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The Boy in Makeup

By: DavidPatrick



Chapter One

Like the men who made suicide is in my genes. The temptation was too great for my great-grandfather, my grandfather, and my father, having lured all three to the other side.

Theories abound as to why. No one knows for sure. I think it's because there was too much dissonance between who they really were and who they pretended to be. We all pretend, but some of us pretend way more than others. Sometimes, the pretending overwhelms, and it seems there's only one way out. 

I loathe pretense. I try not to pretend. I'm afraid it will kill me. 

Not pretending is hard, especially in the closed, small town of Paris, Illinois, my hometown. Unlike the real Paris, my Paris had fewer than 10,000 souls, almost none of them authentic, at least not publicly. I guess no one ever really knows what's going on behind closed doors. Publicly, everyone seemed to look and think alike. There were few outliers, and they fled to Chicago or Indianapolis as soon as they could. Those who remained were minor variations on the same general theme.

They went to the same church, the same diner, and the same store. They drove the same make and model of cars. They voted for the same Republican candidates. They gossiped about liberals. They loved their God and their guns. They hated gays. And every other different thing.

It was stifling. I wanted to sing while everyone else sat silent. I wanted to run while everyone else sat still.

I have always bucked strictures. For as long as I can remember, I have hated shoes. I was and am barefoot whenever I can be. When I was at St. Mary's, I'd remove my shoes to walk to school, put them back on when I got to school, and take them off again as soon as the final bell rang. I was the same at Paris High School.

I also hated haircuts. I was a toe headed little boy, and I wore my hair long. I got the first haircut I remember because my grandfather insisted I get a "boy's haircut" for school. From past my shoulders, my hair got clipped above my ears. I freaked and insisted I wanted my hair "cut back long again." I was too young to know it was impossible. When I was at home, I wore one of my mother's wigs. When I was at school, I wore a stocking cap until the nuns insisted I remove it. I was ashamed of my short hair. It was the same as everyone else's.

In our case, it was true that deaths came in threes. Just before I was born, my great-grandfather shot himself. When I was 7, my grandfather hanged himself. When I was 9, my father closed the garage door, ran a hose from the exhaust pipe of our Pontiac Catalina, turned the car to auto, and listened to "Don't it make my brown eyes blue" as he fell asleep and drifted away. I found him, moments too late. Crystal Gayle was still singing as I coughed and cried and rocked and cried.

My father's suicide left me and my mother alone. She had been a young bride, so she was a widow before she was thirty. As I look back, I am alarmed at how young she was. 

My father's suicide also left us indebted. We moved into a shabby, one bedroom apartment on the edge of town. The complex was all elderly but us. The living room doubled as my bedroom.

My mother (Carol) had never worked. She had married the high school quarterback just after graduation and had almost immediately gotten pregnant with me. They had waited until they were married. They were married because they couldn't wait anymore.

My mother stayed home while my father worked the line. She had hated what being pregnant did to her body and vowed never to do it again.

My mother was, as they said then, a real looker. She had full, wavy auburn hair that she wore up, sometimes teased. She had long lashes that she coated with mascara. Her lashes framed large, oval and ethereal green eyes that were slightly higher on the outside than the inside, just like Barbara Eden's. She had a button nose just above full, red lips. 

She was also built. Her breasts were large and round. Her hips were narrow. Her butt and thighs were full, but not big.

I loved everything about her. When I wore her wig, I imagined I was her. She should have been a movie star, not a widow.

She learned to do hair and makeup and started working at the beauty shop. Women around town went to her, hoping they'd wind up looking like her. Once she was finished remaking them, they ostracized her. The women who had been friends with her while she was married now kept her at bay and treated her as a threat. 

I became her only friend and her faithful muse. She practiced her craft on me. Nightly, she styled her wig on my head, and applied makeup to my face, trying this or that new color combination, style, or technique. 

I loved the way she transformed me. I loved the way her mascara felt on my eyes, and the way her lipstick felt on my lips. I loved feeling and looking beautiful.

When she was finished with me, she'd work herself over. Then, we'd dance in front of the mirror and pretend we were really in Paris, living a life of glamour and interest. We used pillow cases for scarves and called each other French names, Yvette for her, Delphine for me. 

Obviously, our relationship was not a traditional one. When my father died, my mother and I became best friends. She treated me more as a confidant and a peer than as a child. I knew the coldness and two-facedness of her former friends wounded her. I also knew she lived in constant fear I'd be the fourth Akers to cash in my chips. The urge was strong. Sometimes, it overwhelmed me. I always wondered, in those moments, what I'd have done if the means had been at hand. 

With my father's death, I had to leave St. Mary's grade school. We couldn't afford to tithe, and if you didn't tithe, you had to pay tuition. We couldn't afford that, either. 

The move didn't bother me. The strict Catholic dress code meant my hair could not be below the collar on my shirt or the tragus of my ear. I also didn't care for the nuns or the smallness of St. Mary's. I felt they were judging me and my mother. They acted like she was a divorcee, not a widow. They acted like I was a bastard, not a child struggling with a parent's suicide. They buried their mercy under condescension and judgment.

It was also a church and a school filled with pretension. On Sunday, everyone dressed up and pretended to be pious. In between, they made a mockery of the seven deadly sins and the Ten Commandments, in equal measure.

During the week, we were taught acceptance and mercy. We showed each other none of it. We were cliquish and judgmental. When Chris Goellner's parents got divorced, we stopped playing with him. He was 10, and we cast him out. For nothing he had done. His parents divorced, so he was damned. 

Paris's public middle school was not ready for me. I stopped cutting my hair. My mother and I did my makeup before I left every morning. It was not over the top (a little eyeliner and mascara, a little lip liner and color), but it was enough. It was the 80s, and males didn't wear makeup unless they were Boy George, Sid, or Robert Smith.

I was the only boy in makeup. I was the only boy with his long hair pulled back and rubber banded in a nub on the back of my head. I was the only boy not in corduroys, plaid shirts, and earth shoes. In my mind, I was the only boy not pretending.

I realize now how arrogant I was. We all pretend. I pretended my classmates didn't bother me. I pretended I didn't hear them, didn't see them, didn't mind them. I pretended I didn't need or want friends. I pretended.

Chapter Two

I could have tried harder to fit in. But, it was not my nature. I'd have had to pretend I was something I wasn't. And, pretending brought the tunnels.

I was also stubborn and willful. I wanted to be the lemming in the Far Side with the inner tube around my waist. I wanted to listen to the Cure, Depeche Mode, and the Smiths, not whatever Casey Kasem was peddling. I wanted to read Jack Kerouac and Hunter S. Thompson, not V.C. Andrews. I wanted to be Holden Caulfield, not Holden on Days of our Lives.

I had two middle school friends. One was Lori, a large girl who was bawdy and bold and - after a lifetime of teasing for being big - strong as an ox. She didn't shrink when they came at her. She pushed back. Hard. I wished for her strength. I just didn't have it. I was strong enough to be different, but not strong enough not to get stung by the insults and invectives my differences occasioned.

My other friend was, of course, my mother. She encouraged my flights of fancy. She liked playing with me. But, she also feared what stifling me might do. She hawked me, especially when things seemed hard for me, or when the pressure to conform seemed too great.

Non-conformity exposed me in ways both small and large. As for the small, it was common for my books to be knocked out of my hands, my feet to be kicked out from under me, and for "faggot" to be coughed behind me or scribbled across my locker.

They were right, but they didn't know it. "Faggot" didn't just mean gay in our Paris. It was broader, and it included all things different. If you were straight and liked art, you were a faggot. If you were straight and eschewed sports, you were a faggot. If you were homosexual, as I certainly was, it definitely applied. 

As for the large, I was tackled and kicked as I walked home more than once. I developed a sixth sense. I could feel people behind me. Not long after I started high school, I heard steps behind me. I prayed they were not what I knew they were. And, I never prayed. I went to church with my mother, but I was an atheist. Because I was rational.

I quickened my steps. Whoever was behind me quickened their steps.

I knew I had no chance. I turned around to confront whoever intended to confront me.

There were three of them, all in wool masks. They were Seniors (the year on their letter jackets ratted on them), and they were big. 

"Hey, Faggot," one of them called out. "Nice makeup."

"Thank you, I work with what I've got," I offered back, weakly, but trying to be funny.

They spread out around me. I was not sure what was coming, but I knew I couldn't stop whatever it was. Before I could act, they did. I was on my back on the ground, a forearm to my throat.

"If you're going to use an eyebrow pencil," one of them insisted, "you may as well use an eyebrow pencil." With a cheap Bic razor, he took my right eyebrow and then my left. He cut my left brow as he did. It left a scar that I learned to love when my eyebrow returned.

I was disappointed they were not finished. I shook my head back and forth, only to have a foot placed on each side, holding me in a vice. The one who had shaved my eyebrows had a tiny pair scissors. He insisted I hold still. I didn't want to, but I couldn't move. I also didn't want those scissors in either of my eyes. I was helpless as he cut my eyelashes off. As he did, he hissed "what are you going to put mascara on now, you little faggot?" I wanted to respond "whatever I have left," but I decided discretion was in order. I said nothing. I choked back tears of rage.

When they were finished, they took off back toward school. I tried to reclaim my dignity, which was shattered and scattered around me. I surely missed some of it, ground into the grass.

When I got home, I stared in the mirror. I could not have imagined that eyebrows were so significant to a person's appearance. Without them, I looked like a freak.

As I stared, desperation replaced my rage. I felt like I was walking through a series of tunnels, each successive one more narrow than the one before. I closed my eyes and held the sink as I got stuck in the last tunnel, my arms pinned to my sides and my body a plug that sealed off the light. In that moment, it would have been so easy for me to stop pretending I was stronger than I was, to climb into the tub, to make quick cuts on my wrists and feet, and to slowly drift away. 

The image of my mother finding me jarred me loose. I had found my father. I couldn't have her find me. I couldn't do that to her. I felt the walls recede and free me. I opened my eyes, let go of the sink, and ran a bath.

The persecution was hard on me. I cried myself to sleep many nights, wondering if I shouldn't just conform and spare myself the daily indignities I otherwise endured. I could not decoct which was worse, abuse or obeisance.

Every time I had to, I chose abuse. Obeisance, conformity, being one of many somehow seemed worse than abuse to me, intellectually. At least on my path, I could take some comfort in being authentic, not sublimating who I was to appease others. 

It was harder on my mother than it was on me. She ached for me. And feared for me. She'd have really been afraid if knew about the tunnels or the other thoughts that plagued me.

That night, she insisted I report the boys. I assured her I could not, as they had worn masks.

