Boy Crazy: Coming Out Erotica (13 page)
Read Boy Crazy: Coming Out Erotica Online
Authors: Unknown
I said, “If you were queer…”
“But I’m not.”
“I
know
that. I said
if
you were queer…”
know
that. I said
if
you were queer…”
Gus looked at me with a strange expression on his face. “What?”
“Would you tell anyone?”
He got to his feet and looked away from me. Drawing on his cigarette, he said, “I don’t know. Maybe.”
I tapped my ash and rearranged my feet. I shifted my weight from one leg to the other, waiting till Gus swung his gaze back to me. Then I said, “I’m queer. I’m in love with another guy.”
Gus put a hand in his jacket pocket and he looked away again. He blinked and said, “Who’s the guy? Someone I know?”
I explained.
Gus shook his head. “What a mess. You should forget this guy, this Dan.”
“I can’t. It’s hard to explain, but he’s all I care about.”
Gus turned down a corner of his mouth. “He’s dating your sister; he likes girls. Nothing will happen between you and him.”
A funny feeling began in my feet, and it worked its way up my legs, then to my shoulders. I shook all over. My jaw trembled and my eyes burned. I wept and tears itched my cheeks, and I sucked air through my mouth because my nose was full of snot.
Gus flicked his cigarette away. He came to me and put his arm around my shoulders, speaking in a whisper. “Come on, Curtis, don’t cry. It’s okay.”
For Christmas, Dan bought me a Swiss Army knife with multiple functions. It featured four different cutting blades, a nail file, a screwdriver, a little pair of scissors, a bottle opener, and a corkscrew. Forty years later, I still own the knife. I keep it in my top dresser drawer.
I gave Dan a carton of cigarettes and a can of lighter fluid for his Zippo.
On New Year’s Eve, Dan took my sister to a party. Again, he drove his parents’ station wagon. He wore a long-sleeved, mock turtleneck velour shirt, a pair of dress slacks, and his leather slip-ons, looking better than ever to me. I stood in the kitchen, making popcorn in a pan, and he snuck up behind me, seized me in a headlock, and rubbed his knuckles against my scalp. “Happy New Year, Curt.”
I laughed. His arm felt heavenly about my neck, and his hips rested against my buttocks. He pressed his chin to the crown of my head. Then he let me go.
He said, “What’re you doing tonight?”
I raised my shoulders, then let them drop. I jiggled the popcorn pan. “I’ll watch Guy Lombardo with Mom.”
“Tomorrow,” Dan said, “I’m taking my bike to the woods north of Clearwater. Trails go everywhere and they’re fun to ride. Want to come?”
My jaw dropped and my eyebrows jumped. I said, “Sure I do.” Then I frowned and shook my head. “My mom…”
Dan said, “Let me talk to her. We’ll see what happens.”
Miraculously, my mother said yes, with the caveat that I’d wear a helmet. They weren’t mandatory then.
Dan appeared the next morning around eleven. He wore a leather jacket, a T-shirt, blue jeans, and boots. The day was sunny and cool and without a breeze. Dan and I stood on the driveway, next to Dan’s motorcycle, while he chatted with my mother and sister.
“Please be careful,” my mother said to Dan, “bring him back in one piece.” Then she handed me five dollars. She said, “Buy lunch for yourself and Dan.” She kissed my cheek and told me to enjoy myself.
Dan had borrowed an extra helmet from a friend. I put it on and Dan adjusted my chinstrap so it fit snugly. I felt as though my head were inside a seashell. Dan patted the rear portion of the Honda’s seat, looked at me, and said, “Hop on.”
I swung my leg across the seat and lowered my butt to the leather. Dan mounted the bike and settled in. The insides of my thighs pressed against his hips, and my chest rested against his back. He explained to me about leaning when he turned the bike left or right. He pointed to his belt loops, the two above his hips. “Hold on to those when we’re moving,” he said. Then he showed me the rear footrests I should use.
He raised the kickstand and we balanced the bike with our legs. He turned the key in the ignition and the engine sputtered to life. He revved the motor. My mother and sister stood with their arms crossed under their breasts, watching us. Dan raised a hand to them and waved. I did the same, then Dan shifted gears, accelerated, and we slid from the driveway like a raindrop rolling off a windshield.
Riding a motorcycle is not like traveling in an automobile. A car insulates its occupants from the outside world while a motorcycle shoves reality into a rider’s face. A motorcycle driver confronts the world’s sights and sounds and smells, the road’s dips and curves and potholes. If the air’s chilly, he’s chilly. If rain falls, he gets wet. A car affords shelter, a motorcycle none, only speed, noise, and the rush of air.
Traffic was light on New Year’s Day when Dan took us north on Highway 19. We pretty much had the road to ourselves. I held on to Dan’s belt loops. My body pressed against his and I rested my chin on his shoulder. I felt exhilarated and reckless with this physical contact at forty-five miles per hour. At stoplights, passengers in cars stared at us as we balanced the bike with our legs and I rested a hand on Dan’s shoulder. The motorcycle legitimized our public intimacy, and I’m sure no one suspected just how sexually charged it was for me.
We stopped at a burger joint, one of the few places open for business that day, and I paid for cheeseburgers, fries, and colas with the money my mother had given me. I’d never eaten a meal out with a non-family member before, and I was proud to be Dan’s companion, feeling very grown-up. We sat in a booth with our helmets beside us on the benches. Sunlight poured into the room through plate glass windows, highlighting patches of blond stubble on Dan’s jaw. As we ate, he talked to me about Philadelphia, about South Street and its nightlife, about the Phillies and the Eagles, about snow and ice and endless winters. About crime and juvenile gangs and fights he’d gotten into at school. It sounded edgy and fun to me, a true contrast to central Florida and its retirees and orange groves.
