Wednesday, August 10, 2005
RERUN: 90s-Something (1997, Part One)
1997: Part One (Age 16)
"The Winter Here" I am leaning over into the driver’s seat, looking at his pale, hairless belly as it falls out of the bottom of his shirt. I am staring down his meaty uncut cock, his pulled-down boxers nestled just below his smooth balls. This is Brandon’s penis.
Parked on the side of an empty snowy road in rural Vermont, in his red hot Saturn, I was about to give my first blowjob.
This is how I got there: Brandon and I spent all of January, after school, going to the local college’s library to do research for our big History term paper. We would then go home and chat all night on Instant Messenger. Before long, I had either gained his trust or set off his gaydar enough for him to become more… playful.
Chats turn more suggestive. Brandon types and types about sex – but mostly about masturbation. It takes a few weeks of this – with me playing dumb or playing along – until I send him a link to some masturbation homepage. He sends back a link from within the site – a story, about two buddies, jacking off… together.
The next day, we are parked in his car, and we are beating ourselves off at the same time. Before I know it, we are jerking off together every day after school. Brandon wants to do more, but I am hesitant. I totally like him and I am still playing the part of curious straight guy – I don’t want to reveal too much or go to fast. But he pushes – and he plays that song.
Yes. Brandon seduces me with Merril Bainbridge’s one-hit wonder, “Mouth.”
“Would it be so bad if I could turn you on?”
I’m ashamed to say it works. Before I know it, we are jerking each other off. Then he sucks me off. And then I am giving my fateful first blowjob.
I have to say, I’m not a big fan. His belly and thighs are too pale and doughy, and I don’t like how his blonde bush stares back at me while he’s pushing down on the back of my head. The cock is nice – but I like the view from the comfort of the passenger’s seat much better.
Pandora’s Box is open. I am now sexually active. And, as he forces his dick down my throat, I think that I am falling in love with Brandon, my only real friend at school.
Speaking of pale, slightly chubby, and inexplicably sexy men, Prez Bill Clinton begins his second, more interesting term. I’m getting ahead of myself (and the 90s) here – but I totally would’ve blown him. I miss him. He should be our king.
Pop culture in early 1997 sucks! It’s all “I Believe I Can Fly,” Star Wars special editions, Heaven’s Gate, and shit. BLAH. The good stuff comes later in the year… Did somebody say Beanie Babies? Spice Girls? Titanic?! Oh, just you wait…
Brandon and I have been pulling down our pants and getting off together for nearly a month. I am uneasy with our sexual relationship – and completely infatuated with him. It’s like any discomfort I have with the physical stuff is channeled into a hopeless, hidden crush on my buddy. After all, we are just two straight guys that go out of our way to have man-on-man experiences with each other in his car during the cold Vermont winter.
One night in February, he comes over to my house after work. It’s late and I sneak him up to my room to "watch a movie," hoping he’ll sleep over. He doesn’t – but we do get fully naked and things get more involved than ever before. It’s not intimate – but we are closer. When it’s done, we wipe up with eucalyptus-scented tissues and he leaves. It’s scary – right now, I can smell that eucalyptus in my apartment in 2005. And it’s freaking me out.
Soon after that night, we are again parked somewhere, but this time we actually get out of the car. He pushes me up against a tree and we rub our bodies together. We almost kiss – but we don’t. We never, ever kiss. We get off, get back in the car -- and we are stuck. I am late for work and we are bitterly arguing as we desperately try to get the car out of the snow. It’s a miserable experience. Brandon, luckily, has a cell phone and, eventually, calls his parents to have them get us, suspiciously stuck in the middle of nowhere. Eventually, his angry mother and father come help us. I get to work. And Brandon is grounded.
It is the last time we fool around. A few days later, Brandon tells me he’s “fallen in love with a girl” he works with and he wants nothing more to do with me.
And it is Valentine’s Day.
Thank God for Jewel’s “You Were Meant For Me” and U2’s “Staring at the Sun.” And thank God for getting my braces off. I wear my retainer for about one month, and then I loose it under my bed.
I am miserable. Life sucks. I walk around school as a sad nobody, lonely, heart-broken, depressed. The closet sucks – I miss the days when I ignorantly obsessed about Andrew. Now I listen to sad songs and try to avoid Brandon at school.
Fast-forward through a few weeks of this:
His name is Tom, and he’s a freshman at Dartmouth. At nineteen, he stands 6’7” and dazzles me with his blonde hair and brown eyes. He’s a well-built crew team member with a body to die for, 200 pounds of pure, unadulterated sexiness. He’s a fantasy come true: a rower, a frat boy, a Dartmouth boy.
We meet online, of course. We chat. In March, I come out to a friend from New Hampshire – the first person in “real life” that I tell – just to get a ride to meet Tom. The date goes alright – we go to dinner, then see the Empire Strikes Back rerelease – but said friend is a major third wheel. We manage a kiss good night outside his dorm – my first intentional romantic kiss with another man.
Tom should be a dream come true. But things get complicated.
The whole experience seems like one of those extra-special episodes of Beverly Hills 90210 where everything comes apart and explodes just because its “Sweeps Week.” Everything does explode and not for the sake of ratings; it seems for the sake of my torment.
Before I know it (and before either of us is ready), my mother discovers I am gay. She claims that I left an email open on the computer; I still believe she was snooping. Either way – I am minding my own business in the living room when she says, “So who is this ‘great guy’?” She’s talking about Tom – and the next thing I know, I am curled in a ball on our back porch, sobbing, being forced to admit to her that I’m gay. She says, “Tell me! Tell me!” I cry, “I’m not ready! I’m not ready!” Until, finally, I say the words.
Now let’s ad insult to injury.
With my mother’s discovery of my sexuality, I am torn away from my (online) support system. She does not understand my innocent friendship with Chris in Australia – even threatening to press charges in a ridiculous email she sends him after going through my account again. She refuses to let me see Tom or even use the computer for anything but school work. (I fill my pockets with change to call him from the school payphone during study hall.) I am thrown into therapy – probably a good idea, but for the wrong reasons. I hate the therapist and, I’m still convinced, he hates me. I’m heart-broken over Brandon, wanting to be closer to Tom, working too much at the grocery store, and constantly fighting with my mom. And there's something else, a feeling, something humming right below the surface, something I can't put my finger on or understand, that's pushing me further down.
Suddenly, the term paper that I was researching with Brandon comes due. I haven’t done any work on it since we ended our thing. So what do I do? I cheat. Desperate, I grab pieces of some paper from the net to fill in gaps in my own. And I get caught. My bitter former-nun/current-repressed-and-closeted-lesbian History teacher goes the extra mile to torment me over my mistake.
Now I’m going to get kicked out of school.
I don’t feel comfortable at school or at home. My life is out of control and I am powerless – and this is all my own fault. Because I am gay. Because I am a cheater. Because I am worthless. I entertain thoughts of running away. Or worse.
All I’m left with is Sarah McLachlan. And myself.
Pulled down by the undertow
Never thought I could feel so low
In all the darkness
I feel like letting go….
See also: 1990 | 1991 | 1992 | 1993 | 1994 | 1995, Part One | 1995, Part Two | 1995, Part Three | 1996, Part One | 1996, Part Two
Posted by Patrick at 04:33 PM in 90s-Something | Top | Link | Comments (4)
Wednesday, June 22, 2005
90s-Something (1997, Part Nine): The Flame
1997: Part Nine (Age 17)
“The Flame”
« Continued from ’97, Part 8
November sets in.
November in Vermont is when everything dies.
I hate November.
I am numb and I am also hating myself. I’m slightly devastated by my choice between Andrew and Parker. Slightly? Even my word choice is poor.
I am a fool and I am not too proud to admit my mistake. And so I dial. There’s nothing else to do.
“Hello?” he answers.
“Andrew?” I rush. “Andrew, please don’t hang --”
Like the ten or so times in the days before, he does. He hangs up on me. He has every right, I know this, but I can’t bring myself to stop. The days are OK. I can distract myself with school, with friends. But the nights… the nights are when I miss his voice. The nights are when I need to call.
It gets lonely at night. In November. In Vermont. At seventeen.
My faith in my own judgment is pretty much shit. After choosing Andrew and being dumped by Parker, I have a hard time deciding what color to dye my hair (I settle on blonde highlights), what to write about for the paper, even what to wear in the morning. I am pretty much frozen when it comes to making any kind of choice.
Not a good place to be in when college is looming.
I have waited for college for what seems like forever. Ever since I was a brainy little kid it was what I was told I’d do. I would play football, I would go to college, and I would be the second person in my family – ever – to graduate. It was my burden and I was happy to shoulder it.
I’ll sit on the Quad next fall. Reading. Thinking. Having intellectual conversations with peers. Miles away from home. Finally where I belong. Just like they show you in the admissions booklets.
I have this vivid dream of meeting the man of my dreams there in my first year. Maybe at Orientation. Maybe he’d be my roommate. Who knew? But the fantasy is some stew of college movies I’d seen, bad gay novels I’d read, erotic stories I’d gotten hard over, all with a dash of A Separate Peace thrown in. He will be shorter than me, even if just by a little, perhaps dark-haired but possibly blonde, and certainly handsome. He’ll be preppy and masculine. And he’ll be head over heels for me.
College is going to be great. But what if I chose the wrong one? What if my dream man went to Dartmouth and I ended up at Brown? How was my destiny supposed to fulfill itself if that destiny was now in my own hands?
Do I studying Journalism? Psychology? Education? The Holocaust? Do I apply to tons of schools? Few? Do I stay close to home? Do I run far away?
…I feel like I am drowning.
After much agonizing, I finally decide on a short list:
* Boston University (Journalism) – its prestigious COM J-school is my top choice
* Middlebury College (English)
* New York University (Writing)
* The University of Rhode Island (Journalism)
* The University of Vermont (Psychology)
I send them off. I have to let go and let god. I dread the day the acceptance letters start coming back. Imagining the day I have to decide between whichever schools I get into.
What if I choose NYU over BU and then BU dumps me and NYU hates me?
I am so messed up.
A journal entry from 1997:
Tonight, I went to a "Tea Dance" -- a dance for GLBTQ people at a local dance club. It was a huge step for me, but it wasn’t my idea to go. I tagged along with Kristen and [her girlfriend] Angela. I didn't have much fun. I was really out of my element in so many ways. I don't care for loud dance music and I DON'T dance. And I really don't have much experience dealing with situations like that. There were men kissing men around me, women kissing women, bumping, grinding, etc. To be honest, I was shell-shocked. I swear, I am too straight for my own good. Not only did this "straightness" prevent me from being comfortable at this dance (I don't think I could ever truly get comfy at one without being drunk) but it also made me stick out like a sore thumb. I was the odd out man out.I didn't have much fun. I watched others dance. I small-talked a bit. But as I said, I was uncomfortable. There were some cute guys there and stuff, and lots of lesbians kissing (I don't know why, but I think that's really neat... again with my "straightness," I guess). Kristen, Ang, and some others literally dragged me onto the dance floor and forced me to boogie down. It was not a lot of fun.
