversation as well, letting him call all the shots. I was quiet, shy, nervous, and uninteresting. I was choking, or so I thought, and then it hit me: This is my first date since Duncan and I broke up. This is my first date in three years. That realization didn't help the quickly deteriorating situation.

He ordered dessert and I followed suit. After he revealed that he was a notoriously bad tipper, we left the bistro and walked for a bit in the cold, dark Montpelier night. There was no after-dinner plan, and I realized that we were walking to our cars. There was a handshake, vague mention of "doing this again," and the specific assertion that the ball was in my court. There was no clear expression of interest or rejection. I hit the highway back home convinced that I was not ready to date yet and that I would never see this man again.

About a week later, and not long after his call, I saw him through the wall of windows, bouncing and bounding towards the coffeeshop, and I projected my feelings on him -- nervousness, excitement, dread. He wore a bright green shirt under an Oscar de la Renta blazer, a bold, unmatching red scarf tight around his throat. This is not the kind of guy I date, I thought -- and yet the sight of him made me smile to myself, but only for a moment. I was careful to look down at my drink before he could catch me staring.

I looked up again only after I heard the door open and knew he was headed my way. I gave a friendly grimace to the right of my face as our eyes met –- his, deep amber spotlights, hidden by his designer glasses and enhanced by his thick, brown eyebrows -- and, somehow, I knew that night would be different.

It's not back yet, but (hopefully) it will be soon. Here's a taste of what's to come.

(Don't remember the end of 1997? Read of the fateful meeting with Jay in the tenth and final chapter of '97.)

1998: Part One (Teaser)
"What You Wish For"

I stare straight ahead, at him, at Jay. My boyfriend. The camera, of my mind's eye, focuses just on me. I look serious. Terrified. And I continue to recite my practiced monologue:

"It's not an earth-shattering thing, really, and you might get a good laugh out of it. It's one of those things I've always felt you needed to know, but when I think about it, I realize that it's something that you don't need to know, something you're probably better off not knowing, but I'm going to tell you anyway, because its something that I need to do."

Following my own stage directions in the script, at that moment, I sigh deeply. I pause, close my eyes, and draw a deep breath. I do not exhale. Not for many long seconds. And then: "Enough sounding neurotic. Now it's time to sound crazy."

I open my eyes, ready to face the man of my dreams.

"Jay, I wished for you."

The imaginary camera pulls back to reveal:

I am alone in my parents' bathroom, looking into the mirror, reading from a piece of paper. Oldest trick in the book.

I grimace at my delivery and try the line again, and again, never quite getting it right. It's a delicate thing to say to someone and, no matter how I, the seventeen-year-old dating the twenty-something med student, is convinced of this truth, I can't quite sound convincing enough when I say it aloud.

Yes, I'm quite convinced that I wished for Jay and that he, the man of my dreams, is the true answer to a desperate prayer. It took some convincing myself, some sleepless nights, some freaking out. But within a week after meeting this man, within a week under his powerful charms, I knew, as unbelievable as it sounded, that Jay was meant (and sent) for me.

Things are going well. Jay is, officially, my boyfriend. He says so. He sends me cute emails, many times daily, each singing sweet nothings though AOL. On the phone, he says I'm amazing. He calls me "sweet pea." He already talks about us living together that summer, after my graduation, going to the British Isles together for the month of August, and then living together that fall, as he thinks I should attend the University of Vermont. When we discover that we both love pineapple-and-bacon pizza, I decide that we'll be married by the time I'm 20. All this, and we have seen each other, in person, only once since our fateful meeting just a few weeks prior. But the second time, in Burlington, is powerful although brief. Bundled up, we walk around an ice-covered Church Street, have a nice lunch, and make out in his car atop a parking garage. We part and, for once, my heart does not ache. I feel no insecurity in this. I know I will see him again. After all, he is The One.

Things are going so well, in fact, that I have decided that I must let him know how it is we came to meet. It's only fair to let him know that he is a gift from some higher power, that we are soul mates.

