Date: Wed, 04 Dec 2002 10:00:56 -0500
From: John Windham <Vindskinke@hotmail.com>
Subject: Rescued by Love: Chapter 1, John Windham

RESCUED BY LOVE:  Chapter 1, John Windham
Vindskinke@hotmail.com

I am so touched by the kind and thoughtful letters from the
readers.  Mr. T. this story seems to flaunt all your
excellent suggestions but it just did not fit into those
reasonable constraints.  My next effort will take to heart
your excellent tutelage.  3.00 words when a .50 word will
work are difficult.  Strange as it seems this is how I talk
and think.  I will try in the future I promise.

This is the story of coming of age realizing that I am
homosexual and things that happened as I discovered myself
and life.  If this is offensive please do not read further.
Comments and suggestions despite this seeming contradiction
are appreciated.

It is only fair when you wander thru memories dusty paths
and occluded trails that you allow those whose voices are
gone some small gesture of justice.  I had thought to visit
the realms of youth but even now I hesitate.  Events decades
old still exert power and intimidate.  I am astounded that
it is difficult for me at this moment as I write to admit my
fear of those long ago memories.

I was never attractive as far back as I can remember but
rather gawky, skinny with prominent front teeth and huge
ears.  It never dawned on me that my deep admiration for my
older cousin was anything but familial affection.  That he
was muscular and athletic was just part of his being John
Milton nothing unusual.  My being an unremarkable dusty
blond made his contrasting coal black hair and piercing blue
eyes all the more exotic.  He was always impeccably dressed
with expensive never worn before clothes.  His father was a
successful executive in a tobacco company rich beyond
anything I could imagine.  I was the not so grateful
recipient of his outgrown clothes that were only one or two
years old, that they were the finest quality never mitigated
the fact that my wardrobe was comprised of hand me downs.

Seeing John Milton on the occasional weekend visits they
made to Farmville banished all thoughts of being second
rate.  He had the magical ability to make me feel special
and normal.  I would wait hours on Mama Sula's front porch
checking every on coming car hoping it would be them.  He
would leap out of the car as soon as it stopped bounding
toward me his face alight with mischief and joy.  His plans
would be complex and involve forays into the jungles
bordering Mama's yard.  We even went so far as to the
graveyard sometimes on especially complex missions.  He
would be the wild ferocious lion that I had to track and
shoot.  I was terrified in the maze of tall grass bushes of
finding him because he would explode from nowhere pouncing
on me with ferocious roars.  He never forgot that the reward
for my terror would be having his arms wrapped around me in
comfort and kindness banishing my fears.

Between the eighth and ninth grade I noticed in the back of
Collier's magazine in tiny print a small ad for the
"Encyclopedia of Sex" for 19.99. No money was needed, read
now and pay later; I ordered it without any thought of how I
could pay for it.  I watched the mail for weeks afterwards
to no avail.  The idea of talking to anyone even John Milton
about sex was simply unthinkable.  I realized that `it' was
a dirty subject not to be discussed.  I missed the
obligatory demonstrations and heart to heart talks about
dicks and masturbation that other guys claim as universal
rites of passage.  When I reflect on that omission (good
choice of word) now I can only assume it was my being so
much the skinny misfit that was responsible.  Well, it
finally arrived in its cardboard suit and as promised plain
and unrevealing of the sins described within.  I opened it
with so small sense of guilt and trepidation.  I hid behind
my bed and the wall out of sight to open it.  Gasp, it had
drawings of the penis and vagina even the blood vessels and
layers of epidermis did not detract from the excitement. I
found new words, unpronounceable and unknown describing
things that I could barely understand. But it was enough for
me to be embarrassed and ashamed of my prurient interest.  I
had managed to hide my sin from everyone.  It was such a
relief that no one knew of this depravity, or that was what
I thought.

