Date: Fri, 17 Nov 2006 22:41:14 -0500
From: Sequoyah <sequoyahs-place@charter.net>
Subject: Saga of the Elizabethton Tarheels Chapter One

My life, I guess, was not remarkable one way or the other until one
spring day when it started changing, really changing. In some ways it
was a very good life. My father -- he would never stand for "Dad" --
came from an old family, the Porchers -- that's por-shay, by the way
-- who had name, heritage and no money. A friend of the family had
taken him under his wing and saw that he got through law school and
took him into an old, well-established, well-respected firm. A few
years later, he was a junior partner after a big lawsuit against a
chemical company made him and the firm hundreds of thousands.
Almost from the beginning he had the money come rolling in, then
after that lawsuit it was money hand over fist.

He ended up married to the senior partner's daughter -- Ann Curtis
Carter, a member of the North Carolina branch of the First Families
of Virginia. Old family AND money. Rumor had it that he dumped his
college sweetheart for the privilege. He and Mother -- "Mom makes me
sound old" -- were given a waterfront house for a wedding present. I
think a word I recall from an eighth grade vocabulary list, grandiose,
describes it. Big house, big name, big money, small east Carolina town
-- Elizabethton -- about describes the set up.

A few years after the wedding of the year, the baby of the year
appeared -- me, Marcus Alexander Porcher IV. By the time I was two I
was 1) spoiled, 2) cute as a button, and 3) a real pain in the ass. I
really was cute. I had big hazel eyes with gold flecks which reflected
my mood and long, dark -- for a blond -- lashes. And I was blond,
especially in the summer since I spent a lot of time on the beach and,
later, sailing. Mother had a picture of me the summer I was two,
naked as a jay bird, walking down the beach. To be honest, even then I
had a cute baby body with a minimum of baby fat. I'd have to say now,
some sixteen years later, the cute baby is not a bad looking young
man. No, that's not true... I am a damn good looking young man. I still
have the large hazel eyes with long lashes and what Clarisa, our maid,
calls a blond Afro, and while I sure would like to be taller -- I'm only
five ten -- my body's not bad, far from it. I don't mean I've got a body
builder's body, cut and all, but I have enough muscle and definition not
to be displeased with how I look standing in front of my full-length
mirror. For those interested, the equipment reflected in that mirror
is also more than adequate, and that's enough said about that!

I guess the combination of a pregnancy and the snot-nosed, spoiled
brat which resulted was too much for Mother, so there would be no
more little Porchers. The spoiled brat I had become also resulted in
Clarisa becoming a part, a major part, of my life. Mother had a maid
who came and cleaned three times a week, one who came and did the
laundry twice a week, and Clarisa who came and cooked five days a
week. Mother was so overworked playing bridge, she started asking
Clarisa to stay after dinner until time to put me to bed.

What about Father? One reason Mother played so much bridge, I
suspect, was because Father was either out of town doing something
or in town politicking. As the young, outstanding lawyer in town he had
managed to get elected to the school board before I started school,
and started another climb upward. He is now a state senator with his
eye on higher things. His kid and wife were political ornaments,
especially since both were so photogenic, and little else. They made
great "happy family" campaign posters. Can you say "absentee
parents?"

Clarisa had a husband at one time -- she was fifteen when she got
pregnant and married the "Baby Daddy," but when the child was
stillborn, he hit the road. I overheard Clarisa tell Mother that she
couldn't have children and having a man around just cluttering up the
house wasn't worth it. "Now if I had a man who only showed up like Mr.
Porcher, then I might consider it," she laughed. I noticed Mother didn't
-- laugh that is.

As time passed, Clarisa had more and more duties until she ran the
household. Free of any household duties, Mother spent more and more
time with her bridge club, playing three or four afternoons a week.
She also entertained a lot -- you know, the smiling hostess bit. By the
time I was a teenager, I was well aware of the fact that Mother was
not just playing bridge or making sure everyone else had a drink. More
than once someone drove her home and got her to bed after a hard
game of bridge because she was a bit too wobbly to drive. One thing
Clarisa made very, very clear from the beginning: she would not put
drunks to bed or clean up after them. Since the household would have
ground to a halt without her, she could dictate her own terms. Mother
and Father, as rich and powerful as they were, were no match for
Clarisa Johnson when push came to shove and that was for sure!

As I said, in many ways I had a good life and knew it. Clarisa made
sure of that. Would I have traded my easy life for real parents? I
honestly don't know. I was not a lot better or worse than most any
other kids in our social class. Well, in fact, I was better off than most
because I had Clarisa.

