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jawnbcWhen I was 18 and full of piss and vinegar, the door to My Life stood before me. I was about to go away to university college. I was gonna live my life on my terms. I was gonna come out.
I was gonna. But I didn't.
Instead the fear (of losing family, of being a social pariah, of being a pathetic little faggot) won. I went away to college (but not far), lived life on my own terms (by not going to classes), and almost entirely didn't come out. Meaning I found a local cruisy toilet and got my groove on. I also took the train or bus into Manhattan at least once a week, wandered around, outside "gay things" advertised in the Village Voice (porn theatres, gay bars), and felt my soul ripped in two. In two.
Having lost it, having disappointed my family ("you're the only one in this family I think might make anything of themself" Da told me a week before I left for school), having betrayed myself, I found myself in my parents' house, in my old bedroom, snorting amyl as I wanked off, too depressed to even go out and find someone to tug on my big thick 19 year-old cock on my behalf. Then I realized that I was an eejit, that I had to make another escape, and I'd just have to put all that queer shit aside. Well, I could still fuck guys, but any illusions about, like, treating them like real people, forget it. Too much. And so I found a Not Hideous State College to take me as a transfer student (yay SATs!), and moved to East Bumfuck NY 13126.
And for about a year, all went according to plan--better, even. I went to about half my classes...and still got decent grades. I found living in residence a lot of fun; I mean, there was always someone to drink with (I kinda liked to drink every day, quite a lot really), and with 10 floors in my residence hall it was gonna take a long, long time for everyone to really find out what a monster I was. Until then...I did some schoolwork, worked a lot(2 or 3 jobs) to pay for it all myself (knowing that Da would cut off any cocksucker son of his). I even found several posses of people to hang around (rather than with): everyone was, to some extent, kept at arm's lengt). Of course, a couple of times each year I'd be crippled with unrelenting, screaming-in-the-ears depression. But doesn't everyone go through that? Everyone who's a 20 year-old fucked up closet case?
AtNot Hideous State, like many colleges, the Library 'loo was where the "no frills" action was to be found, on one floor in particular. Most evenings (after the dining hall stopped the carb cram) we cocksuckers would make our way to said toilets. Sometimes it was quick, under-the-stall-type stuff. Some guys had student offices in the Libes available and would take their trade there. Rarely, but on occasion, something really special (a great throat, a nice cock) could lure a mess like me to their off-campus abode. Which is what Mark did.
Mark was a year older and an Industrial Arts Education major, who had just completed his teaching practicum. He was all lumberjacky in his flannel shirt, jeans and boots, and had a moustache [ Hideous State was kinda notorious for its moustache men, yay!]. He lived in a very un-studentlike one bedroom apartment in town, which, aside from a 19 step climb, was easily the nicest apartment I'd ever been in. After shagging a couple of times Mark tried to sell me on this whole "coming out" business. He wanted me to come to Syracuse with him to a gay bar. He want me to meet some of the localtownie non-student gays. He felt, as a somewhat older, more mature, more at ease cocksucker, that I was selling myself short--that being a gay man was a good thing, and there were lots of caring, sharing people--like him--ready to help me find my way to feeling like that about myself. As if there was anything wrong with the way I felt about myself...
I believed none of it. And fell in love with him anyway.
Due to my near-miss first year of college, I was a bit behind the 8-ball, in terms of academic progress; if I wanted to graduate "on-time" (the month and year I would have graduated had I not stuffed up my first year), I would need to make up nearly a year's worth of courses That meant taking 6 courses 3 semesters in a row, plus 5 over one summer and 1 over winter session. For a lot of my peers, particular the "downstate" ones from the NYC area, the prospect of a month of -30C with as much as 1m of snow in any 24 hour period was hideous. I was quite enjoying East Bumfuck (not merely for the buttfucking, though I must clarify I banged, not ever vice versa. Back then), and the idea of staying there over breaks was Fine By Me. I booked in for a winter session class in January, made arrangement to stay with Mark, and was all excited. I started to wistfully look forward to all day seminars, then walking home in the snow and climbing the 19 steps to dinner with my non-boyfriend. 5 weeks to go, then 4 weeks, 3 weeks, then...
...Mark dumped me. He said I was too clingy, too full on. And I was. I was gutted: I remember taking the bus across town (to where most students who lived off-campus lived) to my friend Kathy's house, where I cried for hours. On top heartbreak, I was also stuffed for winter session: I couldn't afford the heating bills for any of my other friends' off-campus digs, and there was no on-campus housing for the January session. About a week before Xmas break, Mark and negotiated that I would stay as his guest for January.