It would also only make things worse. It was one thing to be different. It was another to be different and a narc. Rather than tattle, I chose an eyebrow pencil and fake eyelashes.

My teachers provided no refuge, in any event. The only exception was Michael Kamler, the 27 year old Physics teacher who had moved over from the Catholic High School. Fresh out of graduate school, he didn't earn much, so he and another new teacher - a female - moved in together, to economize. The Catholics objected to opposite sexes living together, even platonically. When Mr. Kamler and Ms. Ostein refused to relent, the Catholics fired them both. PHS snapped them up; before Mr. Kamler, the football coach taught Physics, a subject he could not spell, much less teach.

In my mind, Mr. Kamler was the inspiration for the Police's "Don't Stand So Close To Me." He was a young teacher, and he was certainly the object of this school boy's fantasy. He had unkempt, curly brown hair. His glasses tried to hide bright blue eyes, but they failed. He had a permanent five o'clock shadow. He had thick, red lips, and bright white teeth. He had played soccer and coached the JV soccer team. His legs and butt showed it.

Mr. Kamler was almost certainly straight. But, he was also a rare bird in Paris, a liberal. He was in favor of affirmative action. And gay rights. And, horror of horrors, aid to the less fortunate.

The rest of the faculty teased him. I adored him. Whenever I could, I visited his classroom, just to have someone to talk to who did not think everyone else was right and anything different was wrong. He never encouraged me to conform. He urged me to be who I was. But, he also cautioned me that staying true to myself brought certain risks. Principles, he assured me, were not for the faint of heart.

When I showed up to school after the assault, the Administration looked past me. I was invisible to them. They cared not why my eyebrows and eyelashes were gone. They likely wish I was, too.

The students laughed and whispered behind my back, but no one asked me what had happened. Except Lori. She was horrified. She wanted us to attack each and every Senior boy, surreptitiously. Her motto was "To err is human, to avenge is divine. Fuck forgiveness."

There were 43 boys. Only 17 wore letterman jackets. We identified their cars. During the next assembly, we ducked out, grabbed the water balloons we had stored in a box behind the dumpster, and emptied two into 17 different gas tanks. We were indiscriminate and over-inclusive, but it was the era of Reagan, and he preached disproportionate response. We returned to the assembly Reaganites. And vandals. And exhilarated. 

Chapter Three

Before my Sophomore year, I pierced both of my ears, inspired by George Michael of Wham. I didn't like his music, but I sure liked him. Lori went with me. She promised it wouldn't hurt. She lied. It killed.

On our first day back at PHS, I had gym with Coach Berkman, a close minded jarhead who took great pride in being a self-proclaimed "man's man," a reference I have never understood. It is intended to signify masculinity, but it always smacked of homosexuality to me. After all, my life's dream was to become a "man's man."

Coach Berkman had heard about my ear rings, and he was ready for me, coiled like a snake. As soon as class started, he called any boy with an ear ring to the front. I stayed in line, and he glared at me. "Akers, I can see your ear rings from here. Step forward."

"Coach, you called out anyone with an ear ring. I have two ear rings, not an ear ring. I'm where I'm supposed to be."

The class sniggered. Coach Berkman did not.

He strode directly toward me, glaring. He stood before me, enraged and greasy, like a piece of fried chicken, fresh out of the bucket. 

"Akers, you're a sissy and a smart ass," he thundered, stepping in front of me, and putting his hands on my shoulders. As his knee hit me squarely in the groin, he announced that if I was willing to look like a girl, then I should talk like one, too. I crumpled to the floor and broke out in a cold sweat. 

Today, Coach Berkman would have been hauled off in cuffs and certainly out of a job. Back then, no one even helped me up.

When I regained my composure, I struggled to my feet and headed out of the gym, embarrassed and shamed. Laughter slicked my departure. Coach Berkman didn't care. He had endeared himself to everyone but me.

I hid in the band room. My balls ached. I couldn't stop sweating. I was surprised when the door opened and I heard my name. "Eric, are you in here?"

I didn't respond. The voice belonged to Steve Lustig, one of the most popular kids in the school, much less our class. His family was the richest in Paris, "richer than the Roosevelt's" in my mother's words. He was well-bred, and it showed in how he treated others. He was the only person I knew who'd actually been to the real Paris.

"Eric, I know you're in here. I just wanted to let you know that was total bullshit."

"I'm over here," I said, revealing my hiding place behind the drums.

Steve walked over and sat down next to me. "Berkman's a tool," he offered. 

"Yeah, well he crushed my tool," I tried to joke. Steve chuckled a little, but not a lot. My chuckle made my balls ache.

Neither of us said a word. Finally, Steve offered that my "an ear ring" play had been inspired.

"It got me a knee to the balls."

"No, it didn't. That was coming anyway."

"Probably."

Steve stood to go. I decided to pry.

"Lustig, what're you doing in here? Why'd you track me down?"

"I wanted to make sure you're okay. And, I wanted to tell you that I admire you. You're resilient. You get knocked down, but you just keep getting back up. I don't know that I could do that. But, I hope you keep it up."

"It'd be easier if people stopped knocking me down."

"I don't think you're one for easy."

"I guess I'm not."

"I'm glad. You make this a more interesting world."

"That's not my goal."

"That may be true. But, it's your effect."

Somehow, some way, Steve and I became secret friends after that. We studied together. We talked on the phone almost every day. We even hung out. But, we didn't talk at school. We didn't even acknowledge each other. It didn't bother me, but it should have. I shouldn't have settled for a friend that wanted to be a friend only if no one knew he was a friend.

For Thanksgiving, the Lustigs invited me and my mother to dinner. It was a welcome change from Swanson's turkey pot pies, which had become our Thanksgiving staple. 

Halfway through dinner, Mrs. Lustig suggested we spend the night. As was occurring more frequently, my mother had drank too much, but they pretended that was not the reason for the invitation. We resisted, but my mother gave in when Mrs. Lustig opened another bottle of wine.

My mother took the guest room. Steve and I opened sleeping bags on the family room floor. We talked late into the night and into the morning. Steve asked me if I was gay, and I answered him honestly. He asked me how I knew, and I told him that I'd never been attracted to a girl. I was more interested in being a girl than in being with one.


The Boy in Makeup



Steve admitted he'd never kissed a girl. I was stunned. 

"I assumed you'd kissed a lot of girls."

"Nope. Not one. I wouldn't know how."

"Me, either. I've never kissed anyone. Except my mother. And, I'm pretty sure she doesn't count."

Steve stunned me more than before when he suggested we practice on each other. 

"Are you serious?" I asked, incredulous.

"Sure. Why not?"

I pounced. "Okay," I said, a little too giddily.

"Should I kiss you first, or should you kiss me first?"

"You should definitely kiss me first," I said.

We both licked our lips. Steve moved toward me, and put his mouth on mine. Electricity shot through me. I felt like I was being struck by lightning. I hated when he broke the kiss.

"Do you think we should try with our mouths open?" he asked.

"Yes," I responded. "I definitely think we should try with our mouths open."

We both licked our lips again. Steve moved toward me, and put his mouth on mine. Electricity shot through me again and again, especially when Steve touched his tongue to mine. I felt like the monster in Young Frankenstein, jarred by bolt after bolt after bolt. I kissed him back as hard and as long as I could. 

We spent hours kissing. Just when I thought we'd stop to go to sleep, we started all over again. Neither of us could give it up. It was binge kissing.

It didn't take me long to fall in love with Steve. He became my everything. And, he was happy in the role, at least when it was only me and him. I spent every Friday night at his house. We talked and talked and talked. I told him things I had never told anyone. I told him about my dad, his dad, and his dad's dad. I told him about the tunnels that closed in on me. I told him about the other thoughts that plagued and threatened me. 

He listened more than he talked. He assured me everyone shared my thoughts. I knew he was wrong. I knew my thoughts were dire and unique. I never saw in the eyes of other students the fear and vulnerability that I saw in mine each and every time I looked in the mirror.

When he was tired of listening, he shut me up with his mouth and tongue. We kissed those nights away, our tongues exploring every cranny and nook of each other's mouths. 

I wanted more, but I also did not want the kissing to end. So, I waited for Steve, fretful that if I acted on my want, he'd back away. 

Steve was always the aggressor anyway. He initiated the kissing. When we were sitting, his head was always turned in front of mine. When we were lying down, I was always on my back.

As we kissed, I'd lay there, wondering how far his hand would descend. It never went below my stomach. Sometimes, I'd pull my shirt up so I could feel his warm touch on my bare skin. When I did, it was like being at the top of the ferris wheel, my feet dangling over the edge, nothing but horizon in front of me.

Occasionally, Steve would press against my hip or my thigh, and I could feel him, straining and yearning. I wanted to grab him, release him, take him in my hand or my mouth, and release all that was building up in him. 

I never did. Instead, we'd fall asleep with a dull ache in our guts, fear stronger than frustration.

It all came undone over Christmas break. For the first time ever, we ventured out together as friends, seeing the Karate Kid on a Thursday afternoon. Unfortunately, a half dozen or so other kids from PHS had the same idea, and we ran into them in the lobby. They saw us before we saw them, and they called out Steve's name. Steve looked up, said, "Oh, shit," and noticeably stepped away from me. It didn't work. They moved toward us and talked at Steve as if I was not there, expressing surprise at his "date" and wondering aloud how long we'd been "dating." They were having fun, but Steve was not. 

In the movie, Steve sat a seat away from me. After the movie, Steve marched to the car, cold and sullen. Neither of us said a word as he drove me home. We certainly didn't hold hands, as we had recently started doing. The next day, Steve was not available when I called. And, he didn't call me back.

I knew the ice beneath us had broken. It was a rupture, not a fissure. As I stared into the mirror, I fell into the frigid water. I didn't try to swim. I let the weight of me push me away from the light. I felt the world go dark. I was in a straight jacket, and I couldn't swim, even if I wanted to. I swear I could taste salt water in my mouth as I shook my head as hard as I could, freeing myself from myself and breaking the surface, seeing the light.

Chapter Four

As the New Year started, I noticed my mother's drinking more and more. She drank a bottle of cheap wine most nights. It was harder and harder to rouse her in the mornings for work. She stopped doing my makeup.

I knew what was going on. When you're a 35 year old woman, your 15 year old son is simply not enough. You need friends and lovers. She had neither. She drank wine instead.

The weekend of Valentine's Day, she went out on Friday night. She didn't come home. She missed work that Saturday. She wasn't home when I went to bed Saturday night. 

I heard her fumbling with her keys early Sunday morning. I opened the door to a mess. She was clearly drunk. She had a black eye and a busted lip. Her dress was torn. She was not wearing shoes.