>From the time she arrived on the scene when I was about two, Clarisa
had raised me. It was Clarisa who taught me right from wrong, who
used a spatula on my butt to beat the snobbery and spoiled brat out
of me. Well, beat is hardly the right word. A swat on the bottom
never hurt nearly as much as being a disappointment to Clarisa. It
was Clarisa who taught me to respect women and kids "not in your
class." From early on, she had made sure I understood I was to leave
the judging, gossiping and such to others. She had said that I was as
good inside as I looked outside. While I was proud of the way I was, I
took no credit for it. It was all Clarisa's doing.

Clarisa loved me as she would have her own child, and was as
determined as she would have been for her son to see that I was a
good human being. That included seeing my butt was on a pew Sunday
mornings. When I was four or so, she took me to her church for a few
Sundays, but their 10:00 until 2:00 service was more than a four-
year-old could handle. Mother had told her she could have time off
Sunday for church, but then that interfered with Sunday dinner, an
event with political overtones. There were always guests for this
Sunday "family" event, guests involved in furthering Father's political
career. Finally, Clarisa admitted defeat and started taking me to St.
Paul's.

Old St. Paul's had been established over a couple centuries ago by the
founders of the town. Over the years, it had seen little change beyond
sons replacing fathers on the vestry. The important weddings and
funerals were held there, even though the 'important personages'
were members of one of the town's other churches -- well, except for
the Presbyterians. That is, there had been little change until the
sixties when an African-American came to town to teach in the small
liberal arts college. He and his wife were Episcopalians with a pedigree
as long as the Porchers' and, of course, well educated. I had heard a
story about how the vestry got all in a dither about a Negro in a pew
and the rector, who was young and just out of seminary, allowed as
how they would be welcomed with open arms or he'd excommunicate
anyone who didn't at least keep their mouth shut. I heard my Carter
grandfather tell a visitor once the senior warden had called the bishop
to ask what to do. "Live with it or prepare to be dunked as Baptists,"
he had responded. St. Paul's now had a small, but very active, group
of African-American members.

Anyway, over the next few years, Clarisa became more and more
involved and when I was fourteen, she was elected to the vestry.
When she announced that at Sunday dinner, I thought Mother would
shit a brick. Father just swallowed hard and looked bug-eyed. "I guess
you have the Porcher seat," he said, at least somewhat innocently.
Contrary to decades and decades of history, there had not been a
Porcher on the vestry since my grandfather Porcher died before I
was born.

That was pretty much my family. Friends? I guess I more or less had
two different social lives. On one level there were official friends --
those in my social class with whom I was expected to associate. In
that group, dates were arranged and, for that matter, so were
marriages. Of course, that was never really said. It was just that you
were coupled up when you were little more than a toddler and it was
assumed, by everyone who was anyone, you would marry the girl you
had been stuck with from what seemed like birth. Country club
events, debutante balls -- yeah, those still happen -- and such were all
arranged by the mothers who also arranged your date. I saw the same
people in dance class, which started when I was four or five; in
swimming classes at the country club, beginning when I was five; and
at preschool. Everyone who was anyone made a reservation for their
kid at Miss Talley's Preschool for Toddlers the day after the member
of the next generation was born. My mother and father had gone to
Miss Talleys as had their parents. I think the present Miss Talley is
really MRS. Talley as she is the wife of a Talley, umpteen generations
from the original Miss Talley.

So there were those friends -- to use the term very loosely. The girls
were mostly good looking enough -- Mother would never have
permitted them to be seen with her beautiful son otherwise. That
crowd were my friends only in that I attended the official functions I
was expected to attend with the same people year after year. To be
honest, most were as dull as day-old rice. Too many had discovered
alcohol at an early age, routinely getting drunk at parties from the
time they were thirteen or so. Pretty boring, as getting drunk was
not my idea of fun. My social "friend" was Mary Beth Arnold. We had
an honest dislike for each other, but since dumping her -- or she
dumping me -- would have produced a mess from both mothers, we
tolerated each other when necessary, but only when necessary.

Then there were my school friends. There were six of us who hung
together -- the Clan, Clarisa called us. John Thurmond and Susan
Wilson were of my social class -- I make a deal out of social class
because it was a big deal to my parents and the country club crowd
but I couldn't have cared less. Like me, they were not into "the right
crowd," but enjoyed good company regardless of class. Adam Sanford
had been my best friend from kindergarten. His family owned a large
furniture store and had done well with it. They were not of the
country club set, but were well respected. His girlfriend was Bobbie
Reed, whose mother was an English teacher in high school. They had
been boyfriend-girlfriend since first grade and planned on getting
married as soon as they were out of college -- if not before. The sixth
member of our clan was Justin, Justin Chayton Smith. Chayton was
his father's name, according to his mother. Supposedly he was a
Sioux Indian who was traveling with some sort of rodeo thing. "He just
kept traveling," Justin laughed when asked about his father. His
mother was a waitress at a little downtown cafe, and managed to
keep food on their table and a roof -- such as it was -- over their
heads. Needless to say, he did not meet with Mother and Father's
approval, but that made no difference to me.