And I will tell him all this in just a few days, as I am headed up to Burlington this weekend to spend the night with him at his apartment. It promises to be romantic and amazing. And to say that I can't wait for what will be the most important night of my young life is a given. I can't wait. Even though I didn't know it until this very moment, this is the night I've lived my life for.

"I prayed for you, Jay," I practice again, still dissatisfied with my delivery. I have to get it just right or else I'll sound crazy.

This week's installment of 90s-Something will be up sometime later this week. Sorry for the delay.

One "fan" wrote in to BGB to say that 90s-Something "rawks," but the BGB Staff was taken by the now-on-hiatus Make The Man.

Thanks for the nod, Best Gay Blogs. I feel very honored.

By "popular demand," here's the full version of the "Sarah" photo from my Surfacing senior photo shoot in 1997:

This week's new installment of 90s-Something has been postponed. Hopefully it'll be done today or tomorrow. It's just really hard to write about the past as other things in the present (and future) are weighing heavily on me at the moment. Look for more flashback-angst real soon -- in the meantime, enjoy 1994 again (a good refresher for what's to come in '96).

1994 (Age 13/14)

Another blood drive at work today. As always, it makes me feel like crap -- and then that makes me feel like selfish crap for feeling like crap in the first place. *sigh*

So I dug up a little piece I wrote for the school newspaper back when I was a self-righteous senior in '03. Enjoy.

Editorial: "I'm Real"

"Real Cats Give Blood!"

Or so the University Marché would have me believe. I bought a pack of gum there the other day and received a free squishy hockey puck emblazon with that slogan. I'll admit, I was a little excited when I got the thing. I didn't even ask for it, and I got a little surprise. It was cute and soft, seemingly harmless, and I was happy -- until I read its message.

Some would call that clever marketing. Others would call it a gift with purchase. I call it offensive and a disgusting display by University Dining Services and the Red Cross.

Why? Because of the message -- subtle as it may be, unintentional as it may be -- that slogan sends to people "like me," and to the campus as a whole.

I'm not a "Real Cat" because I can't give blood? And I can't give blood because I'm gay? Simple logic connects the dots.

I'm not a "Real Cat" because I'm gay.

Did you know that the Red Cross, due to a 1985 federal regulation, can't accept blood from a man who's had sex with another man since 1977 (even once)? Men who fit that criterion -- and any women they may have also slept with -- are banned, for life, from donating their blood. The government says that's a high-risk group for having HIV/AIDS. Eighteen years ago, the restriction was enacted at a time of great fear and uncertainty over the emerging disease. But we've come a long way since 1985, when AIDS was considered a "gay disease." Haven't we?

Not when it comes to donating blood.

The merits of this blood ban aside, that slogan -- "Real Cats Donate Blood!" -- is insensitive and reckless. With it, UDS and the Red Cross are sending an unacceptable message. I can deal with the posters around campus, the mass emails from Provost Bramley ("start off on the right foot" -- unless you're a gay guy), and the other, almost constant reminders outside the gym, or library, or dorms -- the reminders that I'm a "lesser person," that I'm viewed as diseased, that my blood's essentially worthless.

I endure that because I know the Red Cross is otherwise doing something wonderful. But when a University Department hands me a pretty clear message that states I'm not a worthy member of the Campus Community -- not a "Real Cat" -- because I'm ineligible to give blood, because I'm gay -- that's when it's gone too far.

Don't ban campus blood drives. The Red Cross does something invaluable. I firmly believe that the people running that organization, and those bringing them to campus, making those pucks, and handing them out (UDS), aren't evil. But, damn it, you all need THINK about your advertising a little more. Realize that there's an impact on this campus. That it hurts.

To my knowledge, University Dining Services is (or at least was) handing these pucks out to all customers at the Marché. I am not sure about other dining venues.