I ran a bath and helped her in. I washed her hair and her face. I held her hair back as she retched. I dried her and led her to bed. I held her and fretted as she slept.

When she woke up, she was surprised it was Sunday and more surprised by the state she was in. She had no idea how she had gotten a black eye or a busted lip. She had no idea how she'd gotten home or where the car was. Or her shoes.

She clearly needed help. She agreed to rehab more easily than I expected. She'd be gone thirty days. I thought I could stay alone. She disagreed. She wondered if perhaps I could impose upon the Lustigs. I said no way. We settled on Lori's. 

We packed together. My mother headed to Indianapolis. I headed to the Miller guest room. We would both be changed when the thirty days were over. 

Lori and I had a slumber party my first night there, just the two of us. She had sneaked a bottle of her parents' wine, and we drank it and laughed the night away in her bedroom. The irony was not lost on me: my mother was in rehab, and I was drinking stolen wine, tracing her footsteps.

When the wine was gone, Lori suggested that we end our mutual virginities. I was surprised. I had always assumed she knew I was gay, although I had never told her, or anyone else for that matter. I'm not sure I'd ever even said the word out loud.

I did, then, for the first time. "Lori, you know I'm . . . uh . . . uh . . . gay, right?"

"Duh. Everyone knows you're gay."

"I can't have sex with you. You're not a guy."

"I know I'm not a guy. But, I'd like to lose my virginity, and you're my best friend."

I was intrigued. I wouldn't mind knowing what intercourse with a girl was like, for later comparison purposes, if nothing else. But, I wasn't sure that, when push came to shove, so to speak, I'd be able to, well, push. I also was sure Lori was in love with me, and introducing sex into the only friendship I had seemed fraught.

"I don't think I'd be able to do it. And, I'm afraid it would ruin our friendship."

"Have you ever had sex?"

"No."

"Gotten close?"

"Maybe. I'm not sure."

"How can you not be sure?"

I told her about Steve. She didn't believe me at first, but the details convinced her. I thought I could trust her. But, I wasn't sure I cared. Steve had betrayed me, so a little betrayal his direction seemed justified.

Lori was impressed. "Wow," she said. "Steve Lustig. Who'da thunk? Although, there is Lust in his name."

"And in his heart, just like Jimmy Carter."

"Did you touch his dick?"

"No. But he grinded it against my leg a few times."

"Was it big?"

"I don't know. I don't have anything to compare it to."

"You have a dick, ass."

"True. I think it was about the same as mine," I speculated.

"That tells me nothing. You could be hung like a horse or a bug fucker?"

"A bug fucker?" I asked.

"Yes. A guy whose so small he could fuck a bug."

We both cracked up. Lori was awesome. I assured her I could not fuck a bug.

"Why didn't you touch it?" she finally asked. "Or suck it?"

"Fear. Unadulterated, granulated fear."

"What's there to be afraid of? It's not like you could get pregnant."

"Scaring him away. Liking it too much. Falling in love."

"Why'd you two stop?"

I told her the Karate Kid story. Lori captured it quickly.

"He's an ass. I'm glad you didn't touch his dick. He doesn't deserve it."

I felt liberated the next day. Secrets get heavier and heavier as you carry them around, slowing and then dragging you down. It was not a secret that I was gay, but saying it out loud for the first time felt like the releasing of one. And, sharing the secret of Steve made the actuality of it seem more real.

*****

My mother was transformed when she retrieved me from the Miller's. Her eyes were clear, her skin glowed, and her merriness had returned.

She embraced AA. She made amends to me, which I told her wasn't necessary. She assured me it was for her, not for me. 

I took advantage of the solemnity of the conversation to come out to her. Saying it out loud the second time was easier than the first. There was no hitch in my voice, no faltering over the words. It was just "Mom, I'm gay." Plainly and simply.

"I know," she responded. "I've always known."

"Gosh, you could have said something."

"I wasn't going to tell you something you weren't ready to know. I figured you'd figure it out and let me know when it was okay for me to know what I knew. Which, I assume, it is now."

"It is."

"Okay. I have only one request. Be safe. I've been to too many funerals. I can't bear another one. I just can't."

She started to cry, so I did, too. We cried for my dad, long gone. We cried for my childhood, just ended. 

Chapter Five

That Summer, I grew into a man. The fuzz on my face turned to hair. The thin, fine hair under my arms, on my chest, and in my crotch coarsened and thickened. I grew to almost six feet. I filled out, including between my legs. If I had cut my hair short, I'd have been Billy Idol's double.

Somehow, I got a job working at one of Mr. Lustig's plants. I spent my days loading boxes onto pallets and pallets onto trucks. I sweated. I got sore. I thinned where I should and filled out where I wanted. My ass and shoulders rounded. My chest thickened. My arms and legs rippled.

For some reason, I made $5 per hour, almost fifty percent more than the minimum wage. I saved every cent. When the summer was over, I gave over $1,500 to my mother to add to her checking account. She tried to refuse it, but I refused her refusal. She, too, was stubborn and willful, but her stubbornness and willfulness was nothing compared to mine.

My increased stature did not change my status at PHS. As the year started, I confirmed what everyone already knew and came out. It caused quite a ruckus. Some parents wanted me expelled. The priest at St. Mary's refused to give me communion, even though my mother and I had been attending every Sunday since I could remember. The town judged her, callously concluding she was to blame for my homosexuality, as if a little makeup and a wig can transform a straight boy into a queer man. They assumed I'd have stayed straight if my father had not killed himself and been around to be a "male influence." They didn't care or understand that I'd never been straight, that I'd never been attracted the least bit to a girl, that, from the first time I knew what an attraction was, it was toward a boy, or that some straight boys like wigs and makeup and some gay boys like guns and sports. Their assumptions betrayed their ignorance. Their ignorance was unshakeable.

Our isolation increased. At least I had Lori. My mother had no one, or so I thought. I did notice that money was less of an issue than it had been, even before I was able to contribute. I also noticed my mother being gone more, at odd times.

I finally asked her about it. We were still best friends, and I wanted to know what was going on with her. 

I was gobsmacked when she told me she was having an affair with Henry Lustig, Steve's father. She had been for months. Her guilt had sent her in search of the bottom of the bottle. She had ended that search, but not the affair.

It had started on Thanksgiving night. While Steve and I were making out in the family room, Mr. Lustig had seduced my mother while his wife slept down the hall. They'd been sleeping together since, whenever they could. And, he'd been helping her out with money. 

Mrs. Lustig either didn't know or didn't care. She'd long ago lost interest in her husband and their marriage. She liked her house and her things and her trips, and her marriage was nothing other than the means to all of them. 

I tried not to judge my mother. I wouldn't have tolerated any judgment from her about anything I was doing, so I couldn't burden her with any of my own.

Instead, I told her about Steve, about the kissing, and about the end of it all. She responded only that Steve "had too much of his mother" in him, preoccupied with what other people think.

We found it funny that, while I was falling in love with Steve, she was falling in love with his father. Steve was the youngest of the Lustigs's children, and his father assured my mother that he planned to leave Steve's mother for mine when Steve left for college. Until then, they were content to sneak around.

I doubted Mr. Lustig's assurances. I assumed my mother was not the first and would not be the the last woman to receive that assurance from him.

With me now in the loop, Mr. Lustig was free to visit our apartment, which he did regularly. He parked behind the building and entered through the back door. Every once in awhile, he dined with us. I liked him. He seemed real, especially with my mother. I thanked him for the job and for the extra money, both of which I now understood. He asked me what had happened between me and Steve. I didn't tell him.

Usually, I saw him only briefly. He'd enter through the back door and I'd leave through the front. I didn't want to hear what I knew they were doing during those visits.

Lori and I started traveling to Chicago some Saturday nights. There, we could sneak into Berlin, a dance club that allowed boys who looked like me in regardless of our ages. We'd dance the night away and then sleep in her car before heading back to Paris. We referred to Chicago as heaven and to Paris as hell. 

"Are we going to heaven this weekend?" I'd ask.

"No, we're stuck in hell," she'd reply. Or, "St. Peter, here we come! Swing those pearly gates wide open!"

Berlin was mostly gay. It took us a long time to work up the courage to go in, but, once we did, we quickly became comfortable with the scene. Men often bought me drinks, and I'd insist they buy one for Lori, too. They asked if she was my hag. I assured them she was.

More than once, a man offered us a place to stay for the night. I knew what those offers were for, and I wasn't ready for it. One, I carried Paris with me, so I thought AIDS was everywhere, and it was difficult to get any true information about the "gay cancer." Two, I had an atavistic streak, and I didn't want my first time to be with a random stranger just looking for a quickie with a hot kid. 

Lori disagreed with me. She urged me to spread my wings. And my seed. She thought I should sow and sow and sow, so long as I was careful about it.

I came close only once. His name was Mark, and he was stunning. He was older and professional. He wore a suit. He was dark and tall. He smiled broadly. And a lot. 

He cruised me from the across the club. I cruised him back. He made his way toward me. I had never made my way toward anyone. He introduced himself and bought me a drink. He asked me to dance. He wondered aloud where I'd been hiding. And, when I thought it couldn't get any better, he kissed me. Right there, in the middle of the dance floor, like it didn't matter that others were watching. 

We were soon in a cab headed to his Gold Coast condominium, Lori in the front seat while we made out in the back. My walls were coming down when he mentioned that we'd have to leave early in the morning, before his wife got home. The walls went back up. The idea of having sex with someone's husband struck me as wrong, and it doused the lust that had propelled me into that cab.

As we drove back toward Paris, I felt the first pangs of disgust at what my mother was doing. If I knew better than to sleep with another woman's husband, she certainly should have. 

As Lori drove, the lines in the center of the road starting coming at me faster and faster and faster. I couldn't catch my breath or control my thoughts. I realized my Saturday night away made my mother's lie easier to live out. I was a conspirator in her pretense. I wanted to open the car door and fling myself out. I took the door handle in my hand. It was cold, but comforting. It would be so easy . . . .

Lori knew me. I heard the locks triggered.

I told Lori I couldn't go to Berlin any more. I could not be part of the conspiracy. She understood. She knew my demons and how they worked. She knew I was always on the edge, looking down, my toes dangling. She pulled me back. 

Chapter Six

I turned 18 the summer before my Senior year. When my father committed suicide, I failed to finish the grade I was in. I had to repeat it, which meant I was a year behind where I should have been.

I noticed Evans Fowler immediately on our first day back in school. He was new, and new was notable in our town, but especially in our high school. The week before, the Fowlers had moved from St. Louis. Evans' father was managing the largest plant in town, dispatched from St. Louis to modernize it and make it more productive and profitable.