Our Clan had gotten together in first grade and had hung together
ever since. There were occasional disagreements and a few fights
when we were younger, but we remained solid friends. Summer found
us on the beach -- well, when Adam, Bobbie and Justin were not
working. All had summer jobs, and Justin and Adam worked after
school during the school year. Both worked for Adam's dad moving
and delivering furniture. Justin referred to it as the fitness center
and, to tell the truth, the results were every bit as good as working
out on the machines at the club. Both were well-built and well-defined.

As tanned as I got from my time on the beach, Justin was still darker
even in the middle of the winter. His father had given him a nice, dark
complexion and straight, black, black hair. His Indian blood didn't win
when it came to height, though. Justin was six two. He and Adam had
played basketball for a couple years in middle school, but both decided
they needed to work more and dropped out. John Thurmond was a
football player and Susan a cheerleader, but forget the stereotypes,
they just didn't fit.

We were all good students, taking honors and AP courses. Justin's
mom thought it was foolish for him to be doing academics instead of
some vocational course, but he kept on. He was determined to escape
the kind of life his mother had, and saw college as a way out. Because
we were all in many of the same classes, we often studied together,
usually at my place. I had almost a private apartment -- another
southern tradition for young men -- "a bachelor's apartment" so the
young men of the house could have their mistresses to fuck without
the family being bothered. An outside entrance led to my room -- well,
actually rooms. I had a large bedroom with bath, a nice study which
really was a study, and a very large living space. In fact, my place was
all of the second floor of one wing of the house. My study was filled
with books -- tons of them -- a nice desk and my computer on its own
desk. There was plenty of space around a large table for the six of us
to study together. The living space had TV and DVD player with
surround sound and all the other electronics a young man could want.
It was large enough that when the six of us were all sprawled out,
watching TV and talking, there was still plenty of room.

Yeah, when you got right down to it, I had a good life. My only problem
was that there was no-one really, really special in it. That was a
problem because, well, I'm gay. Anyone who tells you they suddenly
find out they are gay when they are in their late teens is either very,
very dense or lying -- or both. I knew by the time I was eight or nine --
ten, at the latest -- that I was different from other boys. I think it
was about the time I was ten or eleven, I heard someone talking about
gays and put two and two together and came up with Marcus
Alexander Porcher IV -- me. Being gay didn't bother me a whole lot
one way or the other then. I had no desire for sexual playing around
with girls and the four of us boys did the usual playing around -- circle
jerks and even doing each other sometimes for a time, then just quit
without discussing it. Come to think about it, it was probably when
Bobbie and Adam started getting it on.

I suspect I might have been more disturbed about being gay had I had
to work hard at hiding it. Don't get me wrong, had I come out, Father
would have killed me on the spot. His political base were the rich
Republicans, who liked the way he cleared the way for business to
operate as it damn well pleased, and the religious right. "God hates
fags" are words he would never use, but there are ways of saying
that without saying it. He sure implied it often enough at certain
gatherings in some of the more extreme churches in the district.

He did have to do a real duck and hide a couple years ago when there
had been a big stink at old St. Paul's when the Episcopal Church got
its first openly gay bishop. A couple of families left and Father talked
about leaving as well. Mother pointed out that they only darkened the
door Christmas and Easter and leaving would scarcely be noticed by
St. Paul's. More than that, it would call attention to the fact that we
were Episcopalians -- a suspect group -- among the fundamentalists,
a good part of Father's political base. They also decided against
cutting their pledge, since that might become known AND since
someone might reveal how little that was. So much for that
controversy.

Anyway, the big traumas for gay teens -- dances, proms, that sort of
thing -- were no problem. As I said, by the time I started school,
"dates" for the events at the country club were arranged by the
mothers. That didn't change when I got older. For social events,
mothers arranged everything and from birth, practically, I knew I
would be taking Mary Beth Arnold. Since both events and the dates
were boring beyond belief, I just closed my eyes and took my
medicine, so to speak. They were to be endured like political events,
trips to the dentist and "family holidays" taken to provide photo ops.

Of course young men were expected to have a "lower class" girl on
the side for fucking by the time they were sixteen at the latest.
When I was asked every now and again, "Gettin' any?" I always just
gave a shy grin and said nothing. I had been given a red Subaru WRX
STi for my Sweet Sixteen and it was not a car you could sneak around
in. I made sure I was seen in a neighboring town often enough to start
the high school grapevine talking about who I was fucking there. Justin
laughed when he told me he had helped the rumor along "to protect
your reputation."