A couple guys flirted with me or asked me to dance. I just politely refused. There was this one guy, though, that I saw across the room. He was very handsome, blonde, and just generally hot in a Val Kilmer sort of way. Val Kilmer? Yummy with a spoon.
So this guy caught my eye and I saw him looking at me. I didn't think he was flirting or anything because, after all, this guy looked like fucking Val Kilmer, for god's sake!
The dance ended and I was sort of hanging around, waiting for Kristen to bring me home. I feel a tap on my shoulder and turn around. There is Val Kilmer, tapping on my shoulder! I was dumbfounded, speechless, and clueless as he introduced himself.
So his name is “Bob.” He seems like a sweet guy. He said he thought was cute and gave me his number. My first number! I don’t think I call him, but still pretty cool.
In an attempt to move on, I do eventually call Bob, a week or so later. We meet for a coffee date. He’s not as cute as he was in the club, but that could be because he’s rattling of the list of psychotropic medications he’s currently taken or regaling me with tails of living above the garage of a “really sweet” Mormon family. In fact, with each word, he looks less like Val Kilmer and more like Danny DiVito. In Batman Returns.
We part ways as soon as we can. I don’t say I’ll call, so I never do. Even in a place as small as Rutland, I never do see Crazy Bob again.
Dating? Maybe it isn’t for me.
Parker and I are friends. And by friends, I mean we don’t talk and we see each other only two more times that year. It’s awkward, quite awkward, but we like to pretend.
The two times we do see each other both involve Vermont Governor Howard Dean.
Encounter #1: Parker, Kristen, and I are selected – along with dozens of other high school journalists from all across the state the state – to attend “Forum with the Governor,” a televised (on public tv, anyway) student press conference with Dean. I sit with Kristen, Parker behind us, and the three of us – the cluster of gays – hit him with questions about school harassment, gay-straight alliances, and same sex marriage. While Dean commends what happened in Rutland, he largely dodges the issues at hand and gives cagey answers to what we pose. I later cringe at the tape. I was fearless in an ugly sweater, way-too-big glasses, and blonde highlights. I even interrupted the governor with a follow-up question. But still – I let him off too easy. I should’ve pushed harder while I had the chance. Mr. Dean was more interested in commenting on speculation on a future presidential run then gay rights in the state. It is this day that I decide I don’t like the man.
At the Forum, my mom meets Parker’s mother, Amanda, and decides she wants to be a PFLAG mom, too. Amanda gives my mom a “Straight But Not Narrow” button from her purse, which mom immediately puts on, beaming. The whole ride home she can’t stop gushing about how nice Amanda was, and how much she wishes things worked out with Parker.
Encounter #2: Parker, Kristen, and I are selected – along with several gay teens from all across the state – to attend a clandestine meeting with the governor, a “low-key” (it happened at someone’s house at night and feels secret) conversation with Dean. We talk about gay issues in a dark living room. He listens and empathizes. He makes claims that sound like promises to this seventeen year old. He gives hope to a roomful of gay teens. To my knowledge, we never heard from him after that day. And all his promises? Empty. It is this day that I realize this man is a politician. He is not our friend.
After Dean leaves and we have refreshments, Parker appears to be dating another boy, or is at least being overly flirtatious with him. Surprising everybody, including myself, I am fine with this, actually happy for him. How big of me. I’d be lying if I said I don’t miss him, but it’s over and it should be. Our whole break-up makes me realize who I really missed, who I really wanted to be with…
I am sitting on the kitchen floor, curled into a ball, the bulky cordless pressed to my ear, ringing. My family sleeps. I hide there in the shadows made by the faint over-sink light. Looking back, I feel I should be crying. But I don’t. I’m not.
He answers.
”It’s me,” I whisper.
I cringe, waiting for the hang-up. It doesn’t come. Instead I hear him breathing. I can almost hear his heart racing. Just like mine.
Finally, he sighs. Stone cold, but voice vaguely trembling, Andrew speaks. “What do you want? You made your choice.”
“I made the wrong one.”
The tension slinks from the phone into my body. I can feel it in every muscle.
I try to imagine him – pacing in his tiny dorm room, huddled in a corner of a common room, hiding in the bathroom. I try to imagine him with a spirit of forgiveness on that night, but as I stew in this awkward silence, it’s harder to picture with each second that slowly ticks by.
“There’s so much… here. You and me. Good and bad and complicated. I fucked up. I got scared by it all…”
He responds only with his breath. It’s saying something, but I don’t know what.
“I want to be with you,” I confess.
Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. All I hear is the only thing I’m forgetting to do. I’m breathless as these long, quiet moments pass.
Finally, I hear the words. “I love you.” But I say them, not him. And it doesn’t feel good to say them this time. The gesture is desperate and the resonance is hollow. That goddamn breathing is the only response…
A moment later, he speaks. “The other guy…”
“It’s over.”
“You dumped him?”
I can’t lie. If only I could have, just that once, just then, maybe my life would’ve gone down another path. But after years of secrets and lies with him, I owe him the whole, brutal truth.
“He broke up with me.” A beat. “But I knew the instant I told you that it was -–“
“Shut up.” He spits the words out at me.
For a few seconds, I do. I shut up. But my heart is screaming. Fight for him. Fight for him.
“No, Andrew. I won’t. I made a mistake. I am so sorry. You’ve got to understand that. You’ve got to forgive me. I made a mistake.”
He considers my plea. I can hear it in his breathing. I can feel his heartbeat through the telephone line.
“You were the mistake, Pat.”
After all these years, this is what it comes down to. This.
My heart goes silent. It might as well have stopped.
His anger is barely restrained. “If you say a word about this… bullshit to another person, ever, I will deny it. And nobody will believe you. I am straight. I have a girlfriend now.”
I curl tighter into my ball on the kitchen floor.
“And you… you were just a mistake.”
He is vengeful, unforgiving, and I can’t say that I blame him. I decide right then to yield to him, to his request. I will keep his secret. He will forever be my old best friend, the straight one, the one that I loved, unrequited, for all those years. He will never be the boy that kissed me in the locker room. Never the one who finally said “I love you.” Never the boy who almost was.
I now know that whatever damage our dysfunctional relationship has caused me over the years, it wasn’t one-sided. Suddenly I get it. This isn’t
There are two people dancing here, and both of us are going to get hurt.
“I’m so sorry, Andrew...”
“Me too,” he whispers, his final gift to me. He is himself again, speaking outside his pain, outside his closet. His breathing has become tiny sighs, each one saying “if only…”
Knowing full well that he might be my soul mate, I say good-bye to Andrew – my friend, my love, the idea and the reality of him.
Knowing full well that he might always own my heart…
”You were the first, you’ll be the last.” Will our hero ever get over the crushing loss of Andrew? How will he get his groove back? Who does he see Titanic with, and how many times? Find out as 90s-Something: 1997 finally concludes!
Posted by Patrick at 07:01 PM in 90s-Something | Top | Link | Comments (10)
Monday, June 20, 2005
90s-Something Teaser ('97, Part Nine)
90s-Something, you say? But it's been so long -- I don't remember what happend. How about a quick third-person recap?
When last we left our hero, he was caught between two men -- his soccer-playing high school boyfriend, Parker, and his old crush-turned-long-distance-lover, Andrew. Forcing himself to choose, he picked Parker. In the aftermath, Andrew declared he would never speak to him again and Parker ended their dysfunctional relationship... Young Patrick was left standing alone.
Catch up on all the 90s drama from '97, Part Eight right here.
Here's a small taste of what's to come in Part Nine:
I am sitting on the kitchen floor, curled into a ball, the bulky cordless pressed to my ear, ringing. My family sleeps. I hide there in the shadows made by the faint over-sink light. Looking back, I feel I should be crying. But I don’t. I’m not.He answers.
”It’s me,” I whisper.
I cringe, waiting for the hang-up. It doesn’t come. Instead I hear him breathing. I can almost hear his heart racing. Just like mine.
Finally, he sighs. Stone cold, but voice vaguely trembling, Andrew speaks...
See also: 1990 | 1991 | 1992 | 1993 | 1994 | 1995, Part One | 1995, Part Two | 1995, Part Three | 1996, Part One | 1996, Part Two | 1997, Part One | 1997, Part Two | 1997, Part Three | 1997, Part Four | 1997, Part Five | 1997, Part Six | 1997, Part Seven
Posted by Patrick at 07:00 AM in 90s-Something | Top | Link | Comments (2)
Wednesday, June 01, 2005
90s-Something (1997, Part Eight): Backlash
1997: Part Eight (Age 17)
“Backlash”
« Continued from ’97, Part 7
MR. RAYMOND –I am overcome – by a sense of horrible dread. I receive this letter at school from “A CONCERNED PARENT” and I’m shocked by the random-note quality of it. It’s scrawled, all in caps, in a shaky, ominous handwriting, all anonymous, all very Unibomber-ish. In the envelope is a copy of my editorial “A Silent Injustice,” as reprinted in The Rutland Herald, sloppily ripped out, looking like something that might be part of a voodoo ritual or some kind of stalker shrine.PERHAPS IF YOU READ THE ENCLOSED PAMPHLET – YOU MAY BE ENLIGHTENED AS TO HOW HARMFUL AND DIRTY THE GAY LIFESTYLE REALLY IS.
MY GOD HELP YOU OVERCOME.
The “enclosed pamphlet” – a “Coral Ridge Ministries Special Report,” screaming such headlines as “Liberal Media Quashes Truth About Radical Homosexual Agenda” and “Sex With Children? Homosexuals Say Yes!”, among other hateful and outrageous claims – strikes me just so. I know it’s hate. I know it’s not true. But still, I am unsettled. I feel unsafe. I am actually scared by it.
My bubble has been burst. I am knocked down.
Backlash continues. I get more “fan mail.” Prank calls come nightly at my home. “Faggot” is breathed into the receiver before they hang up. All of it is anonymous and creepy. At school, though overwhelmingly supported, I start to see the underbelly of homophobia within the student body. I start to notice who doesn’t talk to me, who stares at me in class, who might kick my ass if given the chance. I write an editorial for the school paper called “Reactions” about hate and about some of the backlash. I call out some of those who stare and it helps – for a bit.
I’m still happy. I’m still proud. But the reality is setting in. I am a hated man.
I grew up in Rutland. Moved away when I was ten to New Hampshire, but still – this place always was my home. It’s hard to see such hate existing there – and directed towards one of the city’s own sons.