So instead of happily trotting up those 19 steps, most days I trudged. Will he be surly towards me today? Will he be speaking to me at all? Will he have trade over? I stayed away as much as I could, even going to the Library to study. By the time I got through the first week, I had no illusions about Mark. Even so, it was clear that his spiel about providing support and friendship--offered before we even fucked for the first time--was just that, a spiel. Which I think he believed, in the moment he offered those things to me: but the person he thought he was wasn't the person he was.
The seminar, thankfully, was perhaps the best course I did at Not Hideous State. It was taught by Dr. Smith, the gayest non-gay man I've ever met. He shrieked when he lectured! He used the F word (faaaabulous) liberally. And his teaching style was fast-paced, engaging and critical: he inspired us to do the work, above and beyond. And for the first time in a couple of years, when someone told me I was clever, I sort of believed it. A year later, the night before graduation, Dr. Smith and I danced on top of a dumpster down on Water Street, cajolling a crowd of students into singing "Na na na hey hey good-bye." A dozen years later, when I wanted to go back to grad skool, I sent a what-the-heck-can't-hurt-to-ask email to Dr. Smith asking for a reference. "Of course John, with pleasure! Do you still have those two cashmere turtlenecks I gave you?" I'd completely forgotten about those--baby's first (and still only) cashmere!
On the day the dorms opened late in January, I walked down the 19 steps for the last time. By then Mark and I were cordial, but neither entertained any illusions of being friends. We had, as a couple of 20-something queers mindfucked by homophobia and hetersexism, moved too quickly, erratically, and without proper communication. There was never a chance. A mere 6 months later I would see Mark (his best friend was Kathy's housemate; now John was gorgeous!) on occasion and we were friendly--even though I heard he was spreading some nasty rumours about me among the local queers. Aside from somewhat impeding my chance to get any play, it didn't bother me.
I didn't hate myself as much by then. From where I sit now, the distance from self-loathing to self disdain seems rather narrow. But back then it was enough to keep me on my feet for a while longer . . .
I was gonna. But I didn't.
Instead the fear (of losing family, of being a social pariah, of being a pathetic little faggot) won. I went away to college (but not far), lived life on my own terms (by not going to classes), and almost entirely didn't come out. Meaning I found a local cruisy toilet and got my groove on. I also took the train or bus into Manhattan at least once a week, wandered around, outside "gay things" advertised in the Village Voice (porn theatres, gay bars), and felt my soul ripped in two. In two.
Having lost it, having disappointed my family ("you're the only one in this family I think might make anything of themself" Da told me a week before I left for school), having betrayed myself, I found myself in my parents' house, in my old bedroom, snorting amyl as I wanked off, too depressed to even go out and find someone to tug on my big thick 19 year-old cock on my behalf. Then I realized that I was an eejit, that I had to make another escape, and I'd just have to put all that queer shit aside. Well, I could still fuck guys, but any illusions about, like, treating them like real people, forget it. Too much. And so I found a Not Hideous State College to take me as a transfer student (yay SATs!), and moved to East Bumfuck NY 13126.
And for about a year, all went according to plan--better, even. I went to about half my classes...and still got decent grades. I found living in residence a lot of fun; I mean, there was always someone to drink with (I kinda liked to drink every day, quite a lot really), and with 10 floors in my residence hall it was gonna take a long, long time for everyone to really find out what a monster I was. Until then...I did some schoolwork, worked a lot(2 or 3 jobs) to pay for it all myself (knowing that Da would cut off any cocksucker son of his). I even found several posses of people to hang around (rather than with): everyone was, to some extent, kept at arm's lengt). Of course, a couple of times each year I'd be crippled with unrelenting, screaming-in-the-ears depression. But doesn't everyone go through that? Everyone who's a 20 year-old fucked up closet case?
AtNot Hideous State, like many colleges, the Library 'loo was where the "no frills" action was to be found, on one floor in particular. Most evenings (after the dining hall stopped the carb cram) we cocksuckers would make our way to said toilets. Sometimes it was quick, under-the-stall-type stuff. Some guys had student offices in the Libes available and would take their trade there. Rarely, but on occasion, something really special (a great throat, a nice cock) could lure a mess like me to their off-campus abode. Which is what Mark did.
