Date: Sun, 27 Apr 2003 00:05:53 -0400 From: Tom Cup <tom_cup@hotmail.com> Subject: Of Our Teenaged Years - Chapter 5 - Gay Y/F Copyright 2000, 2001, 2002, 2003 by the Paratwa Partnership: A Colorado Corporation. All rights reserved. No part of this work may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means electronic or mechanical, except in the case of reviews, without written permission from the Paratwa Partnership, Inc, 354 Plateau Drive, Florissant, CO 80816 This is a fictional story involving alternative sexual relationships. If this type of material offends you, please do not read any further. This material is intended for mature adult audiences. Names, characters, locations and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. ************************************************************************ What's New at TomCup.com KOA Boy Chapter 6 Added 04/23 Of Our Teenage Years Chapter 10 Added 4/20 Stephen Miller's Journal Chapter 12 Added 4/13 Mentoring Brandon Chapter 8 Added 4/13 Raptors By Richard Dean Chapter 7 Added 4/13 Age Before Beauty Chapter 4 Added 4/08 Calvin: Identity Crisis Chapter 12 Added 4/02 Private Lessons Chapter 5 Added 3/06 In Memory of Steve: Chapter 9 Added 2/13 Short Story: Ambrosius Added 1/29 Short Story: Blair Manor Added 1/29 Sexfiles File 10 Added 11/30 Short Story: Can I Stay With You Added 11/30 Terms of Living Chapter 11 Added 11/16 Short Story: Boys Will Be Boys Added 11/15 ************************************************************************ Author's note: This submission is dedicated to the memory of Justin Case. ************************************************************************ Of Our Teenage Years By Tom Cup Chapter 5 My Father's Son When I picked up the phone, I could hear Sam sniffling on the other end. I felt both concern and guilt. I had wanted Sam to miss me. At the mall, when I was with George, I was content to push Sam out of mind. Despite wondering if he had called after returning from the trip to the mall, I really hadn't thought much about him throughout the day. I was thrilled when Sharon told me he was on the phone. But why? Because I had won. He had called me first. Shouldn't I have been moping around all day, in tears, missing him so much that I couldn't breathe? The tears I had shed a moment before, because I was lonely, seemed hollow compared to the sincerity of Sam's sniffling. Whatever Sharon's intentions for taking me to the mall, I went to make Sam notice me. I went because, this time, I didn't want to be the one to get left. If Sam wanted to break up with me, I wanted him to know it wouldn't be like the baseball summer. I would go on without him. But I didn't want to go on without him. It was a stupid game and I felt horrible. "Hi. What's wrong Sam?" "I miss you." "I miss you too." "I'm sorry Gerald. I'm just so mixed up right now." "I know." "No. you don't. My Dad called today." When I first met Mr. Swanson, I thought he was the greatest dad in the world. My father was never the outdoors type. We did the lawn and washed the car, Dad love the house and grounds to be immaculate, but we didn't build a treehouse, or go camping, or fishing, or any thing like that. I could talk to my Dad about Mark Twain and Huckleberry Finn. I was always welcome to sit in the den with him and watch whatever sport was being broadcast on the weekends. Dad was a spectator; Mr. Swanson was a participant. He would throw ball with Sam and me, help us tune our bikes, play "kick the can" with us, and "war". Mr. Swanson didn't talk much, but he did stuff with us. I remember, rambling on and on to Dad about doing this and that with Mr. Swanson. Dad listened contentedly to my tales, mussing my hair, and before you knew it, we were talking about... me; with Dad it always came back to me. He cared about me, how I was doing. When you're young, having a Dad that does things with you is great, but having a Dad that listens to you is better. My Dad may not have done as much with Sam and me, but his listening to me was far more important than Mr. Swanson's doing things with me. "What'd he say?" I asked "That he missed me and shit like that." "So you going to see him?" "He says now's not the time. I really think I screwed up. I told him I knew why he left. I told him I knew it was because of me. He denied it. Said I was being over emotional..." Over emotional. God, that pissed me off! He denies he left because Sam is queer, and then says Sam is being over emotional? What does it mean when you tell your son he's being over emotional, except that he is acting like a girl, being queer? "So," Sam said, "I told him that your Dad accepted us. He flipped. Said that he could understand how you could be a fag with a fastidious father like yours, but that he had raised me to be a man." Sam was crying; I was speechless. Was this the Mr. Swanson that I once admired and considered a second father, or was this Satan speaking through Mr. Swanson just as he had Linda Blair in the Exorcist? I held the phone to my ear, listening to Sam crying. What could I say? Mr. Swanson hated his son, he hated me, and he hated my Dad. I didn't understand what he had against Sam and me being gay, but I could put it in the category of "lots of people hate queers." But to hate