The biggest betrayal is that of “Jake,” my best friend growing up in Vermont. I idolized Jake for most of my life and thought the world of him. We kept in inconsistent touch when I moved and became uneasily reacquainted when I returned to Rutland in ’96. He was a star on the football team, a Tom Cruise-looking stud, Jake the Jock. And after I came out? He hated me. I heard some of the things he would say about me. I could see him clench his fist whenever we were in each others’ presence. But still -- he wouldn’t even look me in the eye. Was I beneath him? Or was he afraid of what he would see?
It all hurts me deeply, but I internalize it. It doesn’t fit in with the activist I want to be, with the life I want to lead, with the world I want to help create. So down it goes, deep into my sensitive, breaking heart. I get knocked down.
But I get up again.
* * *
Well, on the bright side, there’s always Ally McBeal. That skinny bitch and her cast of colorful supporting characters can cheer me up every week.
I am an early adopter of the show, tuning in after seeing a preview in which Ally was sculpting a naked man. Soon, I am drawn into the love triangle of Ally, almost-cute Billy, and Georgia (Courtney Thorne Smith, ex-Allison, Melrose Place) – as well as by that singing fool, Vonda Shepard. Peter MacNicol, of course, simply makes the show as “The Biscuit.”
Ally, I watched you all five years and I miss you. Even those “dark days” when Dame Edna was in the cast. Damn good stuff!
(PS – I didn’t mention the fucking Dancing Baby, did I?)
By this time, I have confessed to Andrew that I do still think about him. I admit to the deep feelings I “once” held for him. We email constantly and chat on AOL every night. We even talk on the phone when his roommate is gone. It feels so good to be reconnected with him, and things are building up towards something…
I have not yet told him about my relationship with Parker. Nor have I told Parker that Andrew is back in my life. What am I doing?
Things with Parker aren’t working, and it’s not because of Andrew. Parker’s distant, even when we’re in the same bed. It’s becoming clear that I want more from him than he wants from me, and yet he hasn’t dumped me and I can’t quite give up. There are glimpses of good times – good visits, good phone calls, hot make-out sessions. But overall? Distance, activism, and “fame” are getting in the way. And maybe there’s not that much there to begin with…
But everybody knows about Parker. Friends in classes ask about him. My boyfriend. It feels great to be so open about my relationship. It’s out and it’s wonderful.
And nobody knows about Andrew. He’s my secret. I email him from the library during school. I come home and chat with him until the small hours. It’s hidden and it’s connected to past hurt and shame – but still, it’s wonderful.
Finally, one night Andrew tells me on the phone that he still loves me. That he wants to be with me. His roommate is going away for an upcoming weekend and he wants me to come stay with him at school.
We can finally be together.
“Yes! Of course!” I tell him. “I love you too!” It feels so amazing to finally say it – to anybody, to mean it – but especially to Andrew, my true love. It’s the easiest and simplest thing I’ve ever said or done.
Real life is never simple, though.
I am struck by horrible guilt over doing such a thing to Parker. Yet I can’t seem to find it in me to end things with him. I don’t know what to do, but I do know I can’t have my cake and eat it too.
I finally break down and tell Kristen what’s going on. She’s shocked to find out about Andrew, and even more so by my duplicity for over a month. She understands, though, and she tries to help me figure out what to do.
She says something like, “You have to follow your heart, but you can’t keep doing this to both guys. You know I love Parker, but if it’s not working, it’s not working. And Andrew – I know how much me means to you. But he’s in the closet and even farther away.
“You need to tell them both what’s up. And you need to make a choice.”
That day, everybody seems to ask about Parker. “How’s your boy?” “When do you get to see him again?” “When do we get to meet him?” I just want them to shut up.
I lock myself into deep thought and finally make up my mind.
“Hello?” Andrew asks on the other end, in Boston.
“I love you,” I blurt out. He laughs a happy laugh. “Can you talk?”
“You too,” he mumbles. “Let me go out in the hall.”
A few moments later, he’s in a quiet spot. We small talk about our day. And then I just say it.
“Andrew, I have a boyfriend.”
Silence on the other end.
“I don’t know why I didn’t say anything earlier. I’m stupid.”
“What do you mean?”
“We’ve been going out for a month or so. His name is Parker and –“
“Don’t say his name to me,” he snapped, uncharacteristically.
“OK.”
Silence.
“Andrew, I should have told you. But things are so good with you and me…”
“So what does that mean?”
“I don’t know. I want to come see you. But I don’t want to cheat on him, and that’s what this feels like.”
“Are you going to break up with him?”
“Andrew…”
I had chosen Parker. And I suddenly feel like the biggest jerk in the world.
“I can’t. He’s here in Vermont. And he’s out. And he’s… he’s not you, but he’s someone I like. And it just seems like the right choice. I want to be with you, but he… it’s just simpler with him. It’s –“
“Pat,” he interrupts quietly.
“Yeah?”
“I never want to talk to you again,” he says simply, calmly. And he hangs up on me, just like I deserve.
The Lilith Fair movement is in full effect. Sarah McLachlan and her pussy-posse have taken over the post-Alanis airwaves. You can’t turn on the radio without Paula Cole, Jewel, Shawn Colvin, Sheryl Crow, or one of those broads moaning at you – and I love it. The music feeds my soul during such an odd time in my young life.
Songs like Colvin’s “You & The Mona Lisa” (“Nothing in particular / and everything in between / this is what you mean to me”) and Cole’s “I Don’t Want to Wait” speak to me, providing an estro-friendly soundtrack to my life even before Dawson’s Creek or Felicity taught me how.
Where did Lilith go? Bring it back!
It’s also noteworthy that around this point in my life I discovered queer punk band Pansy Division. I must've read about them in XY Mag. And I pick up their album, Wish I'd Taken Pictures, at the mall (of all places!).
It's possibly the oddest CD I've ever owned. The vocals are odd but also appealing, and they draw me in. The lyrics are what really gets me. This is geniune, uncensored, unashamed gay music. Thought I won't get what all of it means until years later (I haven't even been to a gay bar yet, or experienced a "Dick of Death"), the album hits something within me that those Lilith bitches never could. The two-minute-long songs get it -- gay sex, gay love, longing, aching, all with an earnestness and humor that's irresistable. Coupled with the sounds of Sarah and Sheryl and Paula, Pansy Division gets me through this Andrew and Parker love triangle, and the aftermath of it all.
Check out "Don't Be So Sure," "I Really Wanted You," and "The Summer You Let Your Hair Grow Out" for some heart-breaking punk ditties about unrequited love.
Ending things with Andrew has pushed me closer to Parker. I want things to work with him so badly and, luckily, things are going well between us. Much better.
I’m gearing up for the Vermont Coalition for Lesbian & Gay Rights conference that’s to happen at my school, which I’ve helped to plan along with Kristen. We’re both excited that Rutland High School’s halls will be filled with tons of gay people, allies, maybe even some drag queens. I’m thrilled because Parker will be in town for the weekend. And thought he’s non-committal, I’m hoping he might stay the night at my house.
The conference is a success. Kristen and I are both awed by the sense of community that comes to town, and it’s a vision that we’d carry with us past that day, remembering that one fine gay day at RHS. We meet tons of awesome gay peeps – people who know us by reputation already, people our age, people who we admire and want to work with to change our Green Mountain state.
It’s after lunch and Parker is preparing for the workshop he’s facilitating that afternoon. I keep him company in the classroom, one that I think I used to have French class in. It’s just the two of us and he’s distant as ever.
“What’s wrong?” I beg.
“Nothing.”
“Parker, I can go if you want me to.”
He says something like, “Listen, I wanted to wait til after all this.” It’s swift and kind and… just over. He finally breaks up with me.
I storm out of my school. I want to cry, but I don’t. I can’t. Instead I just gaze out onto the half-full parking lot and I wonder what could have been.
I am such a fool.
Here I Go Again... The angst is back, baby! Poor Patrick has gone from two boyfriends to none, and he has no one to blame but himself. Heartbroken and alone again, what does the rest of never-ending '97 hold for our hero? Where will the search for social justice and love lead him next? Find out as 90s-Something: 1997 continues!
Posted by Patrick at 11:44 AM in 90s-Something | Top | Link | Comments (4)
Sunday, May 29, 2005
90s-Something (1997, Part Seven): Karma Police
1997: Part Seven (Age 17)
“Karma Police”
« Continued from ’97, Part Six
A week after the petition hits, Kristen and I are called into the principal’s office. There, we are greeted by a reporter from the local newspaper, The Rutland Herald. He’s gotten wind of our work and wants to interview us. With a little coaxing, we agree.
A day or two later, the story (below) hits the paper – on the front page. The story is also picked up by the Associated Press. It’s reprinted in local papers across the nation, appears most notably as blurbs in both USA Today and The Advocate, and even read on one of the national network’s evening news programs. Within a week, “A Silent Injustice,” my editorial on homophobia from the school paper, is also reprinted in the Herald.
Pretty much overnight, Kristen and I have become gay activists with a big, bright spotlight shining down upon us. Before we know it, we’re getting fan letters and emails, congratulating phone calls, and even offers for dates. Everybody at school suddenly knows who I am – and Gay Vermont knows both our names.
Baby, I’m a star.
But it’s not about that. It’s about meeting with the faculty, stopping homophobic comments, getting recognized by the faculty and staff, starting a Gay-Straight Alliance, and making our school safe.
In the spotlight, my mother gets off my case about being gay. (For the record, I don’t think she really ever had a problem with it – but it took some getting used to, and when I come out as a gay activist, she decides she wants to be a PFLAG mom.) I suppose my father and the rest of my family knows, figuring it out from the front page of the paper, but I don’t really tell any of them.
RHS Acts to Support Gay Students
by Kevin O'Connor
Rutland Herald (Rutland, Vt.)Rutland High School will work to support gay and lesbian teenagers as the result of a petition signed by 200 students.
"We are tired of watching our friends get harassed," read the petition sent to staff. "We are tired of seeing people depressed because they have no one to turn to. We are tired of students going to Rutland High School in fear and we want an end to it."
Administrators responded by allowing petition organizers to speak with the school's 70 faculty members at an afternoon meeting last week.
"Step on was to raise the level of consciousness," Principal Bruce Gee said Monday. "The next steps include some type of education for the rest of the student body and, beyond that, perhaps the community at large."
The petition said although the school wouldn't tolerate racial or ethnic slurs, the staff wasn't addressing attacks against sexual orientation.
"Homophobia runs rampant at Rutland High School," the petition said. "The word 'faggot' is shouted through the halls everyday and yet there are no repercussions. 'Dyke.' 'queer,' and other such words and remarks, said in a derogatory manner, are used on a regular basis by students, all too often in the presence of faculty members who do nothing to stop it."
