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Sep. 16th, 2011 10:52 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
jawnbcGenerally, if you're horribly depressed, struggling with your sexuality, and you have a tendency to drink a wee too much...probably not a good idea to try mushrooms. On the night before St. Patrick's Day.
It was 1984, I had transferred up to Oswego after melting down at Rutgers. For the most part I felt like I landed back on my fieet during Fall term: I made it to more classes, didn't fail any, and the best of my Egan self meant I was the life of the party. At a time when most of my peers felt compelled to avoid the pejorative "dorm bunny" label (all the kewl kids moved off-campus), I donned my ears with pride. I connected with girls more easly than guys (nothing new there), but was also bonding with some of the guys on my quad too.
But for some reason, after Christmas break I quickly tumbled into bleakness. My usual ways of coping--drinking more, finding a scapegoat (though that wasn't conscious: I was only aware of the pattern years later, and I'm not proud of myself)--were helping me keep my head above water, but only just. Not having any money, save the minimum wage I earned being "the Sunday morning janitor", didn't help either. Nothing new, but didn't help. Even my usual pressure-releasing sluttiness--for which ther was plenty of action when I could muster the energy to go git some--fell by the wayside after the holidays.
Da did an excellent job with his drugs are whack™ education: I avoided drugs. Well, except for alcohol. Or if someone offered me a hit of a joint. Or a line or 10. But only because it made sex hawter (weed), helped me sleep (weed), or allowed me to stay up longer to drink more (coke). So when the lads next door would encourage me to join them when they "tripped" I just said no.
Until the night I said "fuck it." So off we went to these guys' pals who lived off-campus. We had started with beers back in the dorm, so I was lubricated enough to get in the car with 'em. I had met one of their friends earlier; turns out the other guy was someone I'd been fucking on a NSA basis in the fall. AWKWARD! We look at each other and I'm sure he too was thinking "maybe hallucinogens aren't such a good idea with this guy." My next thought? Fuck it. So we gobbled down our shares of tthe 'shrooms" and headed downtown.
After an hour at our regular haunt on Water Street, the drugs started to work. That much I remember. Oh and hte laughing. And then a suggestion that we go to a "theatre party" up the street. Oswego State in the 1980s wasn't exactly a hotbed of social progress. Most folks I socailized with were, like me, little Republican fucktards. For us, going to a theatre party was a big fucking deal.
All I remember is: 1.) we had to climb a steep flight of stairs to get to the apartment, and 2.) shoving my tongue down the throat of the guy who'd just played the lead in "Hedda Gabler". And no, not Hedda. Next thing it was morning, and dude wanted another round. So I do remember the second time we had sex, sort of. Then I panicked, started gathering my clothes, and headed out.
As I did, I realized that I had started yesterday at Broadwell's for morning beers for St Patrick's Day. And was dressed the part: green corduroy chinos, green turtleneck, and large Irish sweater. Oh and my tam. Suffice to say I stood out on the streets of Oswego that morning. At least it was early Sunday morning and the bus came quickly. Unfortunately one of the girls for the dorm was on her way back to campus after an early shopping trip.
The guys never said anything, but they must've seen me sucking face with the other dude. We did drift apart by the time junior year started--probably not because I was queer. Over the next 2 years I slowly came out more. I had my first boyfriend, and got my heart broken. I started to speak to other queers in public. And I stopped fucking up girls' heads by dating them when I was really only capable of falling in love with a man.
I still dress like an eejit for St Pat's. And I still love boys (one in particular). The rest I've ditched though.
It was 1984, I had transferred up to Oswego after melting down at Rutgers. For the most part I felt like I landed back on my fieet during Fall term: I made it to more classes, didn't fail any, and the best of my Egan self meant I was the life of the party. At a time when most of my peers felt compelled to avoid the pejorative "dorm bunny" label (all the kewl kids moved off-campus), I donned my ears with pride. I connected with girls more easly than guys (nothing new there), but was also bonding with some of the guys on my quad too.
But for some reason, after Christmas break I quickly tumbled into bleakness. My usual ways of coping--drinking more, finding a scapegoat (though that wasn't conscious: I was only aware of the pattern years later, and I'm not proud of myself)--were helping me keep my head above water, but only just. Not having any money, save the minimum wage I earned being "the Sunday morning janitor", didn't help either. Nothing new, but didn't help. Even my usual pressure-releasing sluttiness--for which ther was plenty of action when I could muster the energy to go git some--fell by the wayside after the holidays.
Da did an excellent job with his drugs are whack™ education: I avoided drugs. Well, except for alcohol. Or if someone offered me a hit of a joint. Or a line or 10. But only because it made sex hawter (weed), helped me sleep (weed), or allowed me to stay up longer to drink more (coke). So when the lads next door would encourage me to join them when they "tripped" I just said no.
Until the night I said "fuck it." So off we went to these guys' pals who lived off-campus. We had started with beers back in the dorm, so I was lubricated enough to get in the car with 'em. I had met one of their friends earlier; turns out the other guy was someone I'd been fucking on a NSA basis in the fall. AWKWARD! We look at each other and I'm sure he too was thinking "maybe hallucinogens aren't such a good idea with this guy." My next thought? Fuck it. So we gobbled down our shares of tthe 'shrooms" and headed downtown.
After an hour at our regular haunt on Water Street, the drugs started to work. That much I remember. Oh and hte laughing. And then a suggestion that we go to a "theatre party" up the street. Oswego State in the 1980s wasn't exactly a hotbed of social progress. Most folks I socailized with were, like me, little Republican fucktards. For us, going to a theatre party was a big fucking deal.
All I remember is: 1.) we had to climb a steep flight of stairs to get to the apartment, and 2.) shoving my tongue down the throat of the guy who'd just played the lead in "Hedda Gabler". And no, not Hedda. Next thing it was morning, and dude wanted another round. So I do remember the second time we had sex, sort of. Then I panicked, started gathering my clothes, and headed out.
As I did, I realized that I had started yesterday at Broadwell's for morning beers for St Patrick's Day. And was dressed the part: green corduroy chinos, green turtleneck, and large Irish sweater. Oh and my tam. Suffice to say I stood out on the streets of Oswego that morning. At least it was early Sunday morning and the bus came quickly. Unfortunately one of the girls for the dorm was on her way back to campus after an early shopping trip.
The guys never said anything, but they must've seen me sucking face with the other dude. We did drift apart by the time junior year started--probably not because I was queer. Over the next 2 years I slowly came out more. I had my first boyfriend, and got my heart broken. I started to speak to other queers in public. And I stopped fucking up girls' heads by dating them when I was really only capable of falling in love with a man.
I still dress like an eejit for St Pat's. And I still love boys (one in particular). The rest I've ditched though.