Evans had black hair that was spiked on top and longer in back, black eyes, a thin nose, and thick, red lips. He reminded me of Rob Lowe in the Outsiders.

He was also built. He was 6'2", taller than me by two inches. He was broad shouldered, thick chested, and thick thighed. He was a football player. In St. Louis, he had been the starting quarterback on his private school's team. If he hadn't been new, he'd have been the starting quarterback on our team. Since he new, small minds meant he would not even be part of the team, much less a starter.

He was in my homeroom. Naturally, there was an empty desk next to mine. He slid in. He was not dressed like everyone else. His clothes were elegant, not common. And certainly not from Penney's. Or Sears.

He held out his hand. "I'm Evans," he said. "Evans Fowler."

"It's nice to meet you Evan, I'm Eric. Eric Akers."

"It's Evans, not Evan. There's an S on the end. Please don't call me Evan."

"Okay. So long as you don't call me Erics."

"I won't," he said, flashing a bright, easy smile.

The bell rang, and we were off. By the end of the day, girls were plotting ways to land Evans, and boys were plotting ways alienate or outdo him. It depended on their place at PHS.

Evans seemed to move above and beyond it all. He was distant, but polite. The first weekend of school, he was notably absent from the football game. I was absent, too, but not notably.

Monday morning, girls surrounded his desk, chirping. "Where were you Friday?" "How was your weekend?" "Where'd you go Saturday?" I could smell the estrogen. It was nauseating.

When the bell rand and they scattered, Evans leaned over to me. "Dude, you coated it on too thick this morning. It looks better when it's subtle."

I raised my eyebrows at him.

"Your makeup. . . . It looks better when it's a little more subtle."




The Boy in Makeup



"Thanks, I guess."

"You're welcome, I'm sure." 

"Why didn't you go to the game Friday?"

"Did you?"

"God, no."

"Well, I probably didn't go for the same reason."

"I hate football."

"Me, too, but only because they won't let me play. I can't stand to sit in the stands with all the hormones soaking the air as everyone tries to pretend they're not doing what everyone knows they are doing . . . trying to get laid."

"I've never been laid," I admitted, for some unknown reason.

"I'm not surprised."

"That seems mean."

"I didn't mean it to be. There just doesn't seem anybody here who you'd be into. I imagine you with Audrey Hepburn, not Kelly Bundy."

"Thanks, I guess."

"You're welcome, I'm sure."

"Why do you keep saying that?"

"It's the difference between confident and diffident. When you say 'I guess,' I say 'I'm sure.' I'm being funny, or trying to be. But, I'm also sure. You never are. You're always guessing."

"Oh."

As I walked out of school that day, Evans pulled up and offered me a ride home. I hesitated and then leaned in through the passenger window.

"You shouldn't give me a ride, Evans."

"Why not?"

"In case you haven't noticed, I'm not the big man on campus. If you're caught with me, you won't be, either. You'll be the object of innuendo and rumor. It's happened before," I said, thinking back to Steve.

"I have no interest in being a BMOC at PHS. And, if they talk about me with you, at least they'll be talking about something more interesting than what they usually talk about. Hop in, Cupcake."

I did. As we pulled away from the curb, I asked "Cupcake?"

"That's what people call you. Behind your back. If I'm going to do it behind your back, I ought to do it to your face, too."

"Or not all all."

"Why? I like cupcakes. I have a sweet tooth."

I got warm from my head to my toes. I felt like Evans was flirting with me. But, I wasn't sure. No one had ever really flirted with me before, so I wasn't necessarily attuned to the subtleties.

I didn't want Evans to see where I lived, so I told him he could drop me at the park about four blocks from our apartment. When we got there, he climbed out, too. I didn't know what to do, so I leaned against his car and talked. He talked back.

Evans had already learned what I had long known: Paris was not an idyllic little town, and it was a tough place to be an outsider. Bonds formed early and were not dynamic. Circles of friends rarely were broken with new names. Cliques closed fast and firm.

Evans seemed nonplussed by it all. 

"I'm here only for one year," he said. "And, all I need to get by for that one year is one friend. I already have one friend, so I'm set."

I didn't say anything.

"You know I'm talking about you, right?"

"Oh . . . uh . . . sure," I said, confirming what I had, in fact, not known.

The next day, Evans drove me home again. He took me to the same park, turned the car off, and climbed out. Like the day before, we leaned against the hood of his car talking.

"Why me?" I asked.

"You were nice to me. And, you're not a cookie. I'm not much for cookies."

"I thought you had a sweet tooth."

"Not for cookies."

"What's a cookie?"

"At my old school, it was anyone who was cut from the same cloth. You know, a cookie cutter cuts the same cookie every time. So, all the followers were 'cookies.' This school is full of cookies. It's quite depressing, actually. Everyone's afraid to think something that no one else is thinking. It's like everyone is looking around for approval before they make a move or think a thought. Everyone sits on the edge of the pool. No one's on the high dive. No one will even slide in. They're waiting for someone else. My school in St. Louis was not like that. At all. It's hard to get used to."

"I guess I'm not a cookie."

"You're definitely not a cookie. Dude, you wear makeup to school. In Paris, Illinois. There's nothing cookie about that or you. Your'e on the high dive bouncing up and down as hard as you can, about to soar, and you're not afraid, at all. It's awesome. I'm afraid of the high dive."

We settled back onto the hood of his car and stared straight up. He asked about my family, and I shared things with him I was loathe to share generally. I told him about my suicidal lineage. And about my awesome mother. And about how we felt most of the time like we were the last two Christians in the Coliseum, battling an endless Army of lions, warding off wave after wave but always facing another.

The next day, we were in the same spot, and Evans was telling me about his family. His father was successful professionally, but not personally. He drank too much. He was cold and distant. He thought children should rarely be seen and should never be heard. He was an "ist." Racist. Misogynist. Whatever other "ists" there were, he was. 

Evans' mother toed the line. It was not her nature, but she would not cross her husband. She sacrificed her children to him.

Evans was the youngest of five boys. The other four were long gone, scattered hither and yon by careers and college and family and then kept at arms length by their father's coldness and distance and by their mother's supplication.

Evans was an over-achiever. He was a Division II football prospect. He was a straight A student. He acted. He debated. He painted. He played the piano. It was as clear as a bell to me that he was doing anything and everything to gain the one thing that was elusive, his father's approval. He'd never get it, no matter how hard he tried.

He was also a world class charmer. The girls wanted to be with him. The boys wanted to be him, even if they wouldn't admit it.

St. Louis isn't Paris, France, but it also isn't Paris, Illinois. He was way more worldly than we were. He knew black people and black music. He knew gay people and gay music. He was not repelled or repulsed by any of it. Word of AIDS was spreading, but, unlike most of Paris, Evans didn't think the right tact was to quarantine the gays and let them die off.

He changed subjects. "Why do you have me leave you here instead of at your door?"

"I'm embarrassed about where I live."

"No reason to be. It has nothing to do with who you are. It's just a place."

"You can drive me home, if you want."

"I want. And, I'd like to meet your mother."

My mother was thrilled that I had a friend in our apartment. She insisted that Evans stay for supper, which he readily agreed to do. I was mortified. My mother could barely scramble an egg.

By the time our awful, undercooked supper was over, my mother was applying makeup to our faces. She arched Evans' eyebrows with a pencil, painted his long eyelashes with mascara, and raised his cheekbones with base. By the time she had outlined his lips, we looked like glam rockers. Or drag queens.

We laughed a lot. It had been a long time since there had been that much mirth in our little hovel.

When Evans announced he had to go, I thought my mother would cry. She grabbed her polaroid, and took pictures of him and me, of him, of me, and - holding the camera as far away as she could - of all three of us. She was taking selfies before selfies were a thing.

We used Pond's cold cream to remove our makeup. Halfway through the process, we looked like mimes. Evans pretended he was trapped in a box, and he was pretty good. I tried to pretend the same, but I only looked like I was groping for someone in the dark. 

I walked Evans to his car. Evans put his hand on my shoulder. "I had a great time, Cupcake. Thank you for letting see where you live. And letting me meet your mother."

"You're welcome," I said, and turned to head back up the stairs to our apartment. I was stopped by Evans' voice.

"Cupcake!"

"Yes."

"If any of those pictures show up at school, I'm going to kick your ass."

"No, you won't."

"You're right. But, I really don't want to see those pictures floating around school."

"You won't. You can trust me."

Evans cocked his head and looked pensive. "Of that, I am sure," he said.

I fell asleep that night thinking of Evans. Not in makeup, but with his hair pulled back, his makeup removed, and his beautiful, stripped face, pure and untroubled.

Chapter Seven

Jealousy blinded Lori, and she started campaigning against Evans. He was a user, she said. He'd flee as soon as the rumors started, she said. He'd throw me over as soon as some girl wanted to bed him, she said.

I protested, but to no avail. According to Lori, I was emotionally retarded, naive, and a rube. I was using my head, but the wrong one.

I was in the middle. I was Jennifer Jason Leigh at the end of the Hitcher. I felt like I was going to be pulled apart.

I picked Evans. Lori was sullen and surly, mistreating me because she wanted our story to remain a dyad. Her reaction confirmed the wisdom of my pick.

Still, I was conflicted about it. Lori and I had stood shoulder to shoulder for years, enduring and resilient. So many times, she had helped me up when I had gotten knocked down.

My conflict piqued my mother, and she inquired. I explained that Lori was being ridiculous and selfish. My mother disagreed. "She's stood with you through thick and thin, Eric. Don't choose the new toy over the favorite toy, unless you're sure the new toy will stand the test of time. Otherwise, you'll wind up with no toys at all."

I understood what she was saying, but I didn't understand why we had to be an alliance of two. I thought there was plenty of room for Evans, and I thought Lori was ugly in her exclusivity. It seemed she was perpetuating the them versus us mentality that we had long railed against. I stuck with Evans.

In my core, I knew I was wrong. Lori had earned my loyalty with hers, and I had betrayed it out of self-interest. I could pretend otherwise, but I knew I was pretending.

*****

For Halloween, Evans decided we should dress as Sid & Nancy. I told him it was too esoteric, that only he and I would understand our costume. He viewed that as a plus, not a minus.

We did. For that first time that year, I went to a school event. To avoid stereotyping, Evans dressed as Nancy, and I dressed as Sid.

We were not a hit. If you can think only one thought, you eschew other thoughts. We were another thought.

Evans reveled in the ridicule that came our direction. He found the ignorance impressive, and he dismissed it with casual comfort of someone who knew what and who he was and didn't care if others could not or would not.