I read a lot of stories about guys being shy in the showers at school
for fear of popping a boner. Never a problem. I was used to walking
around nude at home. When I was ten or so, Clarisa had advised me to
close my blinds before walking around nude since her apartment in the
other wing of the house was directly across from mine. "I don't need
to see it swinging to know you are a boy," she had laughed. So walking
around nude was pretty natural and there was enough ass and cock
grabbing in the gym to produce boners on the straightest jock.

Junior-senior prom my junior year ended up ok, but had almost
produced a problem. For the past year, Mary Beth had ended up drunk
at most of the events we were obligated to attend. I usually got her
just before she passed out and managed to get her home. I expected
that to happen for the prom, but I was wrong.

Mary Beth's brother -- a college freshman -- was home for the
weekend to escort his girlfriend to the prom, and Mr. Arnold had
ordered a limo -- a stretch Hummer no less -- for the event. Nothing
would do except for Mary Beth and me to accompany them. Her dad
also made reservations for a suite of rooms in the hotel where the
prom was held. After the senior walk -- sex on parade I called it --
Mary Beth grabbed my hand and led me up to the suite. There was a
full bar and she got an early start on the booze. I stuck to ginger ale,
as usual. Before long, her brother and his friends came up and serious
drinking started. Pretty soon, I was a sober dude in the middle of a
roomful of drunks -- a very boring situation.

I finally went into a bedroom, closed the door and flopped across the
bed. I had been pulling some late nights recently trying to keep up with
a shitload of homework and before I knew it, I was sound asleep. I
don't know how much later it was when I woke up with something hot
and wet on my cock. I looked down and Mary Beth was giving me my
first blow job. Gay or not I was hard, and before I could do or say
anything, I went over the edge. May Beth looked up, tried to focus her
eyes and finally was able to slur "You should have warned me," before
she promptly passed out.

I went to the bathroom and cleaned up, then got Mary Beth into bed.
When I went into the living room, there were people passed out all
over the place and I could hear the bed rocking in the other bedroom. I
went outside and walked around in the spring night. It was late and I
was more or less stuck in a town thirty miles from home. I certainly
didn't want to go back upstairs and spend the night in bed with Mary
Beth -- even with her passed out. If I wasn't there when she woke up,
she'd probably not remember she had not been fucked and spread
tales about me.

I had a credit card and thought about getting a room in the hotel only
to discover it was full. I finally took out my cell phone and called
Justin and asked him if he would be willing to go to my place, ask
Clarisa for the keys to my car and come get me. He laughed and said
he supposed he could rescue me from old hot-to-trot Mary Beth
Arnold. Shows how much I knew! Justin told me John had said she had
given most of the football team blow jobs for "playing a good game,"
and fucked not a few of them.

Unfortunately, she did remember she had given me a blow job and got
nothing in return. She was pissed and wasn't satisfied with starting a
rumor that I was a faggot, but added to it saying I had tried to blow
her brother. I don't know what happened, but a day or so after I heard
the rumor, Susan said, "I've taken care of your problem."

After Adam and Bobbie became a couple, Adam wasn't around as
often as he had been when we were growing up. When the clan was
together, he and Bobbie kept it under control, but were openly
affectionate. For a while Susan and John were a couple, leaving me
and Justin out in the cold, not that I would not have liked to have been
half of the clan's third couple, but old straight-as-an-arrow Justin --
well, just say he was straight as an arrow and let it go at that.

Almost without my noticing, Justin had taken Adam's place as my
very best friend after Adam and Bobbie became more than friends.
During the time Susan and John were trying out dating, we spent
practically all our free time together and when they decided they
were good friends and that was all there would ever be, that did not
change. Of course, we didn't have a lot of free time. I had the social
obligations placed on me by my family and Justin had financial ones.
Nonetheless, after school he'd pile his books in my car and I'd drop
him off at the store.

When the store closed, he'd walk to my place -- which was actually
closer than his -- and Clarisa would have supper for us unless I had
some event I had to attend. Even then Clarisa would fix him a plate
and sit down with him while he ate. She was appalled at his eating
habits -- both what and how he ate. "That child needs to learn to eat
good food," she said every time he had something to eat at my place
and he soon agreed after a few meals prepared by Clarisa. Clarisa
never corrected his table manners in front of me, but the
improvement was obvious. Neither Clarisa nor I mentioned it to each
other, but I could see the pride in her eyes when he corrected himself.

After we finished our homework, we'd listen to music and talk. At
first, I offered to take him home, but he always walked. Then, when it
got cold, he'd sometimes accept the offer, especially if he was really
tired from working. Finally, if the weather was really rotten, he'd call
home and spend the night at my place, sleeping on the pull-out in the
study. When I suggested he join me in my king-sized bed since it was
more comfortable than the pull-out, I was sure, he declined without
comment.

That's pretty much how things stood with me at the end of my junior
year in high school.


Special thanks, always, to Jess and Scott editors supreme.
Contact Sequoyah at sequoyahs-place@charter.net