The petition said that gay and lesbian students were afraid to protest because of fear of harassment.
"Gay supporters are also afraid to say anything because of an unwritten law which says that if you are pro-gay then you are gay yourself," the petition said. "Those who have been brave enough to seek help have not found it. The few of those who have turned to faculty members have been ignored."
"We are entering this complaint to break the silence," the petition said.
The petition is based on one circulated last spring at Cabot High School by Palmer Legare. Rutland petition organizers Patrick Raymond and Kristen Nugent, both seniors, said they were pleasantly surprised by the reaction of their 950-student school.
Said Nugent: "A lot of people came up to us and asked to sign it."
And Raymond: "I was wondering if we'd even fill a page and ended up filling four. Almost all my teachers have come up to congratulate me."
Raymond, editor-in-chief of The Red and White student newspaper, wrote an editorial about the petition in the current issue.
"All of us have a legal and moral obligation to make our school a healthy, non-discriminatory place for everyone, regardless of their race, religion, or sexual orientations," he wrote.
School leaders said they dealt with harassment against any student on a case-by-case basis. They said students often used slurs without really knowing what they were saying.
"It becomes a habit for kids who hear a term a lot ... they start using it and don't even know what it means," Gee said.
School leaders said gay and lesbian students who felt abandoned were more likely to turn to alcohol, drugs, or other extremes such as suicide. They will plan awareness programs and perhaps a "diversity group" with the help of student council and other teen leadership committees.
"I give the kids an awful lot of credit to take on the responsibility and initiate to bring it up," Gee said. "We talked about harassment in general and we do need to address it. I think they were very well received."
City school Superintendent David Wolk agreed.
"It was a helpful wake-up call for all of us," Wolk said. "We were the students and they were the teachers. Despite the cases of harassment that the students cite, there nevertheless is an environment at the high school where students feel adults will listen to them and address their concerns."
Let’s talk about the Spice Girls, shall we? They don’t make it onto my radar until that fall. I missed the boat on “Wannabe,” but I am all about “Say You’ll Be There” (and, let’s face it, I still am). In Anthropology class, I talk with some of my cool new post-petition friends (because I am hot-shit to be friends with that that point) about dressing up as the Spices for Halloween. I am to be “All Spice,” a male amalgam of the other characters, joining a group of five girls. It never happens, but it’s a nice thought, eh?
And also? It wouldn’t be 90s-Something without at least name-dropping Chumbawamba. Remember those anarchists? They got knocked down and they got up again. Thank heavens for that!
So up until this point, I had been asked if I played football more times then I’d heard the question, “Are you gay?”
The answer to those questions are no and yes, respectively, obviously, but the second questions sweep through the halls of Rutland High School like wildfire.
“Is he gay?”
A seventeen year old boy who was a nobody just two weeks ago is suddenly noticed by all. My gay rights work with Kristen is well received by our classmate and, really, it is seen as cool to support the cause, to be our friends. And, really, many people want to know what my deal is.
I figured people would just assume I was gay and it would be done with. But no. They had to ask. Some assume I am gay, but still more assume I’m straight, just helping out my bi friend. And, through out everything, I remain deliberately cagey about my sexuality.
Kristen and I had made the decision early on that we had to “look and act like Young Republicans” to get taken seriously in our gay rights work. Freaky, punky gay kids – cool as they are – would make the school uncomfortable, and so we will be normal, boring students – not a big stretch for either of us, really – and knock them on their asses. So that meant my usual outfit of khakis-and-a-polo-shirt gets me far.
So when they ask, “Are you gay?”
I say, “Does it matter?”
And they look at me. Blankly. And then they think. Perhaps they think, If he is gay, he’s a pretty “normal” for a gay dude. And if he’s straight, well, gay rights is the cool thing for hets to do! Or perhaps they just think, I guess I won’t punch him. Who knows?
But I just say, “Does it matter?” Unless, of course, they are cute and look curious…
Things are happening. And I don’t think I’ve ever been happier.
We form the Gay-Straight Alliance at RHS. It’s the second or third in the state, and turnout is huge for the first meeting. After that, a strong core of students gather with us weekly.
Additionally, the Governor, the honorable Howard Dean, wants to meet us. And the Vermont Coalition for Lesbian & Gay Rights (VCLGR) will be holding its annual conference at Rutland High School, and Kristen and I are helping to make it happen.
The tide is turning. I haven’t heard “fag” in weeks…
Parker and I have been dating since September. Things are going fairly well, and we get to see each other on weekends. I even sleep over at his house a couple times – in the guest room, of course – meeting his mom, watching him play soccer, getting to know him better. We take things slow, but, still, I can’t help but feel an awful lot for him awful fast. Parker truly is a brilliant, beautiful young man and I felt like the luckiest guy in Vermont to have him as my boyfriend. At that point, it is the only real relationship I’ve had, the one I most want to work… but there’s trouble in gay teen paradise.
I decide that I am cursed. Somehow, somewhere, I committed some unspeakable crime that I am being punished for. What crime that is, I have no idea. Karma keeps showing up and kicking me in the stomach. Everything can be going fine, and then something goes awry.
Late one October night, my greatest romantic dream becomes a reality. Something that I have hoped and dreamed and wished for, for years, finally becomes true. Of course, it comes at the worst possible time. Instead of a dream come true, its a nightmare.
Flashback three years. October 1994. I was a freshman, he was a sophomore new kid. It was just a glimpse at first, in gym class, during the basketball game. That turned into another and another, and soon I couldn't keep my eyes off him.
His name turned out to be Andrew and he became my best friend. He was the first, and only, person I have ever truly loved. This was before I admitted my feelings to myself, so I never knew what the hell was going on. But hindsight is 20/20 and I see that I loved him well and truly.
One year later. October 1995. Andrew discovered my secret and we shared a kiss. Frightened, I pushed him away. A brief and tender encounter in the school’s locker room became a source of constant regret for me.
Flash forward. September 1997. I'm a senior in high school. Andrew's a freshman in college in Boston. After loosing touch for about a year, we reconnect via emails for a month or so. Emails turn into phone calls. And before I know it, Andrew is back in my life, albeit a little farther away.
We don’t talk about our past, of course, at least not the things we need to talk about. But things are good.
I am dying to tell him about the petition, to come out to him. But I’m afraid. But then – a little birdy from my last school comes into my Inbox and tells me a little story: at a summer party before leaving for college, Andrew was caught kissing another guy. They both said they were drunk and claimed it never happened. I didn’t know how to take the gossip, but it gave me the courage I needed. I write a long email to Andrew revealing every last bit of detail about my gay rights work – without mentioning my own sexuality.
I don’t hear back for a couple days.
Finally, a few nights later, I can’t sleep. In the middle of the night, I slink downstairs to the computer and check my email. There is something from Andrew. I am sort of trembling as I click on it.
Pat, what you are doing is so great. I had already heard about it through the graprevine from Claremont. It is really awesome, I am proud to know you.How do you tell your true love that you still think about them every day? Can you put aside all the baggage that you’ve assigned to one person, perhaps the most important one of your young life? And how do you choose between an old crush and a current boyfriend? Is there really a choice?But I am tired of beating around the bush. I am gay, I have always wanted to tell you that but I was afraid. I no you will be okay with it now. And I know that you are gay too. No body else knows about me, so please… I know you would never, but please keep it a secret. Things are so messed up between us and I hate that they are like that. we should have talked about this all along time ago.
Im juyst going to say thing because its late and im tired and I have kept this inside me for a long long time. I had a crush on you when you lived in claremont. It was hard when everything happened they way it did but I still think about you. YOU are the only person I have ever felt like this about ever. It is awesome we are talking again, I love getting your emails, and I am glad you are so happy in your life in Vermont. I miss you, though, and I think about you alot.
Do you still think about me?
- A
What am I going to do…?
Ready or not -- The decision is made, and revealed, in the next installment of 90s-Something: 1997!
Posted by Patrick at 06:34 PM in 90s-Something | Top | Link | Comments (2)
Wednesday, May 25, 2005
The Next 90s-Something
This week's installment of 90s-Something will be up sometime later this week. Sorry for the delay.Posted by Patrick at 11:01 PM in 90s-Something | Top | Link | Comments (0)
Wednesday, May 18, 2005
90s-Something (1997, Part Six): Upstart
1997: Part Six (Age 17)
“Upstart”
« Continued from ’97, Part Five
Thursday, September 25, 1997Dear Mr. Wolk and Rutland High School faculty,
If the word "nigger" was used against African-American students at Rutland High School, there would be repercussions. There would possibly be fights or even protests and the Rutland City Public Schools would get a very bad reputation. You would definitely act though, probably before the harassment went too far. You would crack down on the offenders until the offenders stopped.
Luckily, we don't have to worry about that. The word "nigger" isn't shouted throughout the halls. Verbal abuse and discrimination isn't an issue at Rutland High School, right? It's a place free of harassment and oppression. It's a place where everyone is free to be themselves. It's a place where no one is excluded or tormented because of who they are or what they are perceived to be. Right?
Wrong. One group of people in the school have been continuously persecuted and harassed while you have practically sat back and watched. It remains a silent problem because students are afraid to speak up and many faculty members turn a deaf ear to it. The group in question is gay, lesbian, bisexual, and transgender.
Homophobia runs rampant at Rutland High School. The word "faggot" is shouted in the halls everyday and yet there are no repercussions. "Dyke," "queer," and other such words and remarks, said in a derogatory manner, are used on a regular basis by students, all too often in the presence of faculty members who do nothing to stop it. An environment like our schools, where gay-bashing and other such harassment is permitted to continue, allows such hate and oppression to thrive. Because of this homophobic environment, few people have complained to you. Little, if anything, has been done in attempt to end this problem.
This atmosphere has made gay students afraid to complain because they are fearful of what will happen to them. Gay supporters are also afraid to say anything because of an unwritten law which says that if you are pro-gay then you are gay yourself. And in an environment like Rutland High School, that means you will be harassed. Those who have been brave enough to seek help have not found it. The few of those who have turned to faculty members have been ignored.
We are entering this complaint to break the silence. We are entering this complaint on behalf of all those who are oppressed and the people who will follow them. We are tired of watching our friends get harassed. We are tired of seeing people depressed because they have no one to turn to. We are tired of students going to Rutland High School in fear and we want an end to it. We are fed up with watching our school deteriorate year after year because this homophobia is allowed to continue.
There is a severe need for action. This problem has been ignored for far too long and demands immediate attention by the faculty and students of Rutland High School. We are willing to have a group of students meet with faculty members to discuss possible actions that can be taken. Such a meeting should take place as soon as possible. Please speak to our contact persons Patrick Raymond and Kristen Nugent to discuss this further.