When the dance was over, we were at our kitchen table removing our makeup and laughing. We were genuinely happy as we stared in the mirror, cold cream caked on our faces. Evans leaned his head against mine, and we looked into the same mirror. When Evans' eyes caught my eye, he smiled at me. I melted into that smile.

Without saying a word, Evans moved to our phone, called his parents, and told them he was staying the night. I was mortified. Our couch made a horrible bed for me, much less for me and him. We'd have to sleep on the floor.

We finished removing our makeup. I used my bare hand to remove cold cream and makeup from his eyes and his cheeks. He ran his fingers along my eyebrows and lashes, cleansing them as he did. The whole experience was unintentionally erotic.

By the time we were done, I was on edge. But, I was still vexed by the sleeping arrangements.

My mother solved the problem. She arrived home from an evening out, offered us her full bed, and took the couch for herself. 

I had never been in bed with another boy. Evans seemed unconcerned. He pulled his clothes off, leaving on only his white briefs. 

I could not help but steal glances. He was muscular, but almost hairless. Other than a small trail that started about two inches above his navel and flowed into his briefs, there was no hair on his torso. There was little hair on his arms and legs.

I was much hairier. I had curly blond hair on my chest, on my stomach, and on my arms and legs. I had clippered it once, but it had seemed for naught.

When we were in bed, Evans rolled onto his right side, and propped his head on his hand. 

"I had a great time tonight," he said, taking his left forefinger and tracing along my clavicle. I cringed at his touch.

"I did, too."

"I have a great time with you."

"I have a great time with you, too."

"Tell me something about you that I don't know."

My trust in him shocked me. I told him about my temptations and the tunnels.

"Do you really think about that?"

"Sometimes, it's all I can think about."

"There's no hole too deep to climb out of."

"That's easy for you to say. You've never been in a deep hole. If you were, there'd be an army to throw you ladders and ropes. I have only my mother."

"You have me," he said, stunning me. He leaned over, kissed my shoulder, and said, "Good night, Cupcake. Sweet dreams."

I couldn't respond. I wanted to kiss him back, somewhere. I wanted to roll over, pin him down, and kiss him until one or both of us suffocated. I wanted to do to him anything and everything I had ever dreamed about doing to anyone. 

Instead, I did nothing. He rolled away, and then over, and I laid there, paralyzed and imagining all the things I would have done if I could have done any of the things I dreamed of doing.

When I awoke the next morning, Evans and I were face to face, and light was barely breaking through the blinds. I couldn't resist, so I kissed his nose, briefly.

When he opened his eyes, I sheepishly said, "Good morning."

He shielded his mouth with his hand and responded, "Good morning, Cupcake."

"Did you sleep well?"

"I did. I always sleep better with someone else in the bed. It's calming."

I rolled onto my back. To my surprise, Evans put his hand on my chest. 

"You're hairy."

"I am. You're not."

"Nope. I'm part Navajo. I'm almost hairless. Except for the black hair on my head. And a little bush above my crotch."

I was surprised he mentioned his crotch. Between it being morning, me kissing his nose, and his hand on my chest, my crotch was on fire.

I didn't say anything, enjoying the sensation of his fingers gently moving in and out of my chest hair. My nipples were rock hard when he brushed up against one. 

His hand never went below my diaphragm. I wanted to grab it and press it to my crotch, but I felt like I was behind enemy lines. I was on high alert.

"Can I tell you something?" he asked.

"Sure."

"I like you better without the makeup."

"Really?"

"Yep. I like the real you, not the mask you wear to hide the real you. I like you right now. Authentic. Genuine. I feel like I can see what you're thinking."

No one had ever accused the makeup of hiding the real me. It had only confirmed the real me.

"You can't," I assured him. "If you could, you wouldn't have your hand on my chest."

"Maybe not. Maybe I'd have it right here," he said, moving it to my stomach.

"Or right here," he said, moving it to my abdomen.

"Am I right? Can I see what you're thinking?"

"Yes," I croaked, from my arid mouth.

"What about right here?" he asked, moving his hand to my hard bulge. "Am I still seeing what you're thinking?"

"Yes," I croaked again, looking at him. He looked at me as he rubbed and squeezed my hardness. Inexperienced and overwhelmed, I came. I couldn't help myself. I had never been touched by another.

"Dude, did you just come?" Evans asked.

"Yes," I said, more plaintively than I intended.

"My turn, then" he said, moving my hand to his bulge. I started rubbing and squeezing. 

"Take it out."

I reached through the hole in his boxers and worked his penis out. It was smooth and turgid. It seemed there was a lot going on, roiling beneath the skin.

I moved my hand on him the way I moved my hand on myself. Evans arched his back, raised his hips, and came all over his stomach. It was the most beautiful sight I had ever seen.

Carol's knock on the door knocked some sense into us. "Breakfast," she proclaimed, through the pressed wood.

Evans hopped out of bed, tugged on a shirt and shorts, and headed to the door. I followed, afraid my mother would see or smell what had happened. 

I was also afraid Evans and I had taken a step too far. Momentarily, Evans quelled my fear. Just before he opened the door, he leaned into me, almost putting his lips to mine, and whispered "Boo!" into my mouth.

Breakfast was normal. My mother either did not suspect anything or did not betray that she suspected anything. Evans was Evans, as always. 

I didn't spend the rest of Sunday fretting. But, I also didn't hear from Evans, which was weird.

On Monday morning, Evans was odd during homeroom. He lingered with the girls, his backpack on his back, his desk empty. He bolted when the bell rang. I was instantly concerned that our rub out was more significant than he'd let on just after.

Chapter Eight

Homecoming was a week later, and I was, of course, dateless. Three months earlier, I'd have gone with Lori. But, she was still off about Evans, and she'd have been more off if she'd known about Halloween.

Evans was not dateless. He was going with Karen Nemelka, who was the likely Homecoming Queen and who had badgered him into taking her. 

I went alone in a group of friends, including Lori. We posed for pictures together, but she barely talked to me. 

Evans was staggeringly beautiful. He wore a black jacket and a black shirt that complemented the blackness of his hair and his eyes. 

I went old school. I wore a tuxedo I had found at a thrift store. I parted my long, blonde hair on the side and combed it slick. I wore little makeup, just enough to hide the imperfections in my face. And to highlight my blue eyes. I looked like the Great Gatsby.

My friends and I danced to the fast dances, but sat out the slow dances. Evans and Karen danced to the slow dances, but sat out the fast dances.

I hadn't really talked to Evans all week. As I trudged toward Homecoming, I'd have given anything to undo the trauma of All Saints morning. It was awesome, but it wasn't worth the rift. I wanted to lie on the hood of his car and talk about life. I walked home alone instead.

Our Homecoming theme was "Follow You, Follow Me" from Genesis, which was hard to get excited about. Phil Collins was just awful. When the theme came on, everyone danced. I grabbed Lori and forced her to dance with me.

"You sure you don't want to dance with Evans," she hissed, as the song played and we swayed back and forth. I couldn't answer her honestly. It would have caused an even greater rupture.

"I'm sure," I said. "I'm dancing with the best friend I've ever had. Or ever will have."

"It hasn't seemed like it lately," she answered.

"I'm sorry about that," I said, thinking Evans was gone and that I needed to circle the wagons. "I got caught up in my shiny new toy. It wasn't all it was cracked up to be."

"Have you seen your old makeout buddy, Steve? He and Sally look like they're out of a fairy tale."

I had noticed Steve and Sally. Steve was in a traditional tuxedo, and he looked perfect. Sally had her hair up, and she looked elegant, like Grace Kelly at the height of her powers. They dripped of class, and they looked like they were headed to a state dinner.

"Yes," I said. "But, she looks more like a beard than a princess."

As I said that, I caught Evans' eye. He was dancing with Karen, about 25 feet away. Unlike the rest of the week, he didn't look away, pretending he didn't see me. Instead, he smiled and arched one eyebrow, a move that reminded me of my mother.

I was surprised when he mouthed "hi" over Karen's shoulder. I did nothing back. I wasn't sure what was going on, but I was sure I was pissed at his week of diffidence and indifference.

I turned Lori around so she was facing Evans and Karen. 





The Boy in Makeup



"Ugh," she said. "There's Olive Oyl and your ridiculous Evans, dressed in black like he's trying to live out Depeche Mode's 'Dressed in Black.'"

"I think he looks good," I said, not able to help myself.

"That's because you want to suck his dick," Lori responded, cutting to the chase. "But, he's not going to let you, so you should stop pining for it."

I wanted to tell her I wasn't so sure, that we had slept in the same bed, and that we'd made each other come. Instead, I said nothing. Discretion is the better part of valor.

When "Follow You, Follow Me" ended, the lights came up. The dance was over. Everyone would splinter off. Evans and Karen would go wherever that clique went. Lori, my friends, and I would head to a basement, mostly to talk about Evans and Karen and ridiculous people like them who thought things like Homecoming King and Queen mattered.

We were in Peter's basement until almost 1 a.m. I thought of spending the night. I had no curfew, but it was about 15 blocks to our apartment, and it was a chilly November night. I don't know what persuaded me otherwise, but I had an urge to walk home instead.

I was stunned to find Evans sitting on the porch of our building when I walked up. He was shivering.

"What are you doing out here?" I asked.

"Waiting for you, Cupcake."

"Why?

"Because I wanted to see you."

"Did you buzz? My mother would've let you in."

"No, Eric. I decided to wait in the cold instead," he said, obviously sarcastically. "Of course, I buzzed. I got no answer. I almost gave up on you."

I wanted to say something clever, like "You should never give up on me." But, I couldn't. I was in deeper water than I was used to, and I was an awkward and clumsy swimmer.

I opened the door and led him up the stairs. Once in my apartment, we plopped down on the couch and covered ourselves with my blanket. The walk home had chilled me to the bones. I could only imagine how cold Evans was.

"I'm sorry," Evans started.

"For what?" I answered, pretending to be oblivious. "You didn't do anything."

"I did. I freaked. I told myself I wouldn't, but I did."

"It's okay."

"It's not. You didn't do anything wrong. You didn't do anything I didn't want yo to do. But, I kind of punished you anyway. It was a cookie move. I'm not a cookie."

"It's okay, I promise."

"It's not. Anyway, I really like you, Cupcake. A lot. I didn't do anything I didn't want to do. I'm just not sure I'm ready to do what I did. I talk a good game. But, it's pretty much all talk. I'm afraid of this. Really, really afraid."

I wasn't sure what he meant by "this." It could have been me and him. It could have been resolving who he was.