I had been hiding this tome from the devil for almost two
weeks.  It was pathetic that I was so weak that I could not
resist returning time and time again to its sordid pages.
My parents routinely disappeared into the joys of `Ancient
Age' every weekend.  At that point it was only the weekends.
A ritual as established as getting up for work on Monday.
It always started Friday afternoon and lasted until Sunday
late.  That Saturday night I was in my room in the front of
the house as usual trying to be invisible and never annoying
them by being in evidence.  My father came into my room,
something that was unusual in it-self. His barging in
unannounced left me with no opportunity to hide.  He asked
me where my new book was and of course I feigned ignorance.
It only took seconds for me to realize that would not work.
He got louder and louder as he demanded I find the book.
Finally cringing and scarlet with shame I pulled it out from
behind my bookcase.  His contemptuous sneer said it all.
What happened next is a kaleidoscope of shifting memories
and gut wrenching moments spat from that nights Technicolor
maw.  He yelled for my mother to come into the room.  When
she joined us she had the smeared lips blurred smile that
was a good match for my father's flushed inarticulate
harangue.  He demanded that I read the book to my mother.  I
was crying uncontrollably and shaking by this point.  He
took me by my shoulders and shook me with a teeth-shattering
vehemence yelling to read the god damned book.  I could
barely see the printing through the tears and shaking but I
tried to read nonetheless.  He put his face within inches of
mine and I was overcome by the combined stink of bourbon and
stale cigarettes, a stink that to this day when encountered
can end a friendship. Read, god damnit you fucking sissy,
read it to you mother.  I dropped the book no longer able to
control my hands or bladder and he pushed me into the corner
of my room.  He jerked his belt off and started lashing me
with it for what seemed like hours.  It was probably only
seconds but seemed interminable. I cannot remember
accurately from this point my mind starts to blur and
obfuscate the incident.  I think my mother yelled at him to
stop.  They both started laughing and she grabbed the book
as they left the room. My bladder had emptied and my shorts
were not only drenched but I was standing in a cold pool of
urine.  My back, arms and chest were vividly branded with
the masterfully rendered cuneiform calligraphy of his belt.
I am assuming that I lost consciousness for an undetermined
span of time because I remember realizing that I was sitting
in my cold urine with my body and soul burning with
humiliation.

I never saw the book again and neither of my parents ever
mentioned their visit to my room.

The next time John Milton visited he was relentless in his
questions about my reticence and lack of interest in our
usual games.  Now I realize he must have sensed that
something was amiss.  I was to humiliated and ashamed to
sully him with my depravity.  Bonnie his elegant and
beautiful mother had a large box of his out grown clothes
and wanted to see if they were the correct size.  John
Milton took the box into Mama's extra bedroom and picked out
something's for me to try on.  I stupidly forgot about the
welts on my torso as I slipped off my shirt to try on one of
the new ones.  He gasped and said Johnny what happened to
you.  It was at that moment it dawned on me that I had
forgotten about last weekend's encounter.  I cringed from
his attention and grabbed the first thing beside me trying
to cover the result of my sick curiosity.  I will never
forget how he came to me in the twilight shadows of that
cavernous room and put his arms around me drawing me into
the comfort of his arms.  He did not mind my tears as they
soaked his Sunday shirt and just kept whispering to me, that
it was ok and I would be all right.  He had no idea about
what I had done but forgave me unconditionally.  He told me
about hearing his parents talking about how I was treated.
Evidently they had been worried for years.  He wanted to
tell them about the belt marks.  I made him promise to not
tell because it would mean much more punishment.  He asked
what I had done to get a lashing such as this.

I blushed a scarlet red, the guilt vividly etched on my
face.  The harder I tried to tell him the more I cried
unable to reveal my sick secret.  He held my face so that my
eyes could not avoid his penetrating examination.  He had
never stopped holding me thru all of this interchange.  I
will never forget the searing heat of his closeness. His
body was my shield and protection.  Finally in an almost
inaudible whisper I told him the sequence of events from the
books arrival to that Saturday night a week ago.  He grimly
listened to it all without comment.  When I finished and
tried to pull away in my shame and humiliation he held me
more tightly and with a grim smile of determination shook
himself as if to be rid of the whole thing.  I mistook his
reaction for rejection and fought against his encompassing
arms to no avail.  Stop it Johnny I love you and you are not
getting away from me.  Stop trying to escape.