Thank you for your time.
Sincerely,
Patrick R. & Kristen N.
Inspired by a similar petition that was circulated in Cabot, Vermont (yes, like the cheese) earlier that year (and with that organizer’s permission), the biggest part of the great plan that Kristen and I concocted involves the very document you read above: a manifesto we secretly circulated around our 950-person school, under the radar of the school’s staff, trying to gain silent support.
We are nervous about the reaction of peers as we expose our cause to them – well, I’m mostly the nervous one. Kristen is fearless, and therefore she does most of the footwork to get signatures. But before long, our fellow students are coming up to both of us to give us their John Hancocks. The halls are abuzz – and it’s almost all positive.
At the same time, I am using my position as Editor-in-Chief of the school paper to write a piece about harassment. Conflict of interest? Maybe, but at seventeen, I am too wide-eyed and headstrong to know or care.We get over 200 signatures and decide it’s time to go public. That Thursday, a hundred copies of our signed petition are distributed to the school’s faculty.
With the invaluable help of the school’s registrar and “resident mom” Mrs. McGurl, a hundred copies of the signed document were placed in the then given to every staff member.
The next day, my editorial is to see print in the Red & White.
The gauntlet has been thrown. We just have to wait and see what happens…
Editorial: A Silent Injustice
By Patrick RaymondDan sat across the table from me. I watched as he devoured the plate of cashew chicken before him, gulping it down between mouthfuls of pork fried rice and swallows of Sprite. He acted as though he hadn't eaten in days.
"What's the matter," he asked suddenly. I realized that he had caught me staring at him. I winced when I saw his eye again, nearly swollen shut with a revolting purple bruise. I couldn't get used to his black eye, not because of its appearance, but its constant reminder of why he had it; because of who he is.
"Nothing," I lied to him. "Nothing's the matter." I looked down at my plate and ran my fork through the worst egg foo yung I'd ever tasted. "I worry about you, you know."
"Don't. There's no reason to worry about me," he said. "I don't need your pity."
Poor Dan, I think. He's so strong, always a survivor. It amazed me to see him remain so solid through everything that was thrown at him. I admired his strength, but I can't help wonder if it was just a mask; underneath, I'm sure that he just wanted to cry on someone's shoulder.I still ask myself the same questions: What did he do to deserve the way he's been treated? What caused the fight that gave him that horrendous black eye?
Dan's a good friend of mine. He's a senior now, at a school not far from here. He'll graduate in June at the top of his class, with high hopes for college and the world beyond. He's a basketball player, a hockey fan, and the vice president of his class. He likes to watch TV, hang out with friends, and go to parties.
Dan is a regular guy, normal in every way, no different from you or me, really. But now he has a purple bruise over his left eye, which he got because he happens to be gay. Three little letters, one little word, and his whole life was turned upside down.
The sad fact is that Dan's story could have taken place in almost any high school in America. Young men and women -- be they straight, gay, lesbian, bisexual or transgender -- are subjected to homophobia each and everyday. Some, like Dan, are thrust out from the safety of their closet for all the unaccepting world to see. Others come out by their own decision, facing equally harsh reactions. Still others are harassed and assaulted simply because they are perceived to be something other than heterosexual.
Think about it: when was the last time you heard the word "nigger" used by a student who got away with it? When was the last time you saw someone harassed because of their religion, race or gender within our school's walls?Now think back: when was the last time you heard the word "faggot?" Five minutes ago? Ten?
You may think that the words "nigger" and "faggot" should not be compared because they are too different. You're right. They are different, but not in their meaning. They both hurt just as much. They both are forms of harassment and discrimination that is illegal here in the state of Vermont. The difference is the word "nigger" is a cardinal offense while the word "faggot" is permitted by the society within the halls of Rutland High School. Homophobia and "gay-bashing" are consistently ignored and allowed.
This homophobia remains a silent problem because so many are afraid to complain. Students are too frightened to say anything and many faculty members simply close their eyes to it. Most gay students do not speak out against the harassment because they fear the abuse will only worsen. Many gay rights proponents are also afraid to say anything because they know they will be assumed to be gay themselves. Those who have had the guts to stand up or seek help have, for the most part. been ignored.
I, for one, am sick of being afraid of what others will think. I am going to stand up for myself, my friends and my beliefs. This is a serious injustice that occurs at Rutland High School, one that we have to work to end. All of us have a legal and moral obligation to make our school a healthy, non-discriminatory place for everyone, regardless of their race, religion, or sexual orientation.
To the students of Rutland High School, I ask you to think about the words you use and what they mean. To the faculty, I ask you to open your mind instead of just closing your eyes.
How is the petition met? Tentatively. The school’s administration catches us before the staff gets a hold of what’s waiting in their mailbox. We are called into the principal’s office.
He’s trying to be supportive, and we can tell he wants to be. But he’s also incredibly scared -- scared of the issues, scared of the gay kids, scared of what happens next. He’s perhaps more terrified than we are.
We make a deal. The petition will still go to the entire staff, and we will start to make change happen, but only with two small changes to the document – we must address the letter to the principal instead of Superintentent (Mr. Wolk). We must also allow him to attach a memo. High school politics in Rutland, Vermont…
The next day, the slightly changed letter hits the school.
To: Faculty and Staff“For whatever reason” – it appears we have the support of the school.
From: [The Principal]
Date: September 25, 1997
Subject: Student HarassmentToday I met with two students who presented to me this letter and attached signed petition.
As you might well imagine, I was somewhat taken back by the serious tone and intensity of the letter. My first reaction was “How can this be, here at Rutland High School?” We have always addressed problems and concerns up front and with concern for those affected.
For whatever reason, we have a great number of students (over 200 signatures) who are concerned about the level of harassment that is taking place among our student body. I know that we can probably think of reasons why we, as individuals, have not confronted harassing situations, but we must address this issue.
On Wednesday, October 1st at our Faculty Meeting, I have invited Patrick and Kristen to speak with the faculty. Please listen to what they have to say. The remainder of the meeting will be spend discussing the necessary steps in dealing with these situations of harassment or potential situations of harassment.
I am appreciative of the courage of these students that have come forward. Their letter should make us all stop and think about what we have or have not done in the past. It must now be our resolve to support all of our students in whatever way possible.
I am counting on your professionalism and strict confidentiality regarding the contents of this letter and your respect for those that have taken the initiative and shown the courage to address this situation.
That Friday, the petition is picked up by every teacher. And the Red & White hits the school.
The halls are on fire.
I make my way up the steps to the lecture hall, my palms beginning to sweat. I hear the crowd behind the door, just a few feet away.
Mrs. McGurl pats me on the back. “Breathe,” she says. “Take a deep breath. It’s good for you.”
I take a deep breath. Then another. It isn’t helping.
“Give me a minute,” I say, stopping dead in my tracks. I look down at the notes in my hand. I am trembling.
A moment later, Mrs. McGurl asks, “Are you ready?”
The door stands before me. I hear the many voices within and look at Kristen. She smiles nervously.
“As ready as I’ll ever be,” I say. It’s time.
All eyes are on us as we entered. The room is suddenly quieter. In the seats of the enormous lecture hall, the entire faculty and staff of Rutland High School, numbering over 70 people, waits for the meeting to begin.
I glance around, seeing many familiar faces. These are my teachers, those who had shown me so much about what they knew -- about the Civil War and War and Peace -- and now it’s my turn to enlighten them about a subject that I know all too well: homophobia and harassment.
I am suddenly filled with the tremendous feeling of dread, wishing I was anywhere else but there. I wished I didn’t have to do this, not because of my nerves but because of the principle. It shouldn’t have been the students’ responsibility to address this problem, to throw ourselves into the fire to get something done. Talk of the petition and the editorial – of these two gay rights activists – had spreads through the halls to the nation. From the classrooms of Rutland High to the pages of USA Today, people are finally talking about this once silent injustice.
I look around the lecture hall and gathered my confidence. It’s time to really being out work. These are my teachers, those who had shown me so much about what they knew -- about civil rights and Civil Disobedience -- those who had taught me to stand up for what I believe in and fight for what is right. From the looks on their faces, I know I am making them proud.
And that's just September! Is Young Patrick ready for fame – and infamy – in Rutland and beyond as a gay activist? And how does his decision to come out in such a big way affect his relationships -- the budding one with soccer-playing Parker, the troubled one with college freshman Andrew, and the tense one with his family? And what's up with the Spice Girls? Seriously! Find out in the next installment of 90s-Something: 1997!
Posted by Patrick at 12:40 PM in 90s-Something | Top | Link | Comments (8)
Friday, May 13, 2005
90s-Something: Photo Shoot
By "popular demand," here's the full version of the "Sarah" photo from my Surfacing senior photo shoot in 1997:
Posted by Patrick at 11:16 AM in 90s-Something | Top | Link | Comments (2)
Wednesday, May 11, 2005
90s-Something (1997, Part Five): Surfacing
1997: Part Five (Age 17)
“Surfacing”
« Continued from ’97, Part Four
As my senior year begins, I am a secret agent at Rutland High School. A double agent.
Everyone thinks I’m the same sad, lonely boy that I was the year before. Sure, this year I’m editor-in-chief of the school paper. I’m suddenly more outgoing. I seem happier. I’m making more friends. I’m doing better in school.
But they have no idea that I’m a gay guy on the verge of coming out. That I’m co-facilitating a group for the gay youth of Rutland. That having secret meetings with Kristen, my partner-in-crime. That we are plotting to change our school forever.
Our plan is coming to fruition. We are working behind the scenes, gathering support quietly, waiting… We are nearly ready to make our first moves.
Where are you when Princess Diana died? It’s Labor Day weekend – which means my brother’s birthday, and the visits of many extended family for the “Great” Rutland Fair – and I am checking my email late at night while my relatives exchange over-told family tales. I see the headline on Yahoo and I share the sad news with those in the room: Diana has gotten into a bad car accident, and it doesn’t look good.
While Di’s death is a tragedy, the salt on the wounds that come later – the purple “Princess” Beanie Baby, the “Candle in the Wind '97” rewrite and single release -- are truly morbid bits of opportunistic pop culture in ’97. Shame on you, T.Y.. Shame on you, Mr. John.
Let’s not forget the biggest event of 1997: Sarah McLachlan releases her first new album since 1994.
Surfacing is released during the summer and it’s OK. It’s no Fumbling, but I adore songs like “Angel,” “Adia,” and “Sweet Surrender” – before they get nauseating radio play. My favorite song, however, is “Full of Grace” – which was previously released. Still, I love Sarah and I’m tremendously happy with her success. She’s just not the same artist that saved my life three years prior.