I wanted to comfort him. I wanted to encourage him. I wanted to reassure him.

But, I had no experience or innate wisdom from which to draw. I was as afraid as he was. But, I was afraid of something different. He was afraid of finding me. I was afraid of losing him.

I had nothing to say, so I put my head on his shoulder instead. He lowered his head to mine. When I turned my face toward his, he asked if he could kiss me. 

"Only if you want to."

"If I didn't want to, I wouldn't have asked."

We were making things way too difficult. I should have said "Yes, please." And, he should have said "I do."

Still, he lowered his mouth to mine, and everything happened at once. The sun came out. The rain poured down. Thunder struck. Lightning hit. The Earth trembled.

When we needed air, he pulled away. "My God," I said.

"Yes," he agreed. "My God."

We rested against each other. I wanted to ask him to stay, but I didn't. I was too timid. I said nothing.

Nature abhors a vacuum. He filled the silence with his turmoil. "I'm not sure I'm ready for this. It's very scary to me."

There are essential moments in life. They usually occur when two options confront you, one that can be captured with a bold move, and the other that defaults from a tepid move. I was tepid, and defaulted to what was easy, but unwanted.

"Look, Evans, we can just be friends. I love being friends with you. I don't need more than that. Hell, I don't want more than that. Let's forget Halloween and the next morning and that kiss and go back to the way things were. There's nothing scary in that."

I could tell from the look on his face that he was hoping for the bold move. But, I couldn't take back what I had said.

"Yes, let's," he said, pulling the blanket off of himself and standing up. "That'll be perfect. We'll go back to the way things were. We'll pretend last weekend never happened. We'll pretend that kiss - that awesome kiss - meant nothing."

He ducked out as my mother was coming in. I was crying when she closed the door behind her.

"What's wrong, Honey?"

"Nothing. Everything. I don't know. I think I just made a terrible mistake."

"It can't be that bad."

"It is. I hate pretending. And, I just pretended I didn't want what I want. I think my pretension was terrible."

My mother settled next to me and cradled me to her bosom. She let me cry for awhile before imparting motherly wisdom.

"Honey, there's nothing that's done that can't be undone. Tomorrow's a new day, and it holds endless opportunities. Wash today away. Embrace tomorrow and the opportunities it offers."

I fell asleep wondering if I could heed her advice. And, if I could, how I would.

My sleep was troubled. I awoke wondering why I had pretended to want other than what I wanted. As I thought about it, I felt myself hurtling down tunnel after tunnel, each narrower than the one before. Before I got stuck, I hopped up and headed outside. The cold air jarred and rescued me. I stayed outside until I was so cold I thought my teeth may break as I chattered.

Chapter Nine

I slept in on Sunday. I was troubled, and I liked to sleep when I was troubled. Even if slumber didn't bring clarity, it at least could quell the thoughts I had trouble controlling. I was always at peace when I slept. I didn't have night demons. I had day demons.

I awoke full of regret. Evans had tossed me a meat ball, and I hadn't even fouled it off. I was not a ballplayer, and it showed.

I was still full of regret at school on Monday. I was plain faced, but I had my hair back in a headband. 

Evans was not at school. I was crushed.

Evans was also not at school on Tuesday. Arrogantly, I thought his absence had something to do with me. I called his house when I got home. His mother answered, dismissively told me he was sick, and hung up.

Evans was not at school the rest of the week. I called every day. His mother wouldn't let me talk to him any time I called, dismissing me with a "he's sick."

I fretted. He'd seemed perfectly healthy in the wee hours of Sunday morning, but he was too sick to attend a second of school that week. Something was up.

On Saturday morning, I decided to find out what. I walked to his house and asked to see him. His mother blocked the door and refused to say anything other than "Evans is sick."

As I walked away, I turned back toward the house. Evans was in an upstairs window. He raised one hand in a meek wave, and I waved back.

Evans was in school Monday, but he pretended I was not. The shoulder he gave me was as cold as ice.

The week went on like that. Friday morning, I couldn't take anymore, and I cornered him in the bathroom.

"What the fuck, Evans?" I asked. "This on again off again bullshit is fucking me up."

"I'm sorry, Eric," he said. "I fucked up. And, my fuck up is costing me. I'm not allowed to talk to you, much less be friends with you."

"What happened?"

"I was pretty upset when I left your apartment Homecoming night. My mom was still up when I got home. I thought I could trust her. I told her I had feelings for you, and she betrayed me to my dad. He . . . freaked . . . the . . . fuck . . . out. He threatened to 'beat the gay' out of me. He blamed 'the fag in the makeup.' I'm on house arrest. I can only come here and then go straight home. I'm not allowed any calls. I'm not allowed any friends."

"Jesus, Evans, that's not a life. That's a prison."

"It's fine. I'll be leaving in less than a year. I can make it until then."

"Maybe, but you shouldn't have to. This is fucked up. You have to know that."

"They're my parents. There's already been enough of a breach. I can't cause more."

"They're not parenting you. They're oppressing you. Parents offer their children unconditional love. Not 'I love you if' . . . . "

"That's easy for you, Eric. Your mother is awesome, and you're all she's got. She's not going to let you go, no matter what you do or who you are. I hold no such exalted place. I'm expendable, and I can't make it on my own. I have to walk the line."

I was as sad as I'd ever been. I'd lived through people who gave up on themselves, but never someone who'd given up on someone else. Or threatened to. It was a sickening feeling. I wanted to retch.

I hated but understood Evans' choice. I was tearful as I turned to leave the bathroom. Evans grabbed my arm and turned me back to him.

"I'm sorry, Eric. I really am. I just don't know what else to do."

"It's okay, Evans. It really is. It'll all be fine."

When I tried to pull away, Evans wouldn't let me go. He pulled me into him, and I buried my head in his chest. He raised my face to his, and he kissed me again. I had the same reaction I had to our prior kiss. I felt strong and weak, like I was flying and like I couldn't move. I could tell from the look on Evans' face when the kiss ended he had the same sensations.

We ducked into a stall. We kissed and kissed and kissed. 

I felt powerful. I unbuckled Evans' belt, unbuttoned and unzipped his khakis, and released him. 

"Is this okay?" I asked, my voice a sandpaper whisper.

"Yes."

I stroked him as we kissed. He used his right hand to clamp my mouth to his as hard as he could. He sucked my tongue and grunted in my mouth as he came, coating the front of my pants. I kept stroking him and kissing him. I don't know how long we were in there and didn't care. He was completely soft when we finally broke the kiss. I was lightheaded, and my mouth felt raw. He put himself away. 

"Look at me," I said. My pants were covered in cum. I was going to have to go home. There was no way I could go back to class. 

"Sorry," he said. "I drop a pretty heavy load."

"No shit."

"Can we kiss again?"

"Sure."

We did. It was another long kiss. I tried through that kiss to convey "No matter what, I love you." I'm not sure I did.

When the kiss was over, Evans quietly offered, "We can try to be friends at school."

I told him I didn't think we could just be friends. I told him I thought that, if we hung around each other, we'd wind up back in this bathroom, or in an equipment closet, or in the boiler room, and we'd eventually get caught. And then it would all be over for him, especially with his father.

I squeezed him, and he squeezed me back. I broke free and left the bathroom. I was emotionally bankrupt as I walked home. Looking back, I should have explicitly told Evans I loved him. That way, he could have taken that knowledge with him.

That night, Evans' father asked if he had spoken to me at school. Evans tried to lie, but was bad at it. So, he told his father about the encounter in the bathroom, at least some of it. Evans never returned to school after that. I heard that his parents had shipped him to a boarding school. But, I also heard that they had shipped him to one of those facilities that pretends to convert someone from gay to straight. I had no idea which was true, until I got a letter from Evans telling me what had happened with his father and that his "conversion therapy" was not working, he still thought about me all the time, and he missed me every time he thought about me. He told me not write him back, because they read every letter he received or sent. He had snuck his letter to me out. 

I cried and cried that night as I tried to allow sleep release me from the grip of sadness. I cried because I felt I had been cheated out of Evans. Mostly, I cried because Evans was being cheated out of his life. 

Chapter Ten

I moped around school for a couple of weeks. I couldn't even tell Lori why, as she still had a blind spot for Evans, and she'd have been pissed about the encounter in the bathroom.

I was raw and so unprepared for Steve's return. I was at my locker, and Steve - out of nowhere - asked me what me and my mother were doing for Thanksgiving.

"I don't know. Why do you care? You haven't talked to me for, like, two years."

"I know. That was douchey of me. I knew it was douchey, but then it went on and on and just got easier and easier."

"It wasn't easy for me."

I thought Steve was going to cry. I was not a good person, but I decided to do a good thing, so I tried to let him off the hook. 

"Look, Steve. What's done is done. It's all behind me. I move forward, not backward."

Steve grabbed my hand and apologized. "Eric, I'm really sorry. But, things we spiraling out of control. We were making out all the time, I liked it but wasn't sure I wanted it, and then my friends accused me of dating you, and I lost it. I felt like I was getting painted with the wrong brush."

"It's okay. I'm fine. I missed you, but I got over it. I'm resilient, remember."

"Yeah, I remember," Steve said, defeated. "I'm a better person than you think I am."

I wanted to be curt and say "that's a low bar" or "I don't think about you at all" something similarly accusatory and bitchy. But, I had already tried to let him off the hook, so I decided in that split second to try again.

"Steve, I don't think you're a bad person. I just think you did bad thing. And, I'm over the bad thing. If you need or want to be forgiven, you are. You have been. Be free. Walk with a clear conscience. I'm over it." I wanted to add "and you," but I didn't.

"Thank you. Anyway, my dad thinks you and your mom should come for Thanksgiving this year."

Of course he did. And Steve almost certainly didn't know why. He would not have been so cavalier if he had.

I didn't think we should go. My mother disagreed. Vehemently. I felt the tunnels starting to narrow. I felt the water covering me. I felt the flames engulfing me.

It was an extremely awkward dinner. Mr. Lustig sat at the head of the table, directly across from his wife, pretending. My mother sat between them, also pretending. 

The pretense was suffocating me. The conversation got faster, the words smashing into my like bullets from a machine gun. I couldn't breathe, and I needed desperately to get away from that table, from my mother and from Henry.

I excused myself and went to the bathroom. I put cold water on my face, but it didn't help. I sat on the edge of the tub, trying to think of something other than the game that was being played at the dining room table. My thoughts started to scramble, and the demons started pressing in. I put my head in my hands and tried to slow my breathing down. I knew the demons fed off my anxiety.

I was in jeopardy when I heard a knock at the door. It was Steve, and he was checking on me, just as he had when I had taken a knee to my stones.