If you receive one of these pucks, I'd urge you to tell the cashier the same thing that the Red Cross would tell me if I tried to donate my blood.

"Thanks, but no thanks."

(Originally published January 2003.)

"Who is the love of Crash's life?" Jen asked.

We sat there, three college sophomores -- Jen, Katie, and I -- huddled around a Ouji board in Redstone Hall, the school's oldest -- and creepiest -- dormitory. It was November, two weeks after Halloween, in the midst of that dead season of transition between Fall and Winter.

"Oh no," I said. "Don't bring me into this. I don't want to know the future of my love life." I was half-lying. I really did want to find out if this cheap Milton-Bradley-manufactured Oracle could tell me anything interesting, but regardless of its reputation as a tool of the devil, I was skeptical of it's mystical, other-worldly powers. Since we bought it at Wal-Mart, I didn't expect much.

Jen shushed me and proceeded. "Who is the love of Crash's life?" she repeated. "Has he already met him?"

But when it came to talking about me, it was weird. The feeling I got wasn't a bad one, just eerie. For the first time all night, it did feel like there was someone or something besides us in the room. My eyes got large as I stared at the board, waiting for the girls to uncover more about my life and love.

"Who is Crash going to marry?" Jen asked.

I rolled my eyes. "Oh, now we're getting into 8th grade territory." Suddenly that otherworldly feeling was gone, replaced by cheesiness. "This is starting to get—"

This time both Jen and Katie shushed me. Their seriousness quickly shut me up.

The pointer did not move. Jen rephrased the question.

"Who is Crash's soul mate?"

We stared at the board, waiting. The pointer started to vibrate and then moved. It circled the board and then stopped dead on a letter.

Jen read aloud:

The pointer began to circle again and then stopped.

Katie read:

"Is that it? Is it Bob?" Katie asked the board.

Something seemed to change in the room, but I was the only one that felt it. The otherworldly feeling from before had returned, ten fold.

The pointer circled, and circled. It stopped.

This time, I read:

The pointer began to move again.

"JK?" one of the girls asked.

"Just Kidding," I said, recognizing the shorthand. Not only did this ghost have a cruel sense of humor, it was hip to the latest lingo. "JK means Just Kidding."

The pointer moved.

Again, it spelt out:

The girls looked at me strangely. I figure I looked like a man possessed.

"I've met this person?"

From the archives: an unfinished story that seems awfully fitting today.

Greener

One year and two months into his second relationship, a month before it would end a second time, he glared at the boy through coin-slot-sized squinted eyes, emitting a silent growl from his closed mouth, teeth clenched so tight that the decaying back-right molar began to ache. He was furious, frightening himself with his anger, barely restrained, closer to loosing control than, maybe, ever.

He stood in the doorway between the kitchen and the rest of the apartment, arms crossed, seething. He couldn't remember ever wanting to hurt someone more. He wanted the boy to leave before this erupted and, yet, he couldn't bring himself to wake him.

To him, the boy seemed so small right then, half his size, a quarter of what he usually was. He was asleep on the futon, curled into a tiny little ball, clutching a pillow tightly. He couldn't stand to look at him anymore, so he ascended to the loft.

Twelve rickety steps on the ladder, he collapsed on the apartment's other futon mattress, the one on the floor up there, and buried his head into one of the pillows, growling. With the muffled roar, he suddenly recognizes the anger within him, connected to all the times in his life he's, alone, let out such a primal display -- screaming, yelling, carrying on -- throwing a private temper tantrum to express the feeling he usually kept inside. And the same thought as always pops into his head. Hulk Smash.

It makes him laugh a bit, calm for a second. He is six-years-old. He is Dr. Bruce Banner.

As a kid, he loved comic books but hated The Hulk. He never read his book, watched his show, or had his action figures. But he knew about the Green Goliath from the Marvel trading cards he collected. Banner was a mild-mannered scientist who, after being bombarded by gamma rays, was cursed to transform into a raging man-monster anytime he got pissed off. He hated the Hulk because he could always relate, from the first time he heard of the hero. He was an unassuming guy with a deep, dark secret, a seething leviathan of anger that would rear its roaring head in times of great stress. And so was Bruce Banner.