Mark was a year older and an Industrial Arts Education major, who had just completed his teaching practicum. He was all lumberjacky in his flannel shirt, jeans and boots, and had a moustache [ Hideous State was kinda notorious for its moustache men, yay!]. He lived in a very un-studentlike one bedroom apartment in town, which, aside from a 19 step climb, was easily the nicest apartment I'd ever been in. After shagging a couple of times Mark tried to sell me on this whole "coming out" business. He wanted me to come to Syracuse with him to a gay bar. He want me to meet some of the local
I believed none of it. And fell in love with him anyway.
Due to my near-miss first year of college, I was a bit behind the 8-ball, in terms of academic progress; if I wanted to graduate "on-time" (the month and year I would have graduated had I not stuffed up my first year), I would need to make up nearly a year's worth of courses That meant taking 6 courses 3 semesters in a row, plus 5 over one summer and 1 over winter session. For a lot of my peers, particular the "downstate" ones from the NYC area, the prospect of a month of -30C with as much as 1m of snow in any 24 hour period was hideous. I was quite enjoying East Bumfuck (not merely for the buttfucking, though I must clarify I banged, not ever vice versa. Back then), and the idea of staying there over breaks was Fine By Me. I booked in for a winter session class in January, made arrangement to stay with Mark, and was all excited. I started to wistfully look forward to all day seminars, then walking home in the snow and climbing the 19 steps to dinner with my non-boyfriend. 5 weeks to go, then 4 weeks, 3 weeks, then...
...Mark dumped me. He said I was too clingy, too full on. And I was. I was gutted: I remember taking the bus across town (to where most students who lived off-campus lived) to my friend Kathy's house, where I cried for hours. On top heartbreak, I was also stuffed for winter session: I couldn't afford the heating bills for any of my other friends' off-campus digs, and there was no on-campus housing for the January session. About a week before Xmas break, Mark and negotiated that I would stay as his guest for January.
So instead of happily trotting up those 19 steps, most days I trudged. Will he be surly towards me today? Will he be speaking to me at all? Will he have trade over? I stayed away as much as I could, even going to the Library to study. By the time I got through the first week, I had no illusions about Mark. Even so, it was clear that his spiel about providing support and friendship--offered before we even fucked for the first time--was just that, a spiel. Which I think he believed, in the moment he offered those things to me: but the person he thought he was wasn't the person he was.
The seminar, thankfully, was perhaps the best course I did at Not Hideous State. It was taught by Dr. Smith, the gayest non-gay man I've ever met. He shrieked when he lectured! He used the F word (faaaabulous) liberally. And his teaching style was fast-paced, engaging and critical: he inspired us to do the work, above and beyond. And for the first time in a couple of years, when someone told me I was clever, I sort of believed it. A year later, the night before graduation, Dr. Smith and I danced on top of a dumpster down on Water Street, cajolling a crowd of students into singing "Na na na hey hey good-bye." A dozen years later, when I wanted to go back to grad skool, I sent a what-the-heck-can't-hurt-to-ask email to Dr. Smith asking for a reference. "Of course John, with pleasure! Do you still have those two cashmere turtlenecks I gave you?" I'd completely forgotten about those--baby's first (and still only) cashmere!
On the day the dorms opened late in January, I walked down the 19 steps for the last time. By then Mark and I were cordial, but neither entertained any illusions of being friends. We had, as a couple of 20-something queers mindfucked by homophobia and hetersexism, moved too quickly, erratically, and without proper communication. There was never a chance. A mere 6 months later I would see Mark (his best friend was Kathy's housemate; now John was gorgeous!) on occasion and we were friendly--even though I heard he was spreading some nasty rumours about me among the local queers. Aside from somewhat impeding my chance to get any play, it didn't bother me.
I didn't hate myself as much by then. From where I sit now, the distance from self-loathing to self disdain seems rather narrow. But back then it was enough to keep me on my feet for a while longer . . .
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no subject
Date: 2005-05-02 06:14 am (UTC)It reminded me of when I moved to SF to go to SFSU. (but without the gay sex...YEAH RIGHT)
no subject
Date: 2005-05-02 08:00 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-05-02 08:17 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-05-02 10:20 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-05-02 12:27 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-05-02 02:03 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-05-02 03:29 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-05-02 11:15 pm (UTC)Bless you, sir for sharing this
Date: 2005-05-03 04:50 am (UTC)Makes me wonder again, tho if I'd be still alive if I'd come out during college...
Re: Bless you, sir for sharing this
Date: 2005-05-03 05:14 am (UTC)I thought "why do phags need to use condoms? Who's gonna get knocked up?" Had I been bottoming Bob I'd probably be dead (Bob died in 2001 I think).
no subject
Date: 2005-05-04 12:03 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-05-13 10:53 pm (UTC)