I could not believe my ears.  John Milton was not only
forgiving me but also telling me he loved me. All I could do
was blubber inarticulate apologies for my behavior and
conduct.

Hindsight is a wonderful arbiter for our memories vagaries
and distortions.  Now I realize just how loving and giving
this wonderful cousin was to me. He had not only been
unfazed by my confessions but had enjoyed holding me as much
as I enjoyed being held.  John Milton did not have a single
homosexual bone (excuse the word) in his body but his love
for me was a powerful honest force that would not be denied.
I realize now that he must have sensed more about me than I
knew myself.  He promised not to reveal my secret but made
me promise I would never hide anything else from him. His
love and affection allowed me to pretend that nothing had
happened and that I was `ok'.  He looked into my eyes that
afternoon and demanded my honesty from that moment on.  His
bright but loving eyes never left mine as he leaned in and
kissed me lightly on the lips.  He smiled at my look of
shock.  When I started crying again with soft snuffles he
kissed each eye so very gently.

I love you little Johnny you will never have to worry about
anything when I am around.  This time it was my body that
moved pulling him unresisting into a kiss of quiet
submission and agreement. That was the last kiss we ever
shared.

Later that year the cruelest blow of all was delivered and
no one but the two of us even knew it had happened.  John
Milton was sent away to the exclusive but impossibly distant
school of Woodberry Forest.  Now I was completely alone with
my ugliness and strange ideas.  I had never felt a real
integral part of things but the isolation became more acute
as my fears grew.  I was afraid to look in a mirror.  Now
the image reflected was so embarrassing that I avoided
windows, glass doors also any and every reflective surface.
I did not have to worry about hand me downs because John
Milton now wore only uniforms.  I was given nothing used
much less new to wear, the clothes that I had, were
increasingly worn and ill fitting.  It was at this time that
I stumbled onto the joy of wearing black.   The clothes
could be too tight or loose and one never noticed if they
were black.

My salvations in those last years of high school were the
benevolence and love my aunt and grandmother unstintingly
provided.  It was to their home that I would retreat on the
weekends to escape the stink of never emptied ashtrays and
the perfume of spilt bourbon. Their behavior was never
mentioned by either Delphia or Mama Mabel; but they never
failed to insist that I be allowed to visit.

It was to this nest of soft chenille and pink satin that I
sought refuge.

Their bathroom was an exciting adventure into another world
of finding that eyes could be disguised by mascara, lips
intensified with a harlot's scarlet and cheeks permanently
blushing. I would spend blocks of lost time experimenting
with these paints and unguents.  I was repeatedly drawn to
the siren's call of those perfumed paints, never admitting
or realizing the consequences of my actions.

The summer before my senior year my father was transferred
to Richmond, Virginia.  It was decided without my input that
I would stay with Mama Sula because she was alone and needed
the company. This was to allow me to finish my last year in
Farmville before I joined them in Virginia.   I of course
had no choice but to acquiesce but the first week I signaled
my first act of defiance.  I told Mama Sula that I would be
staying with Mama Mabel and Delphia on the weekends.  She
was not a happy grandmother.  To say that there was no love
lost between the two was a gross understatement. My father
tried to intercede from afar but I simply ignored him.

Please forgive my digression but let me explain a bit of
background about my parents.  I think it explains a great
deal. Let's allow the chips to fly and land where they
might.  My mother was the valedictorian of their graduating
class.  My father a star quarterback with a promising future
with his appointment to West Point.  They were the exciting
exemplars of beauty brains and brawn.

One hot night of their senior year in High School they were
drinking with Babs and Bill on a double date.  A dare from
their friends was just enough impetus to cause them to throw
life and caution away.  They searched, as they continued to
drink and enjoy the evening's adventures, for a justice of
the peace to get married.  They were intent on proving their
resolution to get married.  In those times a little money,
enthusiasm and witnesses were all that was needed to
sanctify the union of marriage.  So late that Saturday night
or was it Sunday morning no one was ever certain, Doris and
JT got married.  But by the dawn of Sunday morning all four
realized just what a catastrophe had happened.  They vowed
to tell no one.  The time for graduation was now about to
dawn.  JT would have to swear that he was single and had no
intention to marry because he was to be a West Point
enrollee.  Doris said nothing.  Babs and Bill said nothing.
When the time came for JT to accept the conditions for
school he crumbled.  He admitted he was married and could
not attend the academy.  Both families were horrified and
disgusted.  The high school sweet hearts were married and
life was about to begin on the foundation of an inebriated
wager.