At fifteen, he punched the refrigerator so hard it moved. At seventeen, the fireplace. The mantle took it, but the fridge fought back, forcing him to wear a bulky wrist brace to heal a hand injury he'd long ago forgotten the details of.

At nineteen, in the dorm shower: For some reason, he felt compelled to punch the wall, the tile. He punched it repeatedly, as the hot water sprayed against his body, punched it again and again. He clenched his teeth tight together and squinted his eyes. His hand, his whole arm, trembled in pain. Finally he stopped and looked down at his fist, bawled up and shaking, blood streaming from his battered, raw knuckles.

He rubbed his knuckles across the tile, leaving trails of his fresh, red blood. It colored the walls brightly, as he artfully painted it across, dragging it with his knuckles, shaping it with his fingertips. He was hypnotized.

At twenty-one: "I would never," he remembers Joe, his first boyfriend, saying almost exactly two years prior. They stood in a grimy New York City subway station, their first, and only, trip to the city together. "It's just -- I don't know -- I know it's just that the 'grass is greener' -- I'm tempted sometimes. But I would never." The train arrived. "You need to relax. It's all in your head."

He looked around. There was nothing to punch except for a few concrete posts and, of course, Joe. A week later, once back to their usual existence and long-distance love, Joe dumped him before he had the chance. Two months later, he found out that he had, in fact, been cheating on him.

In a moment, he was back downstairs, kneeling in front of the futon. "Wake up," he spat at the boy, violently nudging him, grabbing him by the tight shoulder, once, and pushing him hard towards the futon. He feels contented by the motion, calmed, expressed -- but then he feels guilty.

The boy hardly notices. He grunts, groans, grips his pillow tighter and squints his face, barely disturbed.

He growls at him again, pushes again, goes through the motions, this time using the boy's name as punctuation.

He assaults him with the question he figures will shock him awake: "Who's Chad?"

The boy's eyes open, barely registering anything.

He repeats: "Who is Chad?"

The boy wasn't much less of a man than he was. Two years younger, he was twenty-one.

Now the boy struggles with consciousness. Jolted awake, he now sits upright and barely so. His dingy white T hangs loose on his small frame. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Don't lie. I know what happened. I just want to hear it from you."

Sleep is gone, replaced by revelation. "Did you read my email?"

He now wished he hadn't.

The Dress Sock

Back in January, less than a week into the second semester, I first met Adam Duncan. And by first met, of course, I mean first saw. The winter was fairly cold and not very snowy, mild by my Vermont standards. I was very pleased to be back in the wimpy weather of Little Rhody after an uneventful month-long stay back home in the bitter north during the semester break.

Because none of my friends would sign up for it with me, I sat alone in my psych class. 103, with Dr. Parnell Hagerman, called "Towards Self-Understanding," or something like that. An intro-level course, it was held in a gigantic lecture hall, but the number of students that showed up on a regular basis barely filled a third of the room.

That day, the first, was full. I strategically picked my seat in the middle of the hall, exactly seven rows back, three seats from the left. Though still early in my college career, I had already acquired academic manipulation skills far beyond my years. Here Dr. Hagerman was likely to see and remember my face from each class, but unlikely to call on me. And, in my peer's eyes, I wasn't geek enough to sit in the deserted front rows nor anti-social enough to inhabit the back.

I had my desk up, my notebook out, and my travel coffee mug -- filled with chocolate milk instead of java --in hand. Since I recognized no one in the room, I stared alternately down at the blank lined paper and up at the slowly ticking clock, taking greedy sips from my mug, trying to look cool, confident, and not as entirely vulnerable as I really was, alone in that lecture hall, listening, in those pre-class moments, to the chattering and laughing behind me, which registered only as clicks and squawks in my ears as I worried -- nay, I knew -- that everyone in those thirteen or so rows saw through my façade, noticed me despite my perfectly-picked seat, and were judging the poor, awkward freshman in his aloneness.

