The Boy In Makeup

This is a work of fiction. Through it, I hope to help all of those who have found themselves on the outside looking in.

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The Boy In Makeup

Book One: Paris

Chapter One

Like the men who made me, suicide is in my genes. The temptation was too great for my great-grandfather, my grandfather, and my father, having lured all three to the other side.

Theories abound as to why. No one knows for sure. I think it's because there was too much dissonance between who they really were and who they pretended to be. We all pretend, but some of us pretend way more than others. Sometimes, the pretending overwhelms, and it seems there's only one way out.

I loathe pretense. I try not to pretend. I'm afraid it will kill me.

Not pretending is hard, especially in the closed, small town of Paris, Illinois, my hometown. Unlike the real Paris, my Paris had fewer than 10,000 souls, almost none of them authentic, at least not publicly. I guess no one ever really knows what's going on behind closed doors. Publicly, everyone seemed to look and think alike. There were few outliers, and they fled to Chicago or Indianapolis as soon as they could. Those who remained were minor variations on the same general theme.

They went to the same church, the same diner, and the same store. They drove the same make and model of cars. They voted for the same Republican candidates. They gossiped about liberals. They loved their God and their guns. They hated gays. And every other different thing.

It was stifling. I wanted to sing while everyone else sat silent. I wanted to run while everyone else sat still.

I have always bucked strictures. For as long as I can remember, I have hated shoes. I was and am barefoot whenever I can be. When I was at St. Mary's, I'd remove my shoes to walk to school, put them back on when I got to school, and take them off again as soon as the final bell rang. I was the same at Paris High School.

I also hated haircuts. I was a toe headed little boy, and I wore my hair long. I got the first haircut I remember because my grandfather insisted I get a "boy's haircut" for school. From past my shoulders, my hair got clipped above my ears. I freaked and insisted I wanted my hair "cut back long again." I was too young to know it was impossible. When I was at home, I wore one of my mother's wigs. When I was at school, I wore a stocking cap until the nuns insisted I remove it. I was ashamed of my short hair. It was the same as everyone else's.

In our case, it was true that deaths came in threes. Just before I was born, my great-grandfather shot himself. When I was 7, my grandfather hanged himself. When I was 9, my father closed the garage door, ran a hose from the exhaust pipe of our Pontiac Catalina, turned the car to auto, and listened to "Don't it make my brown eyes blue" as he fell asleep and drifted away. I found him, moments too late. Crystal Gayle was still singing as I coughed and cried and rocked and cried.

My father's suicide left me and my mother alone. She had been a young bride, so she was a widow before she was thirty. As I look back, I am alarmed at how young she was.

My father's suicide also left us indebted. We moved into a shabby, one bedroom apartment on the edge of town. The complex was all elderly but us. The living room doubled as my bedroom.

My mother (Carol) had never worked. She had married the high school quarterback just after graduation and had almost immediately gotten pregnant with me. They had waited until they were married. They were married because they couldn't wait anymore.

My mother stayed home while my father worked the line. She had hated what being pregnant did to her body and vowed never to do it again.

My mother was, as they said then, a real looker. She had full, wavy auburn hair that she wore up, sometimes teased. She had long lashes that she coated with mascara. Her lashes framed large, oval and ethereal green eyes that were slightly higher on the outside than the inside, just like Barbara Eden's. She had a button nose just above full, red lips.

She was also built. Her breasts were large and round. Her hips were narrow. Her butt and thighs were full, but not big.

I loved everything about her. When I wore her wig, I imagined I was her. She should have been a movie star, not a widow.

She learned to do hair and makeup and started working at the beauty shop. Women around town went to her, hoping they'd wind up looking like her. Once she was finished remaking them, they ostracized her. The women who had been friends with her while she was married now kept her at bay and treated her as a threat.

I became her only friend and her faithful muse. She practiced her craft on me. Nightly, she styled her wig on my head, and applied makeup to my face, trying this or that new color combination, style, or technique.

I loved the way she transformed me. I loved the way her mascara felt on my eyes, and the way her lipstick felt on my lips. I loved feeling and looking beautiful.

When she was finished with me, she'd work herself over. Then, we'd dance in front of the mirror and pretend we were really in Paris, living a life of glamour and interest. We used pillow cases for scarves and called each other French names, Yvette for her, Delphine for me.

