Foolish Fire (10 page)

Gradually, I realized I was in another place, a tropical land far away. Was this another dream? I only knew that I’d been picking my way carefully through the midst of some fabulous Grecian ruins, searching for something. The twilight sky was tinged orange and violet. All of a sudden I became aware of a faint movement in the corner of my eye. I turned and saw my quarry slipping away down a flight of wide, shallow steps.

I gave chase, pounding after the other—something or someone—whose face I couldn’t get close enough to recognize. All I knew was that I had to catch it. Down torturous twists and turns…past tottering pillars and narrowing walls…into a labyrinthine maze of neatly-trimmed hedges…false passageways and secret doors…down tunnels lit by the smoky glare of torches.

We ended up in a vast, empty stadium whose hugeness seemed to swallow me up. As I raced across its smooth marble floor, the echoes of my footsteps sounded faint and far off. But I somehow knew I was near the end of my chase. My quarry was heading toward a semi-circular amphitheater at the far end. And it was here that I finally cornered it.

Upon the wide, stage-like setting, I waited with trepidation and unmitigated horror for it to turn around and expose its face—a face which some dread premonition in the instant before it turned around told me would be that of a slimy, repulsive monster.

And it was.

And now it was my turn to escape the horror, down twisting alleyways which led through unknown catacombs, my breath coming shorter and shorter until I bolted awake with an agonized groan which still sounded in my blood-thrumming ears even after my eyes were wide open, staring up at my bedroom ceiling.

I sat up and turned the bedside lamp on, then got out of bed and went over to my desk, pulled out the chair and sat down. A glance at the clock told me it was two-thirty in the morning. No one else would be awake at this hour. Slowly I lowered my head onto my hands, resting my throbbing temple on the desk-top.

I thought again of what I’d read in
What Every Boy Should Know
: “…it is quite common for a boy to develop romantic attachments to another of the same sex….” And: “In most cases, this condition weakens and disappears as one gets older….”

It was all temporary. Of course it was.

But how many other boys were going through this phase? Surely I couldn’t be the only one. Lately, there was so much talk about homosexuality in school that it seemed to be the only thing people talked about anymore. In fact, most of the boys seemed fascinated with the topic. Words like “queer,” “faggot,” and “fairy” had entered all their vocabularies. Other words like “cocksucker” and “butt-fucker” were so common that they were no longer applied to just queers. Homosexuality was a popular theme for jokes and insults. Some boys (no doubt, so assured of their own heterosexuality that they had nothing to fear) made jokes like: “You better not bend over in the showers if you know what’s good for you,” rubbing the front of their shorts suggestively. I laughed along with them, secretly wondering how they could be so unconcerned.

Most boys, however, made no secret of the disgust they felt toward fags. I suspected it stemmed from their uncertainty about themselves. Maybe they, too, were “going through a period of physical changes and curiosity.”

Strangely enough, some of the most outspoken denouncers of homosexuality were those handsome athletes who were no doubt the very type most desired by the tormented fags. I wondered if there was a direct correlation between their good looks and their discomfort with homosexuality.

They never missed an opportunity to jeer at any boy whom they considered less than masculine with their favorite phrase of contempt—even for obviously straight boys—”goddamn faggot.” The very way they pronounced the word “faggot” left no doubt in anyone’s mind that it was the lowest form of insult they could find in their vocabulary: drawing the “f” sound out like a harsh, punitive sibilant, exploding the rest in a glottal rush, finishing up with their lips twisted into a disdainful sneer. The progressive changes of expression as they said it—from grimace to snarl to sneer—was a visible manifestation of their hatred for the whole tribe.

Accusations of homosexuality were rife, whether they were warranted or not. These accusations ranged from subdued whispers in lowered voices to open taunts and malicious denunciations. In every boys’ room, the walls were covered with the inglorious saga of some poor persecuted kid. The amount of graffiti devoted to homosexuals shocked me, and I sensed beneath the ostensible loathing a secret, fascinated interest.

Certain names were repeated so often, and were so ubiquitous, that they gained a notoriety, a celebrity, even. Naturally, Mark Warren’s was the most prominent among them. He seemed to bear the brunt of a tremendous amount of hatred—his name was practically a byword throughout the school, appearing on bathroom walls with increasing frequency.