The clock hit 2:28 and, with two minutes to spare, Hagerman arrived, a short, stocky black woman, in a fluster of syllabi and TAs. The clicks and squawks behind me grew to a roar in some places and silent in others. And then, to my left, somebody cleared his throat loudly.

I glanced over and barely noticed a pair of khaki pants standing beside me. Some asshole wanted to sit in the middle row and in order for him to do so, I had to move my carefully constructed defense. With a sigh and a refusal to even glance up again, I pulled my desk up and my feet in, utterly annoyed.

He ended up just two seats away. And since no one sat in those seats, it was basically like he sat next to me. He was close enough to burst my defense bubble and far enough away to make it known that we didn't know each other. Now it was clear I had no friends. Bastard.

The clicks and squawks, for the most part, stopped from behind me and started from the front, as Hagerman began a patronizing lecture supposedly about the self-help nature of the course we were about to embark on, but it seemed to me more self-serving for her, as she touted her credentials, massaged her ego, and discredited the university.

My selective A.D.D. kicked in barely five minutes into it all. I stopped taking notes and instead I focused my attention on A.J. the T.A.. He was sorta-cute, just as his reputation claimed, the same reputation that let me know he was gay and quite attainable. My mind danced with thoughts of a heretofore untapped T.A. fantasy I had tucked away somewhere in me. It proved to be better left buried as the daydream wasn't illicit enough nor was the T.A. sorta-cute enough to hold my attention. I was beginning to think I was better off in "Human Development" with Allison.

So halfway through the lecture, sick of staring at my still-blank notebook and the still-slow clock, I decided to step out of my defenses and glance around the class.

I looked to my left first. The two seats beside me remained empty and the students across the row were either note-taking or napping.

Then I looked to my right. And I noticed the dress sock.

I admit, I noticed Duncan's clothes first. I'm not into fashion much -- at all, really, and neither was he, which is the funny part -- but his outfit was what got my attention. He had his foot pulled up on his right knee, pulling the pantleg of his aforementioned khakis far enough up from his boot to make his argyle dress sock -- a tan base with a green-and-blue pattern -- clearly visible. My eyes tracked up his pants, past the notebook resting on his thigh (he was too cool to use the fold-away desk), to a pleasantly snug blue wool sweater that gripped his well-developed torso and arms. He was pleasingly preppy, tapping a deeply seated fetish for boys from GAP ads and John Knowles novels. It was the collegiate look I'd dreamed about for years, the fantasy that got me through to high school graduation. If clothes make the man, then this was the man of my dreams.

I finally got around to looking at his face. A strong jaw, a suggestively large nose, black hair, and beautiful sideburns. He was, to me, devastatingly handsome. Most would've acknowledged his good looks, but few would've had the same reaction I did, with the lust and the breathless and the drool. He wasn't perfect. I knew it in that moment, I knew it always. But I never cared.

I also knew, instantly, he was a jock in disguise, a baseball player in prep's clothing. It must've been a gameday or something, because one look at this guy's face, no matter how good he looked in that outfit, you knew it was a costume.

I don't know whether it was the clothes, or his jock status, or his good-looks, but something about him screamed unattainable to me. And that something made him irresistible.

As I gazed over and into his eyes, those deep, clichéd pools of brown, dark like a pint of Guinness -- I realized he had caught me looking at him.

And he was staring directly back at me.

Hagerman went on about some self-help concept that no one would remember tomorrow, let alone by the final -- and in the middle of her lecture hall, exactly seven rows back, three and five seats from the left (respectively), Sam North (that's me) met Adam Duncan with a single, confused slow-motion look shared between them.