These two beauties, the stars of their senior class were now
the captured creatures of circumstance and hubris.
They did not really want to plunge into the joys of
marriage.

Actually they felt a certain antipathy for each other's
bodies.  Sex became the last thing they wanted to push.
They maintained an outward facade of a convivial couple. But
in truth they slept apart as much as possible and the only
time their orbits intersected was after a lot of alcohol and
false bravado.  My 2 brothers and I were all conceived in
the month following the close of the Georgia tobacco market
and born the same month a tidy 9 months later.  They had
been married over 10 years before I was conceived and I am
the oldest.

Enough with the dissembling but I felt that background would
lend some clarity to their later actions.

Being away from my parents my senior year was an unexpected
blessing but even with this benefit the dark miasma of self
deprecation never completely dissipated.  John Milton's
absence was never replaced by anyone.  I had friends in
school but not any one close.  My role there was peripheral
at best and the efforts to be invisible remarkably
effective.  That year of my life is most remarkable for what
it did not have and this vacancy was the rudder that allowed
it some forward momentum.

Graduation brought the inevitable choice to stay in
Farmville and find a job or live with my family and study
art at a small college where they lived. The thought of
living at home again was an anathema but the alternative of
a life in Farmville selling women's underwear equally
appalling.  I have no idea what motivated my choice for
college not that of Farmville.

The trip to Richmond in Mama Mabel's car only lacked a
hearse to make it a full fledged cortege. She scrupulously
avoided any mention of the anticipated problems in store.
Of course I could not bring it up. It was with this air of
apprehension and denial that we arrived late that Friday
afternoon.  One look at my father's expression showed that
he felt the same as I about my return home. Mama left the
next day not Sunday as planned to escape the oppressive and
strained tension evident between him and me.  I was accepted
into the Fine Art's program and the preparations for the
upcoming semester helped to muffle at least some of the
mutual distrust.

Alone and with the students enrolled to study art was both
intimidating and deliciously stimulating. Being used to the
plaids and plain denims of small town North Carolina had not
prepared me for the fumy fashions of big city
sophistication.  The strangeness in no way diminished my
fascination, even attraction to this foreign milieu.  My
classes were as I had anticipated tepid but not exactly
boring with the exception of my drawing and painting class.
It was held in a medium sized room with big windows looking
down from the third story unto the courtyard plaza held
captive by the legion of student smokers. As was always my
want I picked the easel in the back as far from the
teacher's podium and desk as possible.  I was busy unpacking
my pencils and drawing pad oblivious to the others filling
the class.  A stray glance arrested any further movement as
I stood raptly staring at the man behind the teacher's desk
hardly daring to breathe.  He was tall and held himself with
the self assured posture of a person comfortable with being
in control.  His hair was black which made his pale
complexion more vivid by its contrast.

The inevitable chatter and clatter of a class filling with
students began to subside without a word from the teacher.
He just stood waiting for everyone's attention.  With a
smile acknowledging their attention he introduced himself
as Jet Hurt our instructor for the year.  He briefly
outlined the goals and time frame.  I heard but did not
register a single word rather it was only the sound of his
voice which made me shiver.  When I realized the class had
started sketching I froze realizing I had not understood a
word of his instructions.  I hid behind my sketch pad and
easel surreptitiously trying to figure out what I had
missed.  Unfortunately no two students seemed to be doing
the same thing.  I was at a complete loss.  I could feel the
color coming to my face as I saw the teacher making his way
in my direction as he checked what each person was doing.
He would stop occasionally to made a comment or ask a
question.  I even considered fleeing but was afraid that
would cause even more repercussions. The moment of truth
arrived and I could not look him in the eye instead I stood
mute looking at the floor.  He did not say anything but just
continued past my area as if nothing significant had
happened.  I felt relief, embarrassment and guilt. I was so
naive that I was unaware of the effect my teacher was having
on me.