It was like a continuing saga, the way his name traveled through the school. In the boys’ room of the language arts building, I’d read:
Mark Warren is a faggot.
In the boys’ room next to the study hall was:
M. W. sucks dicks.
But for me, the most fascinating of all was the one in the boys’ room of the main admin building:
Mark W. gave me a blow job right here on Feb. 19.
It had a certain earthy reality to it—like journalistic reportage. I thought of my encounter with him in the music room. What if I had been a little too careless (or more brave?) and had let it happen? The very thought of it gave me an ambiguous feeling of horrified wonder.

Ever since that day behind the gym, none of the boys would talk to him. His only friends now were girls. I’d been trying not to think of him, to put him out of my mind, and had succeeded so well that I barely noticed his presence in class. It was as if he didn’t exist anymore.

*

About a week later, just before the start of PE class, I noticed a group of boys huddled near the foot of the bleachers. They were discussing something furtively in low excited voices. I edged nearer to hear what they were saying.

It seemed they were talking about something that had happened at a Boy Scout camp-out on the previous weekend. From listening to bits of the conversation, a rough picture emerged: In an isolated and hidden grove not far from the tents a certain boy had been held down roughly by a group of stronger boys. Though he’d struggled and whimpered and cried, there was nothing he could do to stop the ruthless procession of boys who each took his turn with him: it was a gang-bang.

“Heinemann went twice.”

The boys guffawed.

I looked at them. They’d grown silent and were holding their breaths, their faces pale with excitement, their eyes glowing feverishly. There was a dangerous tension in the air which could swing at any moment toward sudden violence or innocent laughter.

A small boy whose voice hadn’t broken yet piped in: “You mean up the ass?”

“Right up the old poop-chute.”

The boys broke into laughter and began shoving the smaller boy roughly around, but in a joshing, comradely manner which indicated that he was one of them.

It was at this moment that I finally asked casually as I joined them, “Who was it?”

“Mark Warren.”

“The faggot?”

They nodded, looking at me with superior jeering grimaces which twisted their faces into ugly masks. I felt a sudden chill as I tried to hide my shock.

“So that’s why he hasn’t been in school lately,” was all I said.

The coach’s whistle pierced the air and we straggled toward the open court and into exercise formation.

Teen Confessions

Bobby looked different this year; he had definitely grown much taller and heavier since last summer. He’d been thin back then, even scrawny. Now as he got out of the family van, I noted how much more filled out his chest was. He seemed so self-confident about his new physical maturity that it was I who felt a little bashful at meeting him.

We didn’t have much chance to talk during dinner, though our eyes met constantly. It was only after we’d retired to my room where I helped him unpack his clothes that I felt we’d been reunited at last.

My mother joined us soon afterwards, and we helped her set up the camping cot which Bobby always used. We watched her spread crisp clean sheets on it and then unfold a green and black camping blanket she’d pulled out from my closet. As she took one of the pillows from my bed and fluffed it out before putting it on Bobby’s cot, she said, “Why don’t you boys come down and watch some TV with us? I’ll be making popcorn.”

I looked at Bobby before replying, “Naw, we have a lot to catch up on.”

She smiled. “All right. But be sure and take your showers by ten o’clock. A lot of people will be using the bathroom tonight.”

Down below we could hear my little sister and Bobby’s two sisters making a racket. As soon as my mother had gone I lay back on my bed and Bobby lay back on the cot.

During our first few moments alone together, I felt an awkwardness which had never been there before. Perhaps it was because I was conscious of what an attractive boy he was turning out to be. I’d never thought of him as good-looking before.

Also, I felt nervous thinking about the games we’d played last summer. They would definitely qualify as “mutual explorations”…that dreaded phrase which now sounded like an accusation.

But last summer’s games seemed to be the farthest thing from his mind. “Wow. Seems like only yesterday I was here. Nothing’s changed.”

“Yeah.”

“You look a lot bigger, Guy.”

“I do? You know, I was just thinking the same thing about you.” I knew I was getting taller because my mother’s friends always told me so, but I never thought of myself as being any bigger than I’d been when junior high was just starting. It didn’t seem so long ago. And here it was, already our last summer vacation before high school.

“You know,” I said, “I can’t believe I’m really going to high school in the fall.”

“How do you feel about it?”

“A little scared. I don’t know if I’m ready yet. High school always seemed so far off.”

“Yeah, I feel the same,” he said. “But at the same time, I’m glad to be getting out of junior high. I’m tired of being a kid all the time.”

“Really? A part of me still wants to be a kid….”

“You know, this will be the last summer I come here.”