He asked about fistfights at my school. Had I been slugged? Had I thrown a punch or two? I told Dan I hadn’t, but I mentioned Gus Andriakas and his situation. I described his plethora of shiners and swollen lips.
“Your friend needs a lesson in technique,” Dan said. “Throwing a punch is not all fighting’s about. It involves foot and shoulder movement, positioning your hands. It’s as much about defense as offense.”
I nodded like I knew what Dan meant.
“Tell your friend to come to the house next Saturday, in the afternoon. I’ll teach him a few things.”
After we finished our meal, we smoked in the parking lot while Dan explained basics of motorcycle operation: the throttle, gear pedal, clutch grip, brake action. The cigarette made me light-headed, and I found it hard to concentrate. “Am I going to drive today? I don’t have a license.”
Dan shrugged. “We’ll be off-road, in the woods. You don’t need a license for that.”
My pulse raced. “What if I crash into something?”
Dan grinned. “You won’t. We’ll take it slow.”
North of Clearwater, the housing developments and shopping centers thinned out, making way for cattle ranches and citrus groves. Dan turned on to a county road that led to a wooded area. We slowed to a crawl, then left the pavement and bounced along the road shoulder till we reached a dirt path leading into the woods, about six feet wide. It took us into a forest of long-leaf pines and live oaks, slash pines, clumps of saw palmetto and turkey oaks.
The path was bumpy, and the land rolled, and the ride was rough compared to the paved roads we’d traveled earlier. I tightened my grip on Dan’s belt loops, fearing I might get jolted from the seat. Dan turned his head and shouted over the engine’s growl. “Put your arms around my waist and lock your hands together.”
I did as he said, and my wrists pressed against Dan’s flat belly, just above his belt buckle. My pulse pounded in my head, my dick stiffened, and I thought:
Is this what sex between two people is like? This physical closeness? This movement? This warmth
? Dan inhaled and exhaled, his body in motion against my hands. My nose nudged his neck and I smelled his hair.
Is this what sex between two people is like? This physical closeness? This movement? This warmth
? Dan inhaled and exhaled, his body in motion against my hands. My nose nudged his neck and I smelled his hair.
The sun shone from its apex in a cloudless sky. Some trees stood forty or fifty feet tall, casting long shadows as we passed. Dan pointed to the top of one long-leaf pine, to a bald eagle’s nest big as a moving van tire, constructed from sticks and tree branches. A male eagle stood guard on a nearby limb. His curved beak was pumpkin orange and his black feathers reflected sunlight. His white head swiveled, focusing on me and Dan and the motorcycle.
We reached a clearing the size of a tennis court. Dan braked, killed the engine, and we dropped our feet to the ground. Dan lowered the kickstand. “Hop off.”
I didn’t want to let go of Dan’s waist, but I did as he’d said; I slid from the seat, and it felt odd to stand on solid ground, after all the bouncing. Dan swung his leg over the Honda’s handlebars, removed his helmet, and hung it by the chinstrap from a handgrip. I took my helmet off too, placing it on the seat. Dan pulled a comb from his pocket and stared into the Honda’s rear-view mirror while he rearranged his hair.
The woods were strangely quiet, now that the motorcycle wasn’t sputtering. Birds tweeted and a squirrel barked from a live oak’s limb. I followed Dan to the clearing’s edge and we peed, side by side. I stared at Dan’s penis, at the golden arc of urine streaming from the glans, fixing the vision in my mind.
After we wiped our hands on our pants, Dan tapped two cigarettes from his pack and handed me one. He lit mine first with his Zippo, then his. We squatted in the sand, next to the Honda, smoking in silence for a while.
Dan said, “Your friend, the Greek kid. What’s his name?”
“Gus.”
“You think he’s gay?”
“Gay? What do you mean?”
“Is he homosexual? Up north, in Philly, we use the word
gay,
not
queer.
”
gay,
not
queer.
”
I said I didn’t think Gus liked boys.
“Sometimes it’s hard to tell,” Dan said. “My cousin, Richie, is gay, but you’d never know it. He plays ball and that sort of thing.”
I drew on my cigarette and tapped the ash. “I don’t think I’ve met anyone gay before.”
Dan raised his shoulders, then let them drop. “It’s nothing to fear. My cousin’s okay, he’s just different.”
“He doesn’t get beat up?”
Dan grinned and shook his head. Then he rose. Extending his hand, he pulled me to my feet. “Come on,” he said, “it’s time you learned how to ride my bike.”
We didn’t return home till nearly dark, and by then I’d pretty well mastered operation of Dan’s Honda: shifting gears, how to turn, smooth acceleration, braking. I drove dirt paths through the woods, alone or with Dan on the seat behind me. I crashed only once, when I took a curve where the sand was loose-packed. I was alone when this happened. The Honda’s rear wheel lost traction, it went into a skid, and the bike fell onto its side (and on me), bruising my leg from ankle to hip. I walked with a limp for several days after, but I didn’t mind. I was almost proud of the pain.
That night, over dinner with our family, Dan proclaimed me a “quick study.” I regaled my mother with my driving feats while my sister sat next to Dan with a bored expression. My spirits had never been so high. I was effervescent—until Dan rose from his chair. It was getting late and tomorrow we had school.
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