studied his reflection in the wall mirror. Our bathroom’s high-wattage light fixture made Dan’s eyes sparkle and his teeth gleam. I stood behind him and stretched the tie’s elastic band with my fingers, then I slipped it over Dan’s head, taking care not to muss his hair. I worked the band under his collar, a little at a time. Dan wore cologne—English Leather—and the scent was intoxicating. I fumbled with the tie’s clip, tightening the band as my nose brushed against Dan’s hair. My hips pressed against his buttocks and I became erect. My cheeks burned.
Dan tugged at the tips of his tie, testing the fit. He looked at my reflection in the mirror. “A little tighter, please.”
I adjusted the band and my boner nudged Dan’s behind.
“That’s good,” he said. “Thanks a lot.”
Dan became a growing presence in my life. I couldn’t get him off my mind. I’d sit in my algebra class, working on equations, and I’d think about Dan’s eyelashes or the way he held his fork at the dinner table when he cut steak and placed the meat in his mouth. (I’d noted that he didn’t shift the fork from one hand to the other and he kept the tines pointed downward: that’s how obsessed I was becoming.) On the school bus, I’d stare out the window and daydream about Dan and me spending time together. We’d go fishing or bowling or we’d attend a ball game. At home, I’d enter our family room and I’d see Dan and my sister seated on the sofa watching TV. Dan’s arm would lie across Patricia’s shoulders and I’d feel jealous. Dan’s arm belonged around my shoulders.
I did stupid things: one breakfast I poured orange juice into my coffee instead of cream. I left the house to walk our dog with a dog leash in my hand but no dog. I wore mismatched shoes to school. I forgot to brush my teeth for days at a time and my smile turned gummy. Some nights I couldn’t sleep a wink. I’d lie in bed and think about Dan. Then, the next morning, I’d fall asleep in class and I’d receive a tongue-lashing from my first-period teacher. My grades suffered and my mother received notes from two of my instructors. They expressed concern about my lack of focus, about my lethargy.
I lost weight. I developed raccoon eyes.
My mother took me to our family physician. He looked in my ears and nose and he peered down my throat. He drew blood from my arm. He listened to my heartbeat and my breathing and he tapped my liver while I lay on his exam table in my underwear. He asked if something was troubling me but, of course, I couldn’t tell him what it was. I couldn’t say, “Dr. Feinberg, I’m obsessed with my sister’s boyfriend; I’m lovesick.”
I felt increasingly isolated from my peers. Being gay was socially unacceptable in 1964. If guys thought you were queer they’d knock your front teeth out. You’d be ostracized, labeled a freak, and you probably wouldn’t get accepted into college. Plus the word cocksucker sounded so nasty, so… derisive .
Would I go through my entire life like this? Lusting for Dan? Hiding my feelings from him—and everyone else?
I had to tell someone I was queer, I had to speak about my feelings for Dan. But who could I share these secrets with? Not my mother; she’d have a nervous breakdown. My sister was a heartless wench and she’d revel in my misery. Discussing matters with Dan was out of the question.
I thought about Gus Andriakas. I was pretty sure he wasn’t queer, but everyone thought he was, so maybe he’d understand my situation, perhaps listen with an open mind. On a Friday afternoon, after school let out, I stole two cigarettes from my mother’s pack and I phoned Gus.
We met behind the gas station. By now the holding tanks were buried, new pumps gleamed beneath the station’s canopy, and a sign with a dinosaur trademark rested on a pole, but the place still wasn’t open for business. Gus and I had the property to
Dan tugged at the tips of his tie, testing the fit. He looked at my reflection in the mirror. “A little tighter, please.”
I adjusted the band and my boner nudged Dan’s behind.
“That’s good,” he said. “Thanks a lot.”
Dan became a growing presence in my life. I couldn’t get him off my mind. I’d sit in my algebra class, working on equations, and I’d think about Dan’s eyelashes or the way he held his fork at the dinner table when he cut steak and placed the meat in his mouth. (I’d noted that he didn’t shift the fork from one hand to the other and he kept the tines pointed downward: that’s how obsessed I was becoming.) On the school bus, I’d stare out the window and daydream about Dan and me spending time together. We’d go fishing or bowling or we’d attend a ball game. At home, I’d enter our family room and I’d see Dan and my sister seated on the sofa watching TV. Dan’s arm would lie across Patricia’s shoulders and I’d feel jealous. Dan’s arm belonged around my shoulders.
I did stupid things: one breakfast I poured orange juice into my coffee instead of cream. I left the house to walk our dog with a dog leash in my hand but no dog. I wore mismatched shoes to school. I forgot to brush my teeth for days at a time and my smile turned gummy. Some nights I couldn’t sleep a wink. I’d lie in bed and think about Dan. Then, the next morning, I’d fall asleep in class and I’d receive a tongue-lashing from my first-period teacher. My grades suffered and my mother received notes from two of my instructors. They expressed concern about my lack of focus, about my lethargy.
I lost weight. I developed raccoon eyes.
My mother took me to our family physician. He looked in my ears and nose and he peered down my throat. He drew blood from my arm. He listened to my heartbeat and my breathing and he tapped my liver while I lay on his exam table in my underwear. He asked if something was troubling me but, of course, I couldn’t tell him what it was. I couldn’t say, “Dr. Feinberg, I’m obsessed with my sister’s boyfriend; I’m lovesick.”
I felt increasingly isolated from my peers. Being gay was socially unacceptable in 1964. If guys thought you were queer they’d knock your front teeth out. You’d be ostracized, labeled a freak, and you probably wouldn’t get accepted into college. Plus the word cocksucker sounded so nasty, so… derisive .
Would I go through my entire life like this? Lusting for Dan? Hiding my feelings from him—and everyone else?
I had to tell someone I was queer, I had to speak about my feelings for Dan. But who could I share these secrets with? Not my mother; she’d have a nervous breakdown. My sister was a heartless wench and she’d revel in my misery. Discussing matters with Dan was out of the question.
I thought about Gus Andriakas. I was pretty sure he wasn’t queer, but everyone thought he was, so maybe he’d understand my situation, perhaps listen with an open mind. On a Friday afternoon, after school let out, I stole two cigarettes from my mother’s pack and I phoned Gus.
We met behind the gas station. By now the holding tanks were buried, new pumps gleamed beneath the station’s canopy, and a sign with a dinosaur trademark rested on a pole, but the place still wasn’t open for business. Gus and I had the property to
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