“Why’s that?” I sat up.

“Once I start high school, I’ll probably work part-time to save up money for college. That means I’ll be getting a summer job next year.”

“Oh.” This was news to me. Somehow I’d always assumed that Bobby would show up every summer, and we would compare notes and share secrets before parting again. This time there would be nothing to look forward to when he left. Summer would no longer bring him back to me. He would be growing away from me now.

Suddenly he asked, “What are you thinking about right now, Guy?”

“Why do you always ask that question?” It was true—he often asked it of me, usually at the most uncomfortable times.

“Oh, I don’t know. You looked so deep in thought.”

“I was just blanking out, I guess. It happens sometimes.”

“Are you sad that this is the last summer I’m coming?”

“Damned right. We sure had some good times, didn’t we?”

“Yeah.”

“Remember that time we snuck down to the living room after midnight just to watch that horror movie on TV?”

“Yeah, and you pretended to fall asleep when the scary part came.”

“I was really asleep, I tell you.”

“Sure you were….”

And suddenly it was like old times. We challenged each other to see how far back we could remember. As we recalled specific events from our past, I began to realize that Bobby was perhaps the one who understood me better than anyone, despite the fact that the actual time we’d spent together couldn’t compare to the time I’d spent with my school friends. We must have been talking for about an hour when Bobby yawned.

“Think it’s time we hit the sack?” I said.

“Yeah. It sure was a long drive.”

“You wanna take a shower first, or should I?”

“You go ahead.”

After we’d both taken our showers and were dressed in pajamas, I said, “Let’s trade places this time. You sleep in the bed and I’ll take the cot.”

“Sounds okay to me.”

I turned out the lights and we settled comfortably into our respective beds and lay for a while looking idly up at the ceiling. Before sleeping, I always liked to imagine the whirls and grains in the wood as waves, faces, goblins, eyes…. It helped me fall asleep. But tonight I was thinking of last year, and what those goblins and faces probably remembered.

“Guy,” said Bobby suddenly in a solemn tone, “I’m kind of worried.”

“About what?”

“I think I beat off too much.”

“What? Are you serious?” I got up on one elbow to look at him.

“Yes.”

“How much is ‘too much’?”

“Almost every day. Sometimes twice a day.”

“Oh, that’s normal for kids our age,” I said with some authority.

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah, I read it in a book.”

“Well, I’m glad to hear that. I thought I was a sex fiend.”

“You’re a sex fiend, all right, but not ’cause you beat off.” I tried to picture him masturbating, then felt guilty. “Come on,” I said. “Let’s get to sleep.”

I lay back down and turned onto my side facing away from him but was distracted again by his hoarse furtive whisper:

“Hey, Guy, remember the stuff we did last summer? Wasn’t that crazy?”

“Yeah.” I held my breath.

“Who could have guessed what we were up to?”

“Come on, go to sleep, will you? I’m trying to fall asleep.” But his talk was causing flutters in my stomach, a cool heaviness in my rectum.

“I was just—”

“Listen, I’ve outgrown all that stuff, okay?” I had a sudden vision of how his erection had looked, and was afraid of what the talk might lead to. “Only fags do that kind of stuff anymore.”

“Maybe you’re right,” he said in a small voice.

“You know what a fag is, don’t you?”

“Of course. We have fags at our school, too, you know.”

He’d obviously learned a lot since last summer. He’d been so innocent back then—he and I both. I thought of the fun we’d had together, and how ignorant I’d been of the significance of it. Now I knew better. It might have qualified as exploration last year, but not anymore. So many things had happened to me since. I’d learned too much to continue the innocent games we’d played so joyously, so dangerously, and so foolishly….

In the darkness the curtains at the window glowed softly in the moonlight but nothing was distinguishable in the room. My heart felt constricted and I was unable to speak. The silence of the sleeping house filled up the whole universe, punctuated by the ticking of the alarm clock on the bedside table.

My legs felt all weak; if I’d been standing, I might have collapsed. I brought my knees up.

He sighed loudly. The blood was thumping in my ears with a hollow sound. But I would be a good boy. I couldn’t afford another slip. I had to wean myself from those “childish activities which some boys go through—but which they soon outgrow.”

*

I must have drifted asleep, for a loud click startled me awake. Actually the sound hadn’t been loud at all—but there is a stage between sleep and wakefulness when the slightest noise will give you a jolt.

