Date: Sun, 17 Aug 2003 05:46:18 +0000
From: Bobby Reardon <reardon_930@hotmail.com>
Subject: Role-Playing 2

Sometimes it's easier to be without love than in love. You have less to
lose. People look at me, they see a stud, and they think I must be the
happiest guy on the planet. They think that because genetics and a gym
membership have blessed me, I have no troubles. Don't worry, this isn't
going to be one of those stugatz "don't hate me cause I'm beautiful" sob
sessions, so don't go hitting that big X button on your browser, okay?

I never knew my ma's parents. Pop's grandparents came over from the old
country. They were great people, I really can't describe 'em to you without
choking up. They worked hard to give Pop the best life, and he did the same
for me and my 2 brothers and sister. Ma stayed home, went to mass every day,
raised money for her parish, gossipped over the back fence, checked in on
the neighbors...she's in her 70's now and she's got more energy than I do,
swear to God. It was a good home. Food on the table, lots of love. Also a
very religious home. We feared God and all us kids always felt like there
was a third parent on our heads every minute, every second. Geez, I
practically begged for forgiveness before the first time I even masturbated.
"Please, Holy Father, forgive me for yanking my crank." I finally just
decided He'd understand. We all have needs.

There were certain types of people that were not discussed in our home. I
didn't even know what a "fag" was until I got to junior high. I'd heard my
father mouth the word a few times, about some kid or relative who wasn't
manly enough, but Ma usually glared him into silence. Fag, cocksucker -- if
you're reading this, you know the words. The words were used to expression
machismo, to intimidate, to spread fear and prejudice. No words could put
the lower lifeforms in their place more quickly. I was one of the lucky
ones. I was strong. Played basketball, baseball, on the track team. No
better way to become popular than to get a number slapped on your back. When
the other guys would snicker about that "dirty queer" in the junior class or
congratulate each other for scoring with some cheerleader cooz, I'd laugh
right along, but I never felt that urge. I dated popular girls, I knew where
to put my hands, but there was no desire, no drive for more. It wasn't a wet
dream for me to slide into their vagina or cop a feel. When I jerked off, I
was usually thinking of one of my coaches, or Pa's business partner Mr.
Conrad who always squeezed my biceps for a minute too long when he dropped
into the house for a visit, or Mark Harmon, or George Michael (dating
myself, huh?).

I thought I was just insane. Or sick. I couldn't tell anyone, not even the
priest, cause he and my Ma were thisclose. I prayed to God every night that
I'd wake up the next morning and be fixed. I thought I'd been a bad son or
brother or nephew. I helped Michael and Carla (my younger siblings; Tony was
already in college by then) with their homework. I volunteered with Ma at
the homeless shelter. I ate all my vegetables, cleaned my plate, cleaned my
room. I was a fucking saint. And yet, I still didn't like girls.

The big day that sticks in my brain was during senior year. A sophomore,
shy, blonde, so small he was drowning in his clothes, had been staring too
long, or maybe he hadn't been staring at all. Bullies don't need
justification. Anyway, I walked into the locker room, and he was on the
floor. Two of the guys on the football team had broken his glasses, had
smashed his fingers, were kicking his ribs in. I could've joined in, made
sure that nobody ever question my masculinity, but I couldn't do that. I
never coulda lived with myself. So I stood in front of him and told the
punks to beat off someplace else. God knows what they were gonna say behind
my back, but to my face, they respected me. I pulled this poor young sap off
the floor, walked him to the school nurse. On the way there, our eyes met
for just a moment, and I realized that could have been me. We were the same,
deep down. Would anyone know? Did everyone know? That's when I started to
realize I was gay, nothing could ever change that. I also realized that I
never wanted to see any other kid suffer the way this kid had suffered, and
that if I could help keep even one set of brains from being bashed in, I
would. That's the day I decided to become a teacher.

Realizing and accepting aren't exactly the same things. I could tell myself
that I was gay, but I still felt ashamed. When I was living in the college
dorms, I would stare at all those hard, naked bodies of every race, and I
would imagine myself pressed against them, on top of them, inside them. I
guess it seems crazy, but I was convinced that if I ever touched another
man, I would disgrace God and humiliate my family. So I stayed with my
favorite hand, year after year, graduation, student teaching, everything.

When I turned 25 I met another teacher. She was a nice person, sweet, very
patient. The whispers in my head started up right away. "Hey, maybe this was
fate, maybe she is the woman you have been waiting for."  I asked her out.
"Hey, you really like her. You don't love her, but love doesn't happen
overnight. Give it time." I asked her to marry me. "Look at how happy your
parents are, how happy your grandparents were. It's in your genes!" We had a
big church wedding; my parents refused my pleas for a small ceremony (Ma was
so flabbergasted I'd found a woman that she practically got out a bullhorn
to tell all the neighbors). We honeymooned at the scenic Holiday Inn. I
actually managed to get it up and everything. Had to be a sign, just had to
be. When I turned 28, I was haggling a divorce settlement with that sweet
lady who had become a nasty bitch (maybe our having sex about 10 times in 3
years had something to do with it). She got alimony and our apartment. I got
my sanity. I moved back home. I could barely look my family or friends in
the eye. I was sure they knew. I wasn't a real man. I was worthless. I had
let down the whole family. A few months later, Pop died in his sleep. He
left me some money. I moved to New York City, got another teaching job.