Nonetheless, inspired by the album, I bring it with me when I get my senior portraits taken. It plays in the background as I show the cover to the photographer.
“I want that,” says the boy that is finally surfacing himself, from the closet, from years of baggage.
And this is what the boy gets:
I see Kevin Kline’s In & Out in the theaters. And even though I’m only seventeen, and this is the first gay movie I’ve seen on the big screen – I know immediately that it sucks.
I like humor based stereotypes as much as the next guy – but I don’t find the on-screen mugging of Kline (whom I love) dancing to disco and kissing Tom Selleck to be anything remotely funny. I do find the ever-hilarious Joan Cusack and the cute coming out (?) of hottie Shawn Hatosy to be the film’s only redeeming (or really memorable) qualities.
My take on the Mighty Mighty Bosstones’ “The Impression That I Get”? It’s about getting an HIV test. I realize this as I, the responsible sexually active teen that I am, get my first STD screening.
Think about it:
I've never had to, knock on woodI'm totally right about the song (and STD free!). The lyrics speak for themselves.
But I know someone who has
Which makes me wonder if i could
It makes me wonder if…I'm not a coward,I've just never been tested
I'd like to think that if I was,I would pass
Look at the tested and think there but for the grace go I
Might be a coward, I'm afraid of what I might find out
Remember “Parker,” the boy who I am cyber-smitten with, the one who lives a couple hours away? Well, me and the soccer player finally get our act together, and he comes to Rutland so we can meet and have an official date.
The date takes place at an AIDS Walk – not exactly romantic, but a good fit for two emerging activists. We chat as we roam the streets of my town. I can’t stop thinking about how cute he is with his wavy brown hair. I can’t stop worrying that he’s not going to like the nice hike and picnic lunch I have planned for after. I can’t stop looking at the gloomy clouds that are rolling in…
It does rain, and so our picnic moves indoors -- to my bedroom, with the door closed. And locked. Lunch is short and, before long, we are necking for a few hours. This isn’t a hotel room, or the back of an SUV, or in the woods. This is in my bed. This is the hottest, most romantic experience of my seventeen years.
Pants stay on. We stay above the belt. We are good boys.
And I am on top of the world.
I am riding a high after that first date, and I ride it straight to the record store in the mall. I buy Third Eye Blind’s self-titled first album (“Semi-Charmed Life,” y’all!) and Jewel’s Pieces of You. (I pass on Sugar Ray.)
At the mall, I see Kristen. As I’m telling her all about my amazing day with Parker, she looks at me in horror and rushes me towards the bathroom.
“You have a hickey. Actually, you have multiple hickies. You’re a mess!”
Far from mortified, I am quite happy with these marks of my afternoon. These are my first hickies – and I’m tremendously proud. I refuse to wear a turtleneck. I want the world to know that somebody sucked on my neck.
At work at the grocery store, strangers offer me home remedies to get rid of the tiny purple bruises. I just smile and take their advice with no intention of using it, knowing that they know that I got lucky. They might not guess that it was with a soccer playing activist gay boy from a farm in rural Vermont – but at least they knew I was getting something from somebody.
The sun sets on September 24, 1997. We sit ourside our school in her big purple Caddy, terrified. A hundred copies of a manifesto, made at Kinko’s, hide in her trunk. My first editorial as chief of the school newspaper sits on my advisor’s desk, ready for print.
We stare at the school from the parking lot.
“So this is it,” I say.
“We’re really doing this,” she says.
“We could get kicked out of school, you know.”
“My parents are gonna flip.”
“But we’re doing what is right.”
Kristen and I decide that it’s time to make history. We get out of the car and head towards the school after hours…
The Year That Never Ends! The sun sets on one chapter of Crash’s young life – but it rises on a new day and a brave new boy. Great heights and new lows are on the horizon as 90s-Something continues -- only here at Twenty-Something!
Posted by Patrick at 01:55 PM in 90s-Something | Top | Link | Comments (9)
Wednesday, May 04, 2005
90s-Something (1997, Part Four): Dancing in the Shadows
1997: Part Four (Age 16/17)
“Dancing in the Shadows”
« Continued from ’97, Part Three
To call my emergence from the closet a “flying leap” is an understatement. The whole thing happens rapidly and unexpectedly.
My future, according to my former high school mentor, is in politics. My ambition -- and, in his opinion, destiny -- is to change the world.
The civil rights movement of the 1960’s has always fascinated me. Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. is one of my biggest heroes. Inside of me burns a passion, inspired by great men like Dr. King, a passion for equality, for harmony, for everyone.
I have always believed that everyone deserves equal rights and treatment, but one cause, one very close to me, frightens me very deeply: the fight for equal rights for homosexuals.
I do not speak up because of my own fears and insecurities. I decide to wait. When I get out of high school, when I get out of college, when I have money and a steady job -- then I will speak my mind.
That strategy works for a while.
Like Dr. King, I too have a dream. However, it is a very different one. Mine is a nightmare, one that has haunted my sleep since an incident occurred in 9th grade, an incident that shattered my life and shapes the man I will become.
The nightmare reminds me of horrors that occurred in that locker room years before. It replays those events in my mind’s eye, showing me the very depths of human nature, the extremes to which fear and insecurity can push a person.
The nightmare also reminds me of being pushed to the limit myself, of being at the bottom and working my way back up. A faint scar over my left eye, a constant reminder of that pain, becomes a symbol of my survival more than a testament of my suffering.
With that realization, I begin to see things differently. I am no longer a victim. I take charge of my life, of my sleep.
I begin to forge a new dream.
I am fed up with the environment around me, fed up with my inaction and the closet I was stuck in. In frustration, I get in contact with Outright Vermont, an organization for gay, lesbian, and bisexual youth in the state. But the group is based in Burlington, nearly two hours away from me. There are simply no resources for those of us in my hometown or part of the state. And that sucks.
I don’t intend to come out. I don’t intend to be an activist. All I want to do is hang out with other gay kids.
So I decide to start something.
From Outright, I am put in contact with a young man named “Nate.” At 25, Nate is not only interested in starting a youth group in Rutland, but also in starting a publication for the gay community in Rutland. Quite by accident, I wind up taking a “job” as junior publisher and editor of the now-defunct gay newsletter, Out & About.
Nate is an interesting character. He’s small, weak, effeminate – but his presence is huge. He’s a fireball, a bitch, an activist. He talks a mile a minute, and he’s damn inspiring.
I sneak out of my house and meet with the small staff of Out & About -- mostly older folks, people I’ve never met or seen, one of them the father of one of my (cute, straight) classmates -- and, for the first time, find myself surrounded by other gay people. A room full of them. “Family,” they say -- and, man, it feels like that. I’m on a high for the days that follow, finally affirmed.
The newsletter is top priority, so the youth group takes a backseat. I write several articles for the publication and lay the whole thing out with Microsoft Publisher at home. It comes along nicely.
Soon, a boy named Matt, near my age, joins the group. He’s a kid from another town, maybe an hour away, and he’s mostly interested in the youth group, but still hangs around. Mostly with Nate. He doesn’t contribute much, but he’s a cool guy. And then all hell breaks loose.
Nate and Matt had entered into a secret relationship. And it had gone sour. I don’t know exactly what happened, but the next thing I knew, Nate was on the phone with the Outright folks, and he was denying the relationship with Matt. He’s lying, and everybody knows it. Outright refuses, and rightfully so, to support a group if it allies itself with a 25-year-old who sleeps with high schoolers.
Suddenly, the bitchiness that had inspired me was destroying what I had worked for. I saw Nate for who he really was – a selfish trouble-making liar.
Out & About saw one issue published. But due to Nate’s stubbornness and inability to pay for it (I think he pocketed the ad revenue), it never left the printer. All our hard work that summer was for nothing. The newsletter fizzled and the group disbanded.
I’m on my own again, and I have to start from scratch.
I am meeting guys – here and there, through Outright and chatting online. But I’m not dating. I don’t want to hook up either. So I just look, wide-eyed. It’s fun checking out boys and chatting them up – but that’s really as far as I take things at that point.
Sometime that summer, I begin chatting with a guy named “Parker.” He’s my age and grade, and he lives about two hours away in northern Vermont. Parker is a soccer-playing activist who’s out at school and making change in his very rural town. I’m inspired and cyber-smitten, but the boy is far away and there’s just no way to be together.
In August, the summer heat finally gets to me. I chat with a boy named “Ben,” who is Class President at a neighboring high school. He works just down the road from my house, and I agree to meet him on his lunch break. In his car in the back parking lot of the Norman Rockwell Museum, he tells me I’m hot and kisses me. We make out for a bit and eventually I have to walk up the hill to my house with a boner.
After work, he picks me up and we go for a drive. He tells me how cool I am and how much fun we’re going to have. I am just along for the ride. We end up in the woods, naked, straddling a fallen tree. We make out and get off. He brings me home in silence, all his promises for our fun times together gone. I never see him again.
As August presses on, I have a few more sexual experiences in the woods. I begin hooking up with “Anthony,” a twenty-something married bi guy from Burlington. He picks me up and we go fool around in his car or in the woods. Before school starts, I also meet up with “Joe,” another twenty-something, a tall, beefy basketball-player type who owns a local pet store and drives a VW Van. We also go for a “hike” or two that summer.
At seventeen, the idea of having sex in a bed seems so foreign and exotic. I don’t realize that most other people don’t hook up in various wooded areas around the state of Vermont. I think I’m doing what every other gay high school student in the world is doing. How little I know…
Now, as the school year ended, I heard a bit of juicy gossip from a friend in NH – Andrew had, allegedly, been found making out with another guy at a party. The rumor was denied by him, but it was out there. It was all I can think of as he drones on about the Orientation session he’d just returned from.
I can’t stand it anymore. I finally just say it.
“Andrew…”
“Yeah?”
“Are you…?” I immediately chicken out. “I mean, would you want to come visit before you leave for school?”
He says yes, and before I know it, I’m seeing him for the first time in a year. It’s the first time I’m looking at him through these eyes – eyes that know they’re gay, know what they’re looking at, like it and allow it. He looks good. When we hug, I almost die.
He comes for the day. We hang around town, go to dinner, catch up as much as two guys who are obviously holding back can. I want so badly to tell him everything, but instead I say nothing. Forget how far I’ve come in my life – the instant I’m around him I clam up. I’m smitten. I’m terrified.
The visit comes and goes. We say good-bye awkwardly. I don’t want him to go, but I can’t bring myself to say or do anything that would make him stay. The instant he leaves my driveway, I want to cry. But I don’t let myself. Instead, I throw myself back onto the path I set out on since he left my house a year before: the path of self-discovery and coming out.