my Dad because he accepted Sam and I for who we were, I had no frame with which to gather that picture. My cheeks burned red and my mind was a static buzz. Why hate my father? "You still there?" Sam sniffled. "Yeah...." "You pissed?" "Yeah." "Yeah, me too. He just hung up on me. Didn't say `bye,' or `see you later,' or nothing. Just slammed the phone down." "He's an asshole," I said. It made Sam cry again, and that bothered me, but my Dad's honor was at stake. Hate me, fine; but don't start saying shit about my Dad. "I'm sorry, Sam. I shouldn't have said that." "No, you're right. I was so mad at your Dad for being nice to me, for not being pissed when he caught us kissing. And you know why, because I wished that my Dad had accepted me that easily. I was jealous." "I know. Hold on a minute." I loved meatloaf night. Sharon was setting the kitchen table; the smell of Mom's secret recipe meatloaf, brown gravy, over buttered mashed potatoes, and steamed green beans gave the air a magic scent -- as though nothing could be wrong with the world once you sat down and had a heaping helping of the meal. The radio blasted. Mom was at the stove, her back to Dad. He had his hands on Mom's waist. They danced and sang, as Mom put the finishing touches on the meal: My eyes adored you Though I never laid a hand on you My eyes adored you Like a million miles away from me you couldn't see how I adored you So close, so close and yet so far Carried your books from school Playin' make-believe you're married to me You were fifth-grade, I was sixth When we came to be Walkin' home every day over Barnegat Bridge and Bay 'Til we grew into the me and you Went our separate ways The scene should have cheered me but it didn't. I was about to bring seriousness to our cheerful mealtime ritual. "Mom?" Mom turned and smiled. She put down the whisk she had been using to stir the mashed potatoes, spun loose from Dad, and grabbed me. I rolled my eyes as she began forcing me to dance, while singing: My eyes adored you Though I never laid a hand on you My eyes adored you Like a million miles away from me you couldn't see how I adored you So close, so close and yet so far Headed for city lights Climbed the ladder up to fortune and fame I worked my fingers to the bone Made myself a name Funny, I seemed to find That no matter how the years unwind Still I reminisce 'bout the girl I miss And the love I left behind "Mom!" The magic was broken. "What is it, honey?" "Can I invite Sam and his Mom to dinner?" Mom smiled. "Of course you can." I headed back up the stairs. My eyes adored you Though I never laid a hand on you My eyes adored you Like a million miles away from me you couldn't see how I adored you So close, so close and yet so far I hated that stupid song. "Mom!" I yelled over the railing, "Can you turn it down?" "What honey?" "I'm trying to talk on the phone!" I exhaled forcefully, trying to expel the bitterness in my stomach. I could understand how my family's cheerful acceptance could annoy Sam. It was annoying me. Didn't they recognize how difficult things were becoming for Sam and I? They weren't giving any indication that anything had changed. I picked up the phone. "Hi. You want to come over? Mom's cooking meatloaf. Maybe your Mom could come too." "I don't know. Mom's pretty upset. I don't think we'd be good company." "Please Sam. It'll be all right." "Maybe another time. OK?" I relented. I probably wouldn't have wanted to see anyone if my Dad had said the things to me that Sam's had to him. I told Sam that I loved him, and that if he changed his mind he was welcome to come over -- his Mom too. He thanked me and we said our good-byes. After dinner, I retired to my room. I felt bad because my mood had put a damper on the meal. Sharon tried to cheer things, but I couldn't bring myself to respond. I lay on my bed staring at the ceiling. The knock on my door I expected to be Sharon. It was Dad. He sat on my bed with me, and gathered me in his arms. He didn't say much. He listened. I told him what Mr. Swanson had said to Sam. I told him how I was afraid that Sam would leave me again -- just as he had left me before, in the baseball summer. I told him why I had gone to the mall with Sharon. And I told him how sorry I was for rubbing Mr. Swanson in his face when I was younger. Dad listened. "Gerald?" "Yes." "You're concerned about what Mr. Swanson said about me, you're concerned about Sam's feelings, you're concerned about my feelings, but, son, I'm concerned about you. I don't care what people say about me, but I am concerned about you, how you're handling things." "I don't know. I guess I'm all right." "You guess?" "I don't know... I'm confused about stuff." "What stuff?" "I don't know," I whined. I did know. Dad hugged me closer. "Why do you still love me?" "What?" Dad asked, squinting at me. "I mean, everybody acts like nothing's changed, like you don't care that I'm... you know." Dad sighed. "Gerald, nothing has changed." "Yes it has! I'm...." "Nothing has changed. You were my son before you figured this out, you are my son now, and you will always be my son. That will never change. I love you, son. I love you." Once again Dad had turned the conversation to me. I wept in my father's arms. When he left, I resumed my staring