I didn't answer him, but I moved from the tub to the floor. I leaned my back against the door. I couldn't open it. If I had, I'd have spilled my guts. And, the story was not mine to tell.

Steve asked me to let him in, and I told him I couldn't. So, Steve leaned his back against the door, too. Neither of us said a word for the longest time, but I started to calm down, knowing someone was on the other side, that I was not alone. Finally, Steve asked again if he could come in. I didn't answer, but I unlocked the door and moved out of the way. 

Steve came in, and I settled back into my spot. Steve sat down next to me.

"Are you okay?"

"Did you know people call me Cupcake?"

"Yes."

"Do you?"

"Yes."

"I'd rather be a Cupcake than a Cookie."

"I'm not sure I understand the difference."

"Of course you don't."

"You never answered me, Eric. Are . . . you . . . okay?"

"I'm not, but I think I will be."

"Can I help?"

"No."

"I'd like to."

"Okay, but you can't."

We sat silently. Without thinking, I rested my head on Steve's shoulder, and he rested his head on mine.

I tried to match his breathing. I could feel myself calming down. I could feel the threats evanescing, the demons retreating.

"I'm not good with secrets," I finally offered. "They threaten me."

"You kept a pretty big one for a long time."

"No, I didn't. People just chose not to know what they didn't want to know."

"I knew."

"I know."

We stayed like that, quiet, our breathing matching each others', unconcerned about what was going on at that table. "Talk to me," I insisted.

"About what?"

"I don't care. I just need you to talk." I couldn't tell him I needed him to drown out the voices in my head, the ones that wanted me to do what I didn't want to do. "Just talk about you."

He started. "Alright. Let's see. I'm color blind. Not a lot of people know that. My favorite color, to the extent I have one, is orange. I see orange better than I see other colors. But, it's not your orange. It's my orange. My colors are different than everyone else's. For some reason, I like the idea of having my own colors. My favorite sport is football. My favorite player is Joe Montana. I like how calm he is under pressure. I'm not. I get rattled. My favorite movie is Animal House. My favorite TV show is Cheers. Your turn."

"My favorite color is red. Blood red. I don't have a favorite sport. I don't much care for sports. I like athletes, but not sports. My favorite athlete is Bjorn Borg. Like me, he has long blond hair. And, he's hot. My favorite movie is Ordinary People. It's also my favorite book. I don't watch TV much. Your turn."

"I rooted for McEnroe over Borg at Wimbledon. Because he's American. I hated Ordinary People. It was too slow. And Mary Tyler Moore was not the Mary Tyler Moore I knew. They made her awful. Raging Bull was a better movie and should have won the Oscar. My favorite book is In Cold Blood. My favorite song is Bruce Springsteen's 'Born to Run.' I miss kissing you. Your turn."

I was surprised by the candor of "I miss kissing you." With that admission, I felt free to move my right hand under his shirt. I wanted to be distracted from what I would have given anything not to know but could not un-know.

Like me, Steve had both filled out and thinned out in the intervening two years. He was 6'4". His curly brown hair was longer. His face and body had lost all vestiges of any baby fat. His arms and chest and legs were thick with muscle. He shuddered a little when I rested my hand on his stomach.

"I love Ordinary People because Donald Sutherland and Timothy Hutton survive the brother's death and Timothy's attempted suicide. It resonated with me, in light of what me and my mother have gone through. My favorite song is Dolly Parton's 'Coat Of Many Colors'; it reminds me of my mother and what she's done for me. Although I also love Allison Moyet's 'Invisible.' I feel that way most times . . . invisible. I started wearing makeup when I was little. It made me feel special. It still does. I miss kissing you, too. A lot. Your turn."

"You're not invisible, Eric. You're among the most visible. You wear makeup and stake out ground that no one else walks on. It draws the light to you . . . ." 

I didn't hear the rest of what Steve said. I held my breath as I moved my hand over him. His nipples were hard, and had a hint of hair around them. He had a narrow, thick mat of hair on his chest. As I moved my hands to his belt, I felt the same hair leading from his navel to his crotch.

I started to unbuckle his belt. I was disappointed when he told me to stop. "Not here," he said, "not like this."




The Boy in Makeup



"Why not?"

"One, they're going to come looking for us soon. I don't think they should find us rolling around on the bathroom floor. Two, I don't want my first time with you to be on a bathroom floor."

"With me?" I asked.

"I'm not a virgin."

"I am. Mostly."

"Mostly? You either are or you're not."

"I made a guy come once," I said, ignoring the events of the bathroom stall as too sordid to share. 

"Evans?"

"How'd you know?"

"I was jealous."

"Really?"

"Yes. Very much . . . . Since it's confession time, I have one. I'm really nervous about this. I've never been with a guy. Ever."

"Are you sure you want to be," I asked, standing up, and preparing myself to return to the table. 

"I'm sure I want to be with you," he answered, certainly. "I have for a couple of years."

With my mother sober, there was no reason for her to spend the night, and she didn't. I did. When we got back to the table, Steve asked his mother and my mother if it was alright if I stayed. 

My mother raised an eyebrow and asked to talk to me one on one before answering. We went to the family room, and she asked about my abrupt and extended departure from the table. I was honest with her, even though I feared I'd wound her, and I had never wounded her before. 

"I just couldn't take the pretense. We were all just sitting there, ignoring the betrayal and the damage and the dishonesty. I had to get away. I couldn't control my thoughts. They were pinging and racing and out of control."

"Son, with all due respect, you don't know as much as you think you know." She then proceeded to tell me about the Lustig's marriage, which apparently had been sexless for a decade and joyless for longer than that. Mrs. Lustig had long taken a "don't ask, don't tell" approach toward her husband and whatever he did without her.

For the first time, she didn't comfort me when I told her my thoughts were uncontrollable. She must have trusted that I had worked through it. Or, she was more interested in her self than in me.

My mother's explanation did not assuage my concerns. But, they were at least cast in a different light, encased in a different context. I didn't head toward Steve with a clear conscience, but it was clearer than it had been.

Mollified, my mother headed home knowing that I was not in jeopardy. I don't know what I was in, but it wasn't jeopardy.

Chapter Eleven

"How do we do this?" Steve asked as we settled on the floor of the family room, sitting cross-legged and stripped to our underpants. It was obvious we were both excited about what was about to happen.

"Beats me," I responded. "You've at least had sex before. I never have."

"It has to be pretty much the same."

"One would think."

"We should lie down," Steve insisted. We did, on our sides and face to face. Steve pressed his groin to mine and started rubbing against me. I gripped his hip and pulled him harder into me. Our foreheads were pressed together.

I rolled onto my back, pulling him on top of me. I raised my knees and spread my legs as Steve moved his hips and crotch against me. I was quickly headed over the edge, and I could tell he was, too. He breathed raggedly into my ear. "I'm so close."

"Me, too."

I shoved my hands down the back of his briefs and squeezed his cheeks as hard as I could. He panted and came, grunting as he did. I was so thrilled, I came, too, filling my briefs.

"Wow, that was pretty awesome."

I didn't think so. I was disappointed. I wanted to touch him with my hands and my mouth. I wanted to kiss him, lick him, suck him.

He rolled off of me and onto his back, announcing he needed to catch his breath.

"I'm taking my underwear off," I announced. "I don't want my cum to dry in them."

"That's a good idea. Me, either."

We stood up and stepped out of our briefs. For the first time, I was looking sexually at a live, naked man. Steve was looking back at me.

I had been right about his dark chest hair. I was a narrow patch, but it was thick. It stopped at his diaphragm and re-started at his navel, trailing down to a thick bush above and around his penis. It had felt large against me, and I could tell looking at him soft that he was hung, certainly moreso than I was. Like his arms, Steve's legs were also hairy and muscled, and the tops of his feet were hairy, too.

Mine were not. I had more hair on my chest and stomach, but it was blond and curly. My body was not as defined as Steve's, but it had come a long way in my two summers at the plant. I was just over 6 inches maxed out, and thick enough, although by no means thick. 

I got hard as a I looked at Steve, and I felt a desire from somewhere deep within to feel him inside me. "So, you've fucked girls?" I asked.

"One. Sally. A lot."

"You want to try with me?"

"Seriously?"

"Sure," I said, more confidently than I was. I moved to the floor, on my stomach. Steve moved behind me.

"I'm not sure how to do this," he said. 

"I don't want to oversimplify things," I said, "but I think it's pretty much the same. You slide in and start going."

"Help me in." 

I reached behind me, touched him for the first time, and guided him to my opening. He pushed, but nothing happened. He pushed again, but nothing happened again.

"I think we need something," I said. "Like lotion or oil." 

"You're probably right. Sally's always soaked when we have sex. I slide right in."

He left and returned with Extra Virgin Olive Oil from the kitchen. When he showed it to me, I laughed at the "Extra Virgin" promise. He caught my drift and started laughing, too.

We were both nervous, but we were also both having fun.

When we were re-positioned, he poured some on him and poured way too much into my crack. It did the trick. Both of us were slippery, and it was much easier for him to push in. I gasped when his head pushed past my ring. He was thicker even than he looked.

"Stop, please."

"Am I hurting you?"

"Of course."

"You want me to pull out?"

"Of course not. Just let me catch my breath." I paused for what seemed like forever, but was probably only a matter of seconds. "Okay, I think I'm ready for more. Please go slow."

I'm sure Steve thought he was going slow, but he wasn't. He was only 18, so slow was not in his bones. He pushed the rest of the way in.

I had never heard the noise that came from within me as he filled me. It was somewhere between a low moan and a deep gasp. I hadn't realized it, but I was biting my forearm to stifle whatever noise I wanted to make.

"Please hold still."

"I'm not sure I can."

"You have to."

I was sweating. I felt full. Somehow, I also felt happy. I loved the feeling of being covered and full. I felt something inside me give. Steve gasped when it did.

"Eric, can I move now? I'm about to come."

"Yes, but please go slow."

Steve pulled slowly out and then lowered himself slowly back in. I felt a little pain and a lot of excitement.

"Oh my God," Steve whispered in my ear. "You're so smooth and tight and warm."

Combined with the rubbing of my dick against the sleeping bag, the whispering sent me over the edge, and I finished. I must have clenched as I did, because Steve twitched and finished inside me. He grunted as he did.

Neither of us moved. Steve relaxed on top of me, and we both tried to get our minds around what we had just done. Steve slid his fingers between mine. His hands were large and strong. He softened and slid out of me.

"Was that horrible?" he asked, in a gentle whisper.

"Not at all. I kind of liked it."

"Really?"

"Did you?"