Kristen is famous for driving a big purple Cadillac, the back of which is covered in various feminist and pro-gay bumper stickers. She listens to Ani DiFranco loudly as she cruises through the streets of Rutland. She’s famous for having a girlfriend who she took to the prom. I remember watching them while I danced with my girl-date, scared and envious of their pride. She was instantly my hero – but she seemed like an alien just a few months earlier. Now – now she was my friend, my inspiration, my partner-in-crime.
Kristen and I start a small club for gay teens at the local youth center. It’s not well attended, but it’s something. We’re happy with how it turns out, but not satisfied. We’re both dreading our return to school in a few weeks and decide that things have to be different for our senior year. No more closets. No more homophobia. No more bull-shit.
It happens in a Dunkin’ Donuts late one night. Kristen and I sip Coffee Coolatas and hatch a plan that will change our school and our lives forever…
Best Laid Plans? What do these two troublemakers have up their sleeves? Will Crash and Parker bridge the distance between them? And are you ready for Andrew’s big confession? Things comes out – big time – in next 90s-Something -- only here at Twenty-Something!
Posted by Patrick at 04:31 PM in 90s-Something | Top | Link | Comments (10)
Wednesday, April 27, 2005
90s-Something (1997, Part Three): The Pride Issue
1997: Part Three (Age 15)
"The Pride Issue"
« Continued from ’97, Part Two
Sunshine. Lollypops. Lemonade.
Well, not exactly. Things aren’t paradise for me – but they are better. But when you live through the kind of winter I did, that’s not hard to achieve.
Let’s see.
Fooled around with friend from school? Check.
Been dumped brutally by said friend on Valentine’s Day? Check.
Been outed to mother by email? Check.
Cheated on high school term paper? Got caught? Check. Check.
Finally begun dealing with a buried trauma? Check.
And that’s just the start of 1997.
The last months of my junior year of high school didn’t have much potential. But when you hit bottom, there’s really nowhere else to go but up. The spring begins with Cake’s cover of “I Will Survive” and it becomes something of a theme song for me. It took all the strength I had just to fall apart… An alt-rock cover of a gay disco classic seems to sum up my life – and myself – quite nicely.
Now that I’ve realized I’m a gay boy, and I’ve committed to figure out what that means, the divide between that identity and my mild-mannered high school persona widens deeply. I am living a full-on double life, and the closet is making less and less sense… but coming out? That still seems like years away.
At first I was afraid, I was petrified…
Besides Cake, I really discover alternative radio that spring. Tori. Ani. Lots of bands who were super-cool at the time but have since fallen into obscurity. Damn good music, though.
But, hell, I still love Savage Garden’s “I Want You.”
Sweet like a drink of (chica?) cherry cola…
A sketchy online hook-up! Yay!
I begin chatting with a guy named Scott from AOL’s “Vermont M4M” chat room. He’s mid-to-late twenties, and lives in Burlington, about two hours north of my home. He’s supposedly a jock type, masculine, bisexual. His pictures are decent. So we decide to meet.
I get a ride to the mall from my dad, and awkwardly set out to meet Scott. Of course, my dad – along with my brother and sister – insist on following me into the mall. I see a distorted version of the guy from the pictures in the food court, but I can’t seem to shake my family. So… yes… Scott meets them all. At this point, I don’t know what my mother has told my father about my sexuality (and, in truth, to this day, my father and I have never truly had a conversation about it) – but it is weird nonetheless.
After escaping the fam, as we’re browsing through the Disney Store, it’s clear Scott and I don’t have much in common. We don’t really get along and I don’t like him. But when he suggests we get a room at the Howard Johnson’s next door, I say, “Why not?” I figure, he drove all this way… and I might as well bite the bullet…
Next thing I know, we’re awkwardly undressing in the hotel. Naked, he doesn’t quite look like what I expected. But then he’s kissing me, and his fat tounge is just resting in my mouth. It’s that moment that I realize – this is my first real gay kiss. This is the first time I’ve been fully naked with another man. In a bed. And it doesn’t really seem like a big deal. It’s not magic. It’s not even that hot. But it’s over before long. We leave the hotel room and Scott drops me off at home.
I block him from my Buddy List the instant I sign on.
Watch out world! I get my driver’s license and take to the streets of Rutland in my mom’s boxy “little old lady car” (I can’t remember the make or model). I don’t have many places to go besides my job at the grocery store and school. One day, I sideswipe a car in the school parking lot and quickly drive away. Shhh…
Luckily, before long, and behind my back, Jessica starts dating Ben. They don’t really tell me, but everybody else knows. I should be fine with it, but honestly I feel a bit betrayed.
The big night comes and goes with little fanfare. I honestly don’t remember much of it. There wasn’t a limo, but there was a fancy dinner and flowers and prom photos. There are no secret gay kisses in locker rooms. I start to see what my life might be like if I were into girls… and I realize I’m just not interested.
The prom is fun, I guess, but after the night is over, so is our friendship. I’m back to being a lonely gay kid… but at least I won’t have to buy a girl dinner for a while. Amen to that.
Pop culture in ’97 finally starts to improve. Before her blog, Rosie O’Donnell has her show, of course. My mother starts to collect Beanie Babies (thought it doesn’t quite become an obsession until ’98). Austin Powers rocks my world. And Hanson… oh, Hanson… You are so beautiful.
His name is Kevin. Kevin is my age and grade. He is cute, all tall and dark-haired. He likes No Doubt. And he is generally perfect.
Except he lives in Connecticut.
Thanks to the magic of AOL, I find love. Long distance love.
Kevin is just what I need at the time: a fantasy. We talk on IM and on the phone constantly. He sends me gifts and packages. He calls me “his Eeyore.” And within two weeks, he says he loves me. On the phone. I, in turn, feel the need to say it back within a few days. I did not truly feel it, but I say it – but it feels so damn good. He tells me the things I need to hear, does the things that I have only dreamt of. For a month or two, I believe that Kevin is “my prince,” finally come. After all, at sixteen, only open to the fact that I am gay for nine months or so, I have waited so long.
We meet once, at Dartmouth College. We both convince our parents that we’re looking at the school – but really, we’re staying with Matt, a friend of mine, and planning to have lots of gay sex.
Kevin isn’t quite what I expected. He’s very cute and sexy, and we’re both attracted to each other – but he’s not as butch as I imagined. Or as nice. He drives a big Blazer which he loves dearly, and he really has a sense of entitlement and privilege that don’t come across when he was miles away. He’s truly a rich bitch and I don’t like that – but I like him.
Despite all that, we have a nice weekend. It’s very romantic. We go out to make out, go out to dinner, go to the movies, and do all the things I so desperately want to do with another boy. While shopping, he pulls me behind a soda machine and kisses me passionately. In his beloved Blazer, in some field near Claremont, my old town in New Hampshire, I passionately fuck him to Duncan Sheik for what seems like hours -– sweetly making love face to face, fucking him savagely from behind bend over the back seat –- all while he screams “I love you” and calls me “his football jock.” We are two sixteen year olds in heat. It’s hot. When it’s done, the car is all steamed up and we head back to Matt’s dorm.
It’s my first time and I have no regrets.
Reality sets in once we leave Dartmouth. Kevin and I are “star-crossed lovers,” or so it seems, or so we call ourselves. Both of us closeted to our friends, and he to his parents, our relationship is a secret from everyone but each other. This romance, this forbidden love, sweeps us away, but soon reality bursts in and ruined the little fantasy. We are from two different worlds; I was the civic minded, serious young man and he was the spoiled, self-centered rich boy. When he starts talking about going to college together, I realize I can’t do this for another year.
Kevin and I break up in June. I don’t remember why or how. I don’t regret the two months I spent “with” him, and I even thank him for making me feel something after my horrible past experiences. It was a fun two months, but I knew the whole time it wasn’t real.
After coming to terms with my sexuality, I felt that I could not pursue an interest or career in politics -- my “destiny,” according to my former Civics teacher and mentor in New Hampshire -- because I am gay. Because of this, I became dormant during my junior year in many regards. I did not follow politics at all and I steered clear of related assignments for the school paper. My passion died out.
Towards the end of the school year, however, we begin studying the civil rights movement in my history class. This sparks a new fire within me. I also write an expansive research report on gay men and AIDS which opens my eyes to things I had never been aware of. In my research, I become fascinated by the rich history of the gay rights movement.
It’s at this very important moment in my life that Ellen come out. Fuck, this is huge for me. I buy that issue of TIME. I watch “The Puppy Episode,” in silence, with my family. I’m inspired.
My next tiny step out of the closet comes because of a magazine. I heard of XY Magazine, a sexy, glossy mag for gay teens, on the web and I’m dying to get my hands on a copy. I didn’t know of any place in Rutland that carried it, but that didn’t really matter: I figure I’d be too chicken-shit to buy it if I ever tracked it down.
But then one day I’m browsing through the local newsstand and I find it. XY Magazine. In Rutland, Vermont.
And it’s the “Pride” issue.
I eye the mag and nervously consider buying it. I look around the store. I pace. I linger. After ten minutes of false starts, I finally just pick up the issue and march over to the counter, head held high, and buy the magazine. I have just purchased my first gay magazine.
One small step…
And it hits me. Even after everything, after hitting rock bottom just two months before, I realize –
Everything is going to be OK. Really.
I am OK.
One giant leap…
Time for summer vacation! 1997 is a long year – and would you believe the best is yet to come? From tiny steps to flying leaps, don’t miss a beat in the next 90s-Something -- only here at Twenty-Something!
Posted by Patrick at 04:48 PM in 90s-Something | Top | Link | Comments (7)
Wednesday, April 20, 2005
90s-Something (1997, Part Two): Stuck in a Moment
1997: Part Two (Age 15)
"Stuck in a Moment"
« Continued from ’97, Part One
I am on the edge of something. I don’t know what it is, but I sense it’s not good. Something’s coming, and my life is never going to be the same.
I am heart-broken and utterly miserable. Home is uncomfortable and school is a nightmare. I’m not talking to my mother and I’m awaiting a decision from the principal regarding my academic dishonesty. My future is ruined. My life is over.
I just don’t want to do it anymore.
So I make detailed plans to run away. I chart routes and even start packing – but I always chicken out. I even, for a few fleeting moments, and for the first and only time in my life, seriously consider ending it all. But I can’t do that either.
The survivor instinct inside of me is screaming. “Deal with this. Deal With This. DEAL WITH THIS!” And I suddenly understand what this is. It’s not school or home. It’s not my identity. It’s the thing that’s been humming inside me… Before I can deal with Brandon or Tom or even Andrew – I have to deal with the one that started it all. “Sean.”
For 1994, I briefly wrote: ”That September, I have my first sexual experience with another boy. It’s the school bully, also 14, and he forces me to let him suck me off at his house after school. It does not end well… leading to Move #5 – back to NH, with my parents, tail between my legs.”
