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.