Obviously, our relationship was not a traditional one. When my father died, my mother and I became best friends. She treated me more as a confidant and a peer than as a child. I knew the coldness and two-facedness of her former friends wounded her. I also knew she lived in constant fear I'd be the fourth Akers to cash in my chips. The urge was strong. Sometimes, it overwhelmed me. I always wondered, in those moments, what I'd have done if the means had been at hand.

With my father's death, I had to leave St. Mary's grade school. We couldn't afford to tithe, and if you didn't tithe, you had to pay tuition. We couldn't afford that, either.

The move didn't bother me. The strict Catholic dress code meant my hair could not be below the collar on my shirt or the tragus of my ear. I also didn't care for the nuns or the smallness of St. Mary's. I felt they were judging me and my mother. They acted like she was a divorcee, not a widow. They acted like I was a bastard, not a child struggling with a parent's suicide. They buried their mercy under condescension and judgment.

It was also a church and a school filled with pretension. On Sunday, everyone dressed up and pretended to be pious. In between, they made a mockery of the seven deadly sins and the Ten Commandments, in equal measure.

During the week, we were taught acceptance and mercy. We showed each other none of it. We were cliquish and judgmental. When Chris Goellner's parents got divorced, we stopped playing with him. He was 10, and we cast him out. For nothing he had done. His parents divorced, so he was damned.

Paris's public middle school was not ready for me. I stopped cutting my hair. My mother and I did my makeup before I left every morning. It was not over the top (a little eyeliner and mascara, a little lip liner and color), but it was enough. It was the 80s, and males didn't wear makeup unless they were Boy George, Sid, or Robert Smith.

I was the only boy in makeup. I was the only boy with his long hair pulled back and rubber banded in a nub on the back of my head. I was the only boy not in corduroys, plaid shirts, and earth shoes. In my mind, I was the only boy not pretending.

I realize now how arrogant I was. We all pretend. I pretended my classmates didn't bother me. I pretended I didn't hear them, didn't see them, didn't mind them. I pretended I didn't need or want friends. I pretended.

Chapter Two

I could have tried harder to fit in. But, it was not my nature. I'd have had to pretend I was something I wasn't. And, pretending brought the tunnels.

I was also stubborn and willful. I wanted to be the lemming in the Far Side with the inner tube around my waist. I wanted to listen to the Cure, Depeche Mode, and the Smiths, not whatever Casey Kasem was peddling. I wanted to read Jack Kerouac and Hunter S. Thompson, not V.C. Andrews. I wanted to be Holden Caulfield, not Holden on Days of our Lives.

I had two middle school friends. One was Lori, a large girl who was bawdy and bold and -- after a lifetime of teasing for being big -- strong as an ox. She didn't shrink when they came at her. She pushed back. Hard. I wished for her strength. I just didn't have it. I was strong enough to be different, but not strong enough not to get stung by the insults and invectives my differences occasioned.

My other friend was, of course, my mother. She encouraged my flights of fancy. She liked playing with me. But, she also feared what stifling me might do. She hawked me, especially when things seemed hard for me, or when the pressure to conform seemed too great.

Non-conformity exposed me in ways both small and large. As for the small, it was common for my books to be knocked out of my hands, my feet to be kicked out from under me, and for "faggot" to be coughed behind me or scribbled across my locker.

They were right, but they didn't know it. "Faggot" didn't just mean gay in our Paris. It was broader, and it included all things different. If you were straight and liked art, you were a faggot. If you were straight and eschewed sports, you were a faggot. If you were homosexual, as I certainly was, it definitely applied.

As for the large, I was tackled and kicked as I walked home more than once. I developed a sixth sense. I could feel people behind me. Not long after I started high school, I heard steps behind me. I prayed they were not what I knew they were. And, I never prayed. I went to church with my mother, but I was an atheist. Because I was rational.

I quickened my steps. Whoever was behind me quickened their steps.

I knew I had no chance. I turned around to confront whoever intended to confront me.

There were three of them, all in wool masks. They were Seniors (the year on their letter jackets ratted on them), and they were big.

"Hey, Faggot," one of them called out. "Nice makeup."

"Thank you, I work with what I've got," I offered back, weakly, but trying to be funny.

They spread out around me. I was not sure what was coming, but I knew I couldn't stop whatever it was. Before I could act, they did. I was on my back on the ground, a forearm to my throat.

"If you're going to use an eyebrow pencil," one of them insisted, "