at the ceiling. I didn't come to any conclusions about Sam and me, or about Mr. Swanson; I did decide that when I grew up, I wanted to be like my father. ************ I began finding ways to spend time with Dad. If he was heading into town to run an errand, I went along. There were no deep philosophical discussions on those trips, just me hanging with the old man. But I learned things about my Dad that I had never suspected. Wherever we went, people treated my Dad with respect; he was genuinely liked. In the hardware store, the clerks all called him by name. He asked about their families, laughing, and joking with them about one mishap or another. At the post office, Jim the postmaster, traded recipes with him. At the Five and Dime, Frank the manager asked his advice on accounting problems. Dad was eager to help. I roamed the store, stopping at the teen magazines. I was deep into an issue of Teen Beat Magazine that featured Leif Garret on the cover, when I saw Mr. Swanson. My first reaction was to try to hide. Then the anger of what he was putting Sam and me through got the better of me. He was looking over a four-piece dish set when I walked up behind him. "Hi Mr. Swanson." His eyes registered shock. He looked nervously around the store -- I guess scared someone would see him talking to the queer kid. "Gerald. Long time no see." "Why'd you say that shit about me and my Dad?" "Gerald, I don't think this is the time or the place to...." "When would be the time and place, when you can say shit behind my back?" Mr. Swanson's eyes darted left to right. My voice had gotten louder than I intended from the mix of nervousness and anger I was feeling. People had stopped shopping and were staring at us. Dad and the manager had stepped out of the office. I didn't give a shit. "You can say it to Sam on the phone but you can't say it to my face. I thought you were so cool when I was younger. All the stuff we used to do together..." "Gerald please... I didn't mean any harm." "You didn't mean any harm! You called me queer!" "Gerald! People are listening. Please." I scanned the room. People were listening, and watching. I couldn't read what they were thinking; I didn't care. My chest was heaving. My eyes met Dad's. He had a slight smile on his face. His hand was on Frank's shoulder. I could tell that Frank wanted to stop the commotion. Dad gave me a nod. I turned back to Mr. Swanson. "You're right Mr. Swanson. People are listening. So is my Dad. I want to tell you something. I really liked you. I really did. But I hate you now. I hate you for hurting Sam and his Mom. I hate you for what you said about me and my Dad. You're an asshole Mr. Swanson. I might be queer, but at least I'm not an asshole!" Mr. Swanson stood staring at me with his mouth opened. Someone chuckled. Someone humphed. I left the store and sat in the car, crying. When Dad got in the car, I couldn't look at him. In my anger, I had announced to the town that I was gay. Tears streamed my face. Dad mussed my hair, and handed me a brown paper bag. Inside was the Teen Beat Magazine I had been reading before I saw Mr. Swanson. ************ "Jesus, Gerald," Sam said, "Everybody's going to know." "I know. I was mad." My eyes were glued to the treehouse floor. I felt I owed it to Sam to tell him in person what had happened before he found out through the grapevine. We hadn't talked about letting anyone else know about us, but now that I had let the cat out of the bag about me, I knew people would assume that Sam was queer too -- that is, if he continued to see me. "Fuck'em," Sam whispered. I looked up; Sam was staring at me. "What else can happen? I don't have any friends now, except you. My Dad hates me. You're the one that stands to lose the most. Damn Gerald, I can't believe you did that." "I can't either. I was mad. I love you, and he pissed me off." Sam laughed. "I can't believe you." "What?" "Jesus Gerald, do you have any idea how people will treat you now? No, you don't." "I don't care." "You should." "Why? If they don't like me because I'm gay then fuck'em. I don't care." Sam shook his head. "Gerald, you're crazy man." "I know. Do you hate me?" "Hate you? Fuck no! I'm just trying to decide what to do." I sat on the floor, staring at my shoelaces. Sam sat on the sofa, staring at me. It seemed like an eternity passed, neither of us saying anything to the other. Sam had every right to be pissed at me; I hadn't thought of what the consequences of my actions might mean to him. If he had decided to end our relationship I would've understood. Instead, he lowered himself onto the floor beside me, and then he kissed me. He pushed me back onto the floor and lay on top of me. Our legs intertwined. The heat of our bodies mixed. We stared into each other's eyes. Our mouth met again. "I guess we really are queer," Sam said. I nodded. "So," he said, "You going to be my boyfriend?" I smiled. "Yes." ************************************************************************ Send comments to: comments@tomcup.com To support this and other stories by the author, join at http://www.tomcup.com. If you like this story, check out Tom Cup's "Calvin: A Coming of Age Story." Available at Barnes and Nobles Bookstores, Amazon.com and our local independent bookseller.