There is, of course, more to the story. But in 1994, at 14, I was unable to deal with it. So I ignored it and repressed it, for two years. But since coming out to myself in 1996, I am increasingly unable to keep it hidden.
And so here you have it, a flashback within a flashback, my deepest secret, which I have shared with less than a dozen people in my life – before, of course, posting it anonymously on the Internet.
September 1994.I probably would’ve killed myself right after that. But within three weeks, I was back in New Hampshire with my parents. And I spotted a boy named Andrew in my gym class. And I found a CD called “Fumbling Towards Ecstasy”. And I channeled every bit of that horrible experience into my obsession with this new boy.Sean was smart, funny, handsome, and popular – the only member of the Freshman class at my new school that stood out to me. And there were only 30 of us. I was drawn to Sean, but he didn’t like me one bit. He would only eye me suspiciously, seeming to view me as a threat to him, somehow.
For the first two or three weeks of school, Sean did his best to humiliate and ostracize me. I remained resilient to his efforts, slowly making friends and adjusting. But still, he hated me for no apparent reason and so I start pushing back.
It all came to head: Gym class. Floor hockey. Centers for opposite teams.
We were backed into the corner, battling for control of the puck, as we had fought for control of everything else. I realized what I was reduced to: Sean’s archenemy, an upstart trying to seize “control” of the school from the most popular Freshman, simply because I could.
The puck was mine. I slammed in out of the corner, hitting Sean’s shin in the process. A teammate got the puck and the goal was ours.
Grasping his shin, Sean cursed. As everyone made their way back to their positions, he stared at me. “I am going to kill you,” he whispered to me. “You fucking faggot.”
The word cut through me, echoing. “Shut the fuck up,” I told him.
I saw a fire in his eyes. He had hit the nerve he had been searching for.
“What’s wrong?” he teased across the center line. “You fucking Homo.”
“Fuck you.”
“Like playing with that big, hard stick?” He stroked the hockey stick in his hand lewdly.
“FUCK YOU!” I screamed.
The gym teacher came over to break it up, but it was already over.
“You’d enjoy it too much,” Sean said slyly as prepare to face off. My team may have won the goal, but he had won this battle.
But what Sean had found in me, in that moment, wasn’t so much a weakness – but rather a target. In front of others, he was still a complete asshole to me; but suddenly, when we were alone, he would be inexplicably nice to me, even going so far as to apologize for his taunting. It had me stratching my head.
Within a week, I warily accepted a secret after school peace offering to play Mortal Kombat II at his house. And in his room, as my Scorpion pummeled his Johnny Cage, he asked if I’d ever fooled around with another guy.
He was so bold.
I thought it was a joke, so I said no. No no no. But soon, my pants were down (his too) and he was giving me a blowjob. I sat back on his beanbag, practically shaking, and let him do his thing. I was confused, excited, and scared. Before I knew it, he was finished, but I couldn’t. And then it was time to get a ride home.
I avoided and ignored him for the next week. He was cruel to me in front of others, but secretly sought me out for more MKII. I declined his invitations.
A week passed. It happened one day after last period P.E.. As usual, I waited until almost everyone was done before I entered the showers. Soon, I was the only one left in the shower and, eventually, in the locker room.
I was washing my hair when I felt a hand roughly latch onto my shoulder.
Startled, I turned to find that it was Sean. All he wore was a twisted grin. His beautiful body was on display before me and it took all my self-control not to look at it. The shampoo ran down my face and stung my eyes. I used it as an excuse to avert my gaze.
He began talking as I finished washing. I said nothing, trying to ignore him to the best of my ability. He talked.
After hitting several topics in his one-sided conversation that failed to get a rise out of me, he finally found one that did. He started graphically talking about masturbation. He touched himself. He groped himself, tugged, and grunted.
I could not help but sneak glances and soon my body betrayed me. My involuntary response kicked in and Sean got what he had wanted all along: proof.
“I knew it.”
I said nothing, just looked off into space, seeing nothing.
He moved closer.
Sean rubbed against me. I had lost my ability to speak, think, or move. He drew close and gripped my shoulder.
“It’s OK,” he said.
He felt good against me, he did. And I even liked his touch. This was something I had thought about, wasn’t it? Something I wanted? I had even thought about Sean, what it might be like to do stuff like this with him. But this – and the blowjob in his room – it didn’t feel right. I was excited, but I wasn’t ready.
Sean was stroking both of us when the locker room door opened. (I have never had luck with locker rooms.)
Someone was entering and would be near the showers any second. Sean’s desire and excitement transformed into fear. In a split second, he chose a plan on action to get him out of this situation. In a split second, he ruined my life.
His face was pained. He closed his eyes for a moment and then it began. “You fucking faggot!” he screamed. “You really are queer!”
He shoved me. Hard. Then again. On the slippery floor, I fell and hit my head on the cement shower wall. I tried to get up, but he was above me, naked and red with fury.
The person who entered the locker room was Rob, one of Sean’s friends. He came to the shower door and saw me defeated.
“What the hell happened?” Rob asked. He was confused.
“Crash is a fucking faggot. Tried to come on to me,” Sean said. I didn’t bother to protest. I couldn’t.
Sean kicked me hard in the side. “We don’t want fags like you in our school.”
I was reeling in pain, and not primarily from his beating; all his actions in general puzzled me, his words, his behavior, before and after Rob arrived. I struggled to comprehend what was happening, what had happened, but I failed.
Rob looked horrified. “Sean, we’ve got to get out of here. We’re gonna be in so much shit!” And then he took off.
It was just Sean and I again. I looked up to him, staring with hatred, not even seeing him. It was as if I looked right through him.
His rage was gone. He looked almost remorseful. I swear I heard him whisper, “I’m sorry.”
And then he was gone and I was left alone, under the shower water, wallowing in a pool of self-loathing.
I wanted to die. Part of me wonders if maybe I did.
He saved my life.
Remembering and finally dealing with that lost month of my life from 1994 makes all the difference to me in 1997. EVERYTHING from the past two-and-a-half years relates to those moments in that locker room: my crazed crush on Andrew, my freak-out during our own locker room encounter, my “fight” with the homophobe, my discomfort with sex with Brandon… all of it. Fucked up because of a horny fourteen year old jock.
It’s tough, but all I can say is, “Fuck it.” It happened. It sucked. It will always be a part of me, but I can’t let it rule me. “Even God cannot change the past.”
Thus endeth the lesson. And the depression.
I stop listening to No Doubt’s “Don’t Speak” and start listening to “Sunday Morning.” That shit is bananas! Spring has begun to arrive, and it’s a beautiful thing.
Hey! Remember Heaven’s Gate? That happened in ’97! My friend Mike makes a parody site for the “Temple of Mario Kart.” (A MUST-CLICK – then check out the original HG site!)
Getting my life back on track after my winter ordeal is an arduous task. Picking up the pieces takes a while, but I do it.
I tell my “therapist” that I’m gay. I also tell him the Sean story. He says that I’m making it all up, that I’m not gay, that those things never happened to me. I tell him to take a flying fuck and I walk out of his office, smiling.
I tell my mother to deal with it. She, apparently, does.
I tell my bitter former-nun/current-repressed-and-closeted-lesbian History teacher and my guidance counselor that I screwed up and I deserve another chance. The teacher wants me out, but I won’t budge.
She grimaces at me, but I see through her. “Rewrite it,” she says. “From scratch.”
I do, and I am not kicked out of school. My brand-new term paper is on the stigma of HIV/AIDS on gay men. I call it “Men Without Hope.” It’s sad yet empowering to discover part of my “gay heritage.” Once I turn it in, the teacher suddenly gets it. And it shuts her the hell up.
Life isn’t great. I still have a ways to go. But I’m finally back on a good road. I’m dealing with my shit. And I’m learning two important feelings: hope and pride. What else do I need?
On the road again! A happy Crash is a healthy Crash. But is he ready for the prom, his second -- er, third? -- hook-up, and a first “boyfriend” – and that’s just the end of junior year! ’97 is the biggest year yet. Don’t miss a beat in the next 90s-Something -- only here at Twenty-Something!
Posted by Patrick at 12:01 AM in 90s-Something | Top | Link | Comments (5)
Wednesday, April 06, 2005
90s-Something (1997, Part One): The Winter Here
1997: Part One (Age 16)
"The Winter Here"
« Continued from ’96, Part Two
I am leaning over into the driver’s seat, looking at his pale, hairless belly as it falls out of the bottom of his shirt. I am staring down his meaty uncut cock, his pulled-down boxers nestled just below his smooth balls. This is Brandon’s penis.
Parked on the side of an empty snowy road in rural Vermont, in his red hot Saturn, I was about to give my first blowjob.
This is how I got there: Brandon and I spent all of January, after school, going to the local college’s library to do research for our big History term paper. We would then go home and chat all night on Instant Messenger. Before long, I had either gained his trust or set off his gaydar enough for him to become more… playful.
Chats turn more suggestive. Brandon types and types about sex – but mostly about masturbation. It takes a few weeks of this – with me playing dumb or playing along – until I send him a link to some masturbation homepage. He sends back a link from within the site – a story, about two buddies, jacking off… together.
The next day, we are parked in his car, and we are beating ourselves off at the same time. Before I know it, we are jerking off together every day after school. Brandon wants to do more, but I am hesitant. I totally like him and I am still playing the part of curious straight guy – I don’t want to reveal too much or go to fast. But he pushes – and he plays that song.
Yes. Brandon seduces me with Merril Bainbridge’s one-hit wonder, “Mouth.”
“Would it be so bad if I could turn you on?”
I’m ashamed to say it works. Before I know it, we are jerking each other off. Then he sucks me off. And then I am giving my fateful first blowjob.
I have to say, I’m not a big fan. His belly and thighs are too pale and doughy, and I don’t like how his blonde bush stares back at me while he’s pushing down on the back of my head. The cock is nice – but I like the view from the comfort of the passenger’s seat much better.
Pandora’s Box is open. I am now sexually active. And, as he forces his dick down my throat, I think that I am falling in love with Brandon, my only real friend at school.
Speaking of pale, slightly chubby, and inexplicably sexy men, Prez Bill Clinton begins his second, more interesting term. I’m getting ahead of myself (and the 90s) here – but I totally would’ve blown him. I miss him. He should be our king.
Pop culture in early 1997 sucks! It’s all “I Believe I Can Fly,” Star Wars special editions, Heaven’s Gate, and shit. BLAH. The good stuff comes later in the year… Did somebody say Beanie Babies? Spice Girls? Titanic?! Oh, just you wait…
Brandon and I have been pulling down our pants and getting off together for nearly a month. I am uneasy with o