My first thought was that it was the bedroom door opening. I glanced toward the door but it was shut. Then I remembered Bobby was spending the night with me. Perhaps he’d just stepped out to go to the toilet.

No—I could hear the wooden floorboards creaking softly. Maybe he’d just come back from a trip to the bathroom. What time was it? I couldn’t locate the clock immediately. And then I realized I was sleeping on the cot. The clock was over on the bedside table.

For some reason, Bobby wasn’t getting into his bed but was standing somewhere near my cot. What was he doing?

I heard a soft breath, then a stifled cough as if he’d cleared his throat.

And then I felt a sudden startling coolness. He’d lifted the corner of my blanket. Was he planning a prank? I decided to ignore him, pretending to be still asleep.

“Hey, Guy,” he whispered.

Or had he? He’d said it so softly that I couldn’t tell if he was just clearing his throat.

I tensed up, expecting the thump of a pillow slamming against my head. But instead, a completely unexpected thing happened. The covers came down again, and I felt warmth.

He was in the cot with me. Under the same covers as me.

Was this a joke? I didn’t budge and continued feigning sleep, all the while aware of each thump of my heart, the warm press of his body all along my back. He was lying still, and I could feel the soft breaths he took, the rise and fall of his chest. Because the cot had become depressed where we both lay, our two bodies were drawn together.

I could smell the toothpaste he’d used earlier, a different brand from mine.

He didn’t seem to be clowning, though. If he were going to do something, he’d have done it already. More likely, he’d gone to the bathroom and forgotten I was in the cot he usually used. He’d slipped in without knowing. That was it.

But then, shouldn’t I tell him of his mistake? I’d better do it soon, before he fell asleep again; but maybe he was sleeping already. Why wake him? I was afraid even to budge to check out this fact. I was only aware of the throbbing in my ears, the sweat in my armpits, the churning in my stomach.

How long would this go on? Through my half-opened eyes the ghostly outline of the bedside table gradually became clearer. I could almost make out the clock’s face atop it. The faint green glow coming from its numerals were like secret glimmers from another world. My mouth was dry but I was afraid to swallow. My gulp would be loud in the stillness.

Should I jump up and laugh, make a noise, any sound? This joke of his had certainly misfired; it served him right for pulling a stunt like this in the middle of the night. A joke was a joke, but this was carrying things too far. How long had it been going on? It seemed like an eternity of clock-ticking hell. I felt the sweat in my clenched palms.

There was a slight movement. He was backing away from me and getting up again. Had he realized his mistake? Or had he grown tired of the joke, the prank that didn’t come off? Or did he believe that I was asleep? I’d been careful to keep my breathing slow and even.

Like a dream he slipped away, and coolness once again returned. I continued my sleeping act. I heard soft footsteps pad back to the bed, the creaking of the springs as he got on, then silence.

Everything had seemed to occur in a trance-like stillness.

The ticking of the clock continued. Now wide awake, I knew I could never get back to sleep, if indeed I’d slept at all. The curtains were backlighted by the soft moonlight. I still didn’t dare budge—I was frozen into place, had lost all use of my muscles. I didn’t even dare turn over onto my other side. My heart was ratcheting in my chest.

An eternity later, I heard the sound of even breathing from the bed. And even then I didn’t move…until a dull, lifeless feeling in my arm under me told me that circulation had long ago ceased to that limb. I rolled onto my back so I could free my arm. It felt as if it didn’t belong to my body, a heavy, dead weight almost impossible to lift, even with the aid of my other arm. Carefully, I picked it up with my other hand and let it down with a thump. The tingling prickles of itchy pain crept up and down it as circulation returned.

*

When I opened my eyes it was morning. I had, after all, fallen asleep. Bobby had apparently already gotten up and opened the curtains, and I could hear him downstairs talking with his sisters. From where I lay on the cot I could see the sky outside, a dream-like shade of turquoise blue devoid of a single cloud.

A vapor trail was being etched on that azure slate by an invisible hand, a sight which inexplicably saddened me with its melancholy evocation of faraway places.

I thought of Bobby last night in the cot with me, snuggled against me. In the light of morning, it was beginning to seem more and more like some weird dream I’d had. I decided to forget about it.

And then suddenly an idea hit me. It seemed so bizarre that I had to digest it for a moment before I could realize its import. I thought with an airy sense of wonder: “What if Bobby understands everything, and is going through the same changes as me?” The thought was charged with an exciting blend of blasphemy, defilement, anarchy…and release.