That was the longest two hours of my life all I could think
about was getting out of that class and away before I made
more of a fool of myself. I was gathering up my equipment
after the bell trying to be as unobtrusive as possible.  I
glanced toward the front of the class room to find Mr. Hurt
watching me intently.  My discomfort increased when he
motioned for me to resume my seat.  I realized escape was
futile at that point. I can remember that day and the
subsequent days so vividly I will try to relate some of the
dialogue.  Please be patient because I will be alternating
back and forth as I feel it necessary for an accurate
retelling.

"Mr. Windham would you please explain what happened today,"
asked a serious unsmiling Mr. Hurt?

After several minutes I gulped my words stumbling out, "I am
so sorry sir but I just did not hear your instructions and
when I realized it.  Ohm It was too late to ask without
interrupting the class. I really am sorry and promise it
will not happen again."

Still without smiling he continued, "Mr. Windham I asked the
class to try to sketch something or someone that they held
in their memory. Something they could never forget.
Preferably something that had really changed their life.  Do
you think that is something you can do by this coming
Thursday's class?"

Chastened and bright red I stammered, "Yes sir." I finally
looked up for the first time.  What I found there were
startlingly clear blue eyes watching me intently.  I saw
something else that I did not understand but surprisingly
was not frightened by it.  The eyes belied the stern
unsmiling scrutiny. He seemed to gradually relent and the
beginning of a smile softened his face. Amusingly I was
blithely unaware that I was absolutely enthralled by this
tall strikingly handsome stern man.  It was not until long
afterwards that I recognized the similarity between him and
John Milton. The black hair, glue eyes and clear pale
complexion even a few freckles dusted across his nose and
cheeks were the same. The rest of the day was lost on me as
I kept finding Mr. Hurt's face everywhere. My subconscious
seemed to take over allowing me to participate in the day's
remaining functions.  I was already planning ways to make
amends and undo the damage of my first day's disgrace.  It
was almost as if I awoke from a deep sleep when I realized
that I was home not even really certain how I had arrived.
I made no attempt join in that evening's rituals of after
supper TV.  Instead I retreated to my distant room in the
lower section of their tri-level.  It never dawned on me
that my preoccupation was anything out of the ordinary or
unusual.  I was determined to do a really good drawing for
Thursday.  The only thing I could think about was doing
justice to my mind's eye picture of John Milton. I began
sketching as the many memories and happy moments took
control.  My sketching became an extension of these thoughts
forming without any conscious decisions of my own. My
intense concentration on the details and complexities of the
rendering continued well into the night.  When my eyes began
to ache and fingers cramp I realized it was time to stop. I
had wanted to draw the moment John Milton had held me
reassuring me that everything would be ok.  I put everything
aside finally succumbing to sleep.

Thursday morning found me in the drawing classroom at 8:00 a
full hour before it started.  I scrupulously cleaned his
chalk board and set up his easel and demonstration area.  By
the time I had finished putting the room in order students
started trickling in laughing with the latest gossip being
bantered back and forth.  I was at my station when Mr. Hurt
entered a little before 9:00.  I could not hide my blush as
he noticed the effects of my industry.  He raised an eyebrow
looking up at the class he quickly settled on me and my
obvious embarrassment.  A small smile and an undetectable
nod acknowledged my efforts without anyone else knowing.
We were instructed to finish the drawings started Tuesday
and to let him know when we finished.

Glancing around the room I was startled at the excellence of
the varied efforts.  I was especially intrigued by a
beautifully detailed portrait of a cat and dog together.  My
sketch of John Milton took form as I drew in the shadows
from that long ago memory. Few of the other drawings were of
people most being objects and the like.  Hands started
signaling the completion of the projects.  I was strangely
reluctant to draw attention to myself. "Well, Mr. Windham I
am pleased you seem to be paying attention today.  Your
drawing is interesting who are the figures," asked Mr. Hurt?
"That is my cousin he was trying to help me with a problem.
It happened a long time ago but I can remember it like it
just happened.  He is not just a cousin but my best friend
but I never get to see him anymore.  He is in West Point
now."