"Sure. A lot. It was super tight."

"I liked it, too, I think."

"Didn't it hurt?"

"Some. But, the thrill kind of drowned that out, after a bit."

"Can I do it again?"

"Sure. When you're ready." 

I rolled out from under him and took him in my hand. I wanted to really touch him. He was warm and soft and tender. His glans was silky. It was not long before he was hardening in my hand. 

I rolled onto my stomach and guided him back in. He was flat on my back again, moving in and out of me. He lasted a lot longer. I loved the feeling of him moving in and out of me, the sound of his breath quickening as he moved closer and closer to the edge, the thickening of him as he grunted "Oh God" and filled me.

We were both sweating when he rolled off of me, onto his back, and ran his hands through his hair. "Wow," was all he said.

I scrambled over him. I straddled him, took myself in my hand, and brought myself over the edge. I coated his stomach and chest. He winced a little when the first jolt hit him. I don't think he was thrilled by the idea of being coated. I was. I felt like I was marking him.

Steve discreetly left to clean himself up. When he was back, so did I.

When I returned, Steve was on back, his underwear back on. I settled next to him, put my head on his shoulder, and played with his chest hair.

"Can I ask you a question?" I asked.

"Another one?" Steve responded, sophomorically.

"Sure," I answered, dismissively.

"How did that compare to having sex with a girl."

"Funny, I was just thinking about the same thing. It's close. It's harder at first, but, once you get going, it feels pretty much the same. Definitely tighter, but I suspect that depends on the girl. I suspect a virgin girl is close to a virgin guy. I don't know for sure, I've never taken anyone's cherry. Sally's pretty loose."

"You took my cherry."

"I don't think guys have cherries."

"It sure felt like I did."

I tickled Steve's chest and stomach. I tickled him through his underwear. 

"It'll be good practice for you," I offered.

"I guess it will."

"Will you take your underwear back off?"

"Sure," he answered, raising his hips and sliding them off. I returned my hand to him, tickling his balls, his length, his pelvis, and his taint.

"Does that feel good?" I asked.

"Yes. Very."

"Do you want me to try to give you blow job?"

"Sure. If you're up for it."

"I am," I answered, showing him my hard on through my briefs and laughing at the play on words.

I moved between his legs. I wasn't sure what to do, but my limited experience reading gay porn suggested it was not a difficult task. I licked my lips and moved my mouth toward him. The smell emanating from his crotch made me lightheaded. As when my fingers touched it, his glans was silky and smooth on my tongue. Steve twitched when they made contact. I encircled him with my mouth. I heard another low moan as I did. I cupped his balls with my left hand and started moving my mouth up and down his length. Steve started raising his hips to match my rhythm. Before long, he tapped me on the shoulder and said "I'm close." I think he was trying to warn me so I could pull off, but there was no way I was pulling off. I wanted him to come in my mouth. I wanted the full experience of my first blow job. And, I wanted to bring him as much pleasure as I could.

"Oh, God, I'm gonna come, I'm gonna come," Steve cried out, just before filling my mouth. It was his fourth load in less than two hours, so it was weak and small. I didn't care. I swallowed it all. It was bitter and salty and delicious and made me gag a little and then made me very, very happy.

I kept at it until Steve insisted that I stop. I moved to his balls and his thighs, kissing and licking and not wanting the experience ever to end.

"How was I?" I asked.

"Awesome."

"As good as a girl?"

"I don't know. I've never gotten a blow job before."

"Really? Sally doesn't blow you?"

"No. She let's me fuck her, but she barely touches my dick, usually only to help me in. She won't even consider sucking it."

"I'll suck it whenever you want."

"I'm going to want a lot."

I hoped so.

We fell asleep naked. When we awoke, light was streaming into the room, and we could hear dishes in the kitchen. I wondered if Steve's parents had checked on us. If they had, there's be no mistaking what had happened. We were in the same sleeping bag, wrapped around each other. 

We dressed hurriedly. Steve didn't look at me, much less talk to me. He sent me into the kitchen first. Apparently, I was the scout.

"Good morning, Eric," Mr. Lustig greeted me. "Did you sleep well?"

"I did."

I sat down to a cup of coffee. As I sipped it, I realized that, even if Mr. Lustig had looked in on us, he could not say a word. He'd have to keep our secret if he expected me to keep his.

Steve came into the kitchen from the bathroom. After I'd left the family room, he rolled up the sleeping bags and tucked the Olive Oil into the center of one of them. He'd have to sneak it back when no one was looking.

I couldn't read Steve. I couldn't tell if his aloofness was a mask or regret.

When breakfast was over, I asked if I could use the telephone to call my mother to retrieve me. "No need," said Mr. Lustig. "I'll drive you."

"Let Steve do it," Mrs. Lustig offered.

"That's okay. I'll do it. I want to talk to Eric. And, I want to swing by the plant for a bit. There'll be no one there. I'll catch up on some paperwork, undisturbed.'

I knew it was all a ruse. There's be no trip to the plant. 

Chapter Twelve

We weren't even out of the driveway when Mr. Lustig asked "How long has that been going on?"

"What?"

"Don't play coy, Eric. I'm not blind. Or stupid."

"Last night was the first time."

"For you, for him, or for both."

"For both."

"Are you being honest with me?"

"Well, we made out some a couple of years ago. But, that stopped when Steve's friends saw him with me and joked about me being his 'date.'"

"I wondered what happened between the two of you. I asked Steve, and all he would say was 'nothing.'"

"It wasn't nothing to me."

We stopped behind of our building, and Mr. Lustig turned off the car. I knew he wasn't going to the plant.

"Is Steve gay?"

"I don't know. I don't think you can tell with 18 year olds. They experiment a lot."

"I can tell with you."

"I think I'm a special case. I wouldn't make footprints on a beach."

"Maybe."

"Would it bother you if he is?"

"Of course."

"Does it bother you that I'm gay?"

"No."

"Then why would it bother you if he's gay?"

"I don't know. I guess maybe it shouldn't. But it would. It just would. He's my son."

"Please don't ever tell him that. No one should hear that from a parent."

We were quiet for awhile. "You going in?" I asked.

"Yes."

"I'll stay out here."

My mother was at the salon that day 12-8, so she was home when Mr. Lustig knocked. I napped in the car, avoiding whatever filled the 45 minutes he was inside.

Our apartment was visible from many others. Our neighbors had to wonder about the strange car that was always out back or the man that disappeared inside for brief respites. I did not see how my mother's affair was not going to become a public spectacle. I prayed mine would not, if it was an affair I was having.

*****

I didn't talk to Steve all weekend. I didn't call him, and he didn't call me.

I did have to talk to my mother about him. While I napped in the car, Mr. Lustig told my mother that her son and his son had spent Thanksgiving night exploring each other.

My mother was like a high school girl. She wanted to hear all about it. I'm generally afraid of secrets, but this felt like one I needed to cherish, not fear. I deflected my mother's inquiries, insisting it would be weird to share details with her. "I don't want to know yours, and I don't want to tell you mine."

She relented on details, but insisted on knowing the scope of our relationship and where I thought it was headed.

"I don't think there's a relationship," I said. "For all I know, it was a one shot deal." I laughed at my minimization (it had at least been a four shot deal). When my mother asked why I was laughing, I deflected her again.

"Whatever happened with Evans?" she asked, ripping the scab off a pretty fresh wound. I told her about the letter I had received, another secret I had cherished, not feared. I dug it out from under the shoebox I kept in the hall closet and let her read it. Tears ran down her cheeks as she finished.

"That poor boy," she said.

"I can't understand a parent doing that."

"Me, either," she agreed. "It's terribly, terribly wrong. It makes me sad and sick. It makes me want to visit the Fowlers and give them what for. It makes me want to scream."

I knew my mother's rage resided in her fear that Evans' parents' actions would make him feel like he had only one way out. And that he'd take it, like my father had.

"Me, too," I agreed. Tears were now running down my cheeks, too. But mine were tears of happiness, at not being a Fowler, of being an Akers, of not being alone, of having a mother who loved me, accepted me, embraced me, and shaded me.

*****

To my great relief, Steve was at my locker when I got to school on Monday morning. I was pensive about his presence until he said "Hi, Cupcake."

I answered by whispering "I wish you wouldn't call me that."

"I have to. For appearances. Plus, you'd rather be a cupcake than a cookie, right?"

"Right."

"Anyway, I slipped something in your locker. Read it, but not until you get home. Do not read it here. Think about it after you read it. And then let's talk about it."

I was thrilled to find the envelope Steve had left. I folded it over and tucked it in my front pocket for safekeeping.

I read it as I walked home that day:

It's Friday morning. You just left with my dad. I'm going to write this down before I chicken out.

I'm a little freaked out about last night.

I'm not sure why I did what we did. I'm not sure what it means. I've always had a soft spot for you. I'm not sure why. 

I'm not sure what happens going forward. But, I know that what happened last night, and whatever happens going forward, has to be vaulted. You can't tell anyone, not even Lori. We have to act at school like nothing's changed between us. We can be casual, but we can't be friends. I'm stronger now than I was two years ago, but I'm not strong enough for innuendo and rumors. I won't run from them (I'm still very sorry about that!), but I can't court them.

I want you to spend the night Friday.

Please tear this into as many pieces as you can and then burn those pieces. Then bury them. 

I read the note over and over as I waited for my mother to get home from work. At one level, the idea of "whatever happens going forward" thrilled me. On another, the whole idea of pretending all day every day scared me. Witnessing it over a dinner had sent me spiraling. Doing it every day - and worrying about what would happen if the pretense failed - might overwhelm me.

My mother raised one eyebrow as she read the note. It was a skill I had inherited and that I had used for great effect, especially at school with teachers.

"What do you think?" I asked, when she looked up.

"I'm not sure. What do you think?"

"I'm not sure, either. On the one hand, I'd like to see where this goes. On the other hand, I'm afraid it will go to a bad place, especially if innuendo and rumors start swirling."

"You should plan on that happening. You have over half the school year left. You boys'll slip up, and the fishbowl will fill."

"I know. I'm fine with it."

"That's easier for you, Eric. Innuendo and rumors have swirled around you your entire life. Not everyone has experienced the same sort of scrutiny. Most people don't start a journey together from the same spot. One's always ahead of the other, at least a little. You can't insist that Steve or anyone else be where you are, at least to start."

"So, you think I should be okay with this?"

"I think you have to figure out what you're in for. I think you have to figure out how strong you are. I think you have to figure out what you want. I can't answer any of those questions for you. I can tell you what I would do, but I'm not you. And, you're not me. You certainly wouldn't have made some of the choices I've made."