I quickly looked away, but his stare, those eyes, left an aftertaste. He caught me admiring him, practically drooling. I felt horrified, mortified -- and completely alive. For the remaining twenty minutes or so, I refused to so much as glance to my right, even remotely in his direction. But I felt him there, next to me, and the electricity of it all -- the excitement, the embarrassment, the danger -- crackled under my skin.

Before I knew it, our first class was over. When he stood, I finally looked again, carefully getting my fix as I put on my jacket. He donned a puffy-looking parka and his backpack. I further admired his choice of khakis, which showed off his ass nicely, as I watched him walk down the steps. I gave him a five-step lead, then followed him out of the lecture hall.

As I trailed the jock boy out, he turned his head, just a bit, and -- I swear -- deliberately checked for me there. And then, with those eyes, he gave a cautious, knowing look -- and a slight, daring smile. It stopped me. His five-step lead grew to at least fifteen before I could move again.

He can't remember if the sink was inside or out of the tiny room with the toilet, but other than that, the bathroom is probably his most vivid memory of the fifth grade. He was ten years old when it all started. At that age, hand washing wasn't required etiquette, so the sinks never became part of his memory. He does remember the day everything started. He remembers Riley.

He sat on the toilet, the seat down and his pants on, crying. He was uncomfortable in his stiff new clothes. It was the first day of school, and he was the traumatized new kid.

There was a knock on the door. "Everything OK, Patrick, buddy?"

Patrick wiped his tears and nose on his sleeve, then dutifully opened the door. There stood Mr. Cross. He was the strange man who, in the classroom, sat in a red director's chair that was embroidered with his name, in a beautiful cursive font. He was the strange man who reminded Patrick strongly of someone named Charles Nelson Reilly, whom he'd seen only on Hollywood Squares. He was supposed to be the fifth grade teacher.

Patrick was composed, a grin on his face. He was just thrilled to be at Weathersfield Middle School! "I'm fine," he managed to spit out and slammed the door shut, before his face could betray me. He looked down at his shiny new sneakers and began to sob again.

After a few more minutes, he slowly managed to compose himself and left the bathroom. Outside, the classroom was overwhelming, busy with students greeting each other after a long summer vacation. He took his seat and stared down at the brand new red knapsack on his lap.

Just then, Mr. Cross told Patrick to put my backpack in his locker. Locker? The concept was entirely foreign to him, something he'd never encountered in the fourth grade, at his old school. Mr. Cross just handed him the number and combination on a tiny slip of yellow paper and, confused, Patrick left the classroom.

In the hall, he struggled with the locker when Riley appeared. He was a small, somewhat effeminate boy who Patrick always seem to remember wearing a bowtie on the first day of school. It's like the sinks; he can never quite recall for sure.

"Hi," Riley said.

"Hi."

"Mr. Cross send me out," he said, disinterested. "Do you need help?" He didn't wait for an answer. The small, somewhat effeminate boy who might have been wearing a bowtie took the combination from Patrick's hand and easily opened the locker. He was a perfect gentleman, and not in the least bit interested in me.

Patrick immediately wanted to be his best friend, and Riley immediately wanted nothing to do with him. So Patrick did what any self-respecting new kid would do. He ran into the bathroom and cried again.

From the archives: Probably the only poem I've written that I've liked.

Nothing Special

I sat across from his, he sat across
from mine. The four of us just sat there,
quietly, talking from time to time.
The menu is shut, my eyes search the bread
basket, empty, butter and crumbs alone.
Today's special:
hearty tomato bisque,
a tasty teriyaki salmon, and best
of all: a double date with destiny,
a double date from hell. I finish up
my beer. My good friend Dan diagonally,
just smiles at me, he grins from ear to ear.
Boyfriend at left, belongs to me. He rolls
his eyes. The one across is Dan's. He likes
this guy, this Mike.
I don't.
He laughs, too loud,
at his own jokes. It cuts right though the room.
I look at mine. We really only have
one choice: to order another beer.