Now, when I reflect about that interchange I realize how
revealing it was to Jet.  He scrupulously avoided
indiscriminant questions and observations.  I was just
pleased by his compliments.  It gave me no small comfort to
be reinstated in his good graces.  The routine of my coming
early getting everything ready and in order continued as our
friendship developed.  I always brought my lunches with me
and would either eat them in the class after all others had
left or in the plaza if there were not too many smokers. So
it seemed natural when Mr. Hurt joined me with a sandwich of
his own.  Not long after the honorifics were dropped in
favor of first names and I found out that Jet was a nick
name for Jethro Meriwether Hurt III.  Here I was a very
plain country boy becoming friends with this very handsome
erudite man.  It was with reverential hero worship that I
approached our friendship. I appreciated just how lucky I
was to be singled out for Jet's friendship but that
friendship never intruded into the classroom.  One Thursday
our routine changed when Jet asked me to come by his
apartment for lunch.  I had never visited him at his home.

We walked after class about three blocks away from the
school to a renovated brownstone in a nice simple neighbor
hood.  Hi lived in a small apartment on the second floor.
For a country boy used to a home being furnished from the
Farmville Furniture and Funeral Home it was wonderfully
extraordinary. We sat at a small round table between the
kitchen and living room with a big window as the backdrop.
The table was already set and there was a small vase of
fresh flowers.  He had prepared an astonishingly fragrant
soup which was delicious and rich.  Flavors I had never
encountered but exciting to discover.  I realize now it was
a mulligatawny soup with curry.  At that moment I may have
well been eating soup from the moon.  I met my first whole
loaf of bread that lunch as well.  I was startled when Jet
just tore off a hunk and proceeded to slather it with
butter.  I had just about reached my saturation point with
new experiences when he ended the meal with a little molded
rice dish for dessert.  It was a mix of rice, custard, nuts
and candied fruit with a little custard poured over the top.
I had never seen anything remotely like it.  He had a
wonderful time enjoying my incredulity and astonishment.  I
ate every morsel and would have eaten more except it would
have been too embarrassing (my how the times have changed)
so I declined Jet's offer of seconds. It surprised me when
Jet mentioned it was time to leave because I had a 3:00
class.  I had been totally unaware of the passage of time.
We were putting on our jackets and I was still babbling on
about the lunch when I looked up at Jet because he was so
quiet.  He was looking down at me with those magic blue eyes
and I was hypnotized by their intensity. It was at that
moment he leaned down drawing me into his arms with a gentle
but heart stopping kiss.  I remember vividly thinking, my
god I am kissing a man!  It took me only seconds to overcome
my surprise and reach up making certain the kiss did not end
too soon. Without warning my eyes started brimming over with
tears which rapidly devolved into the release of tears pent
up for years.  Naturally Jet was startled by this explosion
of emotion.  He held me to him with the same comfort that I
had found in John Milton's sheltering arms.  As I regained
some semblance of composure he told me everything would be
ok and that he would never do anything to hurt me.  There
was no chance I would attend my Art History class so he took
my jacket off and we sat down on his couch.  He was still
holding me with my head on his chest and the only thing
audible was my subdued sniffles and gradually slowing
breathing.

It was in that enchanted protected place that the afternoon
rays of sunlight made everything glow with warm golden
colors.  I learned that Jet had known he was gay since his
tenth year.  An only child his mother had known as well and
never discouraged him from being himself.  I found out he
had had experiences all thru his maturation and as late as
last spring an affair of a few months. I was brimming over
with questions about being gay and just what it meant.  I
told him about that first day and what really had happened
much to his glee and my discomfort.  I told him about John
Milton but not my family.  I was ashamed of that part of my
past and could not bear the thought he might learn about it.
He told me about watching me that first day and he had been
well aware that I was staring at him. I looked into those
gentle eyes and decided that more practice on kissing was in
order.  My teacher was more than willing to oblige.


That's it for now.  I hope you enjoyed this bit about how my
life began.  I enjoy your comments.


Vindskinke@hotmail.com