As I hit 30 I stopped feeling ashamed. Resignation was less draining. Tony's
wife was a baby machine and Carla and Michael had a few kids of their own. I
didn't have to bear the burden of keeping the family name alive. I wasn't a
disappointment. I was just poor Carlo, destined to be alone. As long as I
didn't act on my desires, they wouldn't hurt anyone. I could help kids, I
could be there for people, I could live in peace.

I don't think I knew how desperate I was to break this sham until I met
Gene. Bobby Collins' mother had taken ill and one of her friends came to
pick her son up. That was Gene. He had on a tank top, wraparound shades,
gold hoops in both ears, purple hair, and the tightest jeans I'd ever seen
on a man. I didn't ogle, or I told myself I didn't. When he smirked at me
through those shades, I knew that he knew I was a fag, a queer. Gay. And for
the first time, I didn't have a problem with that.

I was sure it'd just be a friendship. See how the other half lives. I didn't
expect to laugh so hard at his corny jokes and crazy stories. I didn't
expect to not flinch when he put his hands on mine. I didn't expect to open
my mouth when he pressed his lips against mine after our second date. I
didn't expect to not just let him make love to me, but to want him to.

The first time we had sex, he was practically trembling with desire. Here I
was, this broad-shouldered, handsome man, desired by both sexes, and I was
virgin territory. He had me all to himself. When he tugged on my chest hair,
bit my nipples, gave me the pleasure of a warm, experienced mouth and tongue
on my penis, or how he milked my erection between his tight, expert anal
walls. He told me how well-endowed I am, what a gift I have. I turned my
red, I could feel the blush even in the dark. I mean, I see the other guys
in the gym and I know I'm big, but it's never mattered much to me. I never
really knew how much pleasure this tube of flesh dangling between my legs
can bring to another human being. My wife didn't even want the thing near
her, and I wasn't itching to stick it inside her anyway.

I kept the lights out that first time. The shame I guess...that I was
crossing that final line. I couldn't face it, couldn't see him. Hearing was
bad enough. Well, Gene is a crafty sonuvabitch. The second time, he marched
me into the bathroom, made me stand in front of the mirror, and stripped off
my clothes, button by button. Whispered in my ear about how beautiful a
man's body was, mine in particular, how it deserved to be worshipped. He
kissed his way up and down my body, dove his tongue in my ass (he knows
better than to put anything bigger inside there), and finally began playing
with my foreskin, sliding the hood up and down my glans, while he told me to
watch myself. I did. I watched the pleasure on my face, the sheer joy in
orgasm. Then he massaged me back to another erection and had me fuck him in
front of the mirror. I saw how much pain and pleasure I was bringing him.
How much just my dick was doing. I enjoyed seeing myself naked, sweaty,
enrapturing another man. I wasn't struck by lightning or anything. I felt
safe and sure of myself for the first time in maybe my whole life.

A few months later, Gene asked if he could move in. He had this flinch on
his face the whole time, like I was gonna punch him out. I have to admit I
worried about the idea. What if somebody at school found out? What if Ma
found out? Well, the infomercials warn you about "what if" thinking. I just
told him that he had made me proud of myself at a time when I'd never
expected anything more than lonely nights. I told him that he'd better not
come near me with that freaky hair dye of his. I told him that I loved
wrapping my big arms around him every night. Then, before I could even think
of what I was saying, I told him I loved him. And holy shit, his eyes, those
big beautiful blue eyes of his, welled up with tears. He buried his face in
my chest. Was this swishy Gene with his snappy one-liners and cynical smirk?
How could I have such power over another living being? We made love that
night, so slow, exploring every facet of each other's bodies.

Maybe that's when I started to lose track, slip up. A few weeks later, my
favorite nephew Angelo (he looks just like me at 18...not that I'm biased or
anything) e-mailed me, saying he wanted to come visit in New York and "the
'rents" said it was fine with them. I said alright, I couldn't wait to show
him the sights of my favorite city, and he'd just love Gene. Shit...I tried
to delete right after I hit send, but he was waiting on the other end.
"Who's Gene?" A few hours later, my Ma had the same question, blaring over
the phone. "Who's Gene?"

She'd know. They'd all know. The moment of truth. Tell 'em, I said to
myself. They already know anyway, whether they can admit to themselves or
not.

Tell 'em, you wimp. I'm gay. Gene is my boyfriend. He's funny and cute and
loves kids and is everything I never expected to find in a partner. He's the
love of my life.

"Gene....is my new girlfriend."

I half-heard the screaming and rejoicing. I said all the right words. Then I
put the phone down. I poured myself a big scotch. And I cried. Not a
torrential downpour, but a single tear of pain and self-loathing. The tear
fell in my drink while I agonized over possibly ruining the best fucking
thing that had ever happened to me. I didn't know how Gene would ever
forgive me, or how I could ever tell him...

When I did tell him, he flinched, just like that night he'd asked to move in
with me. I felt such shame, I couldn't even look at him. I wondered if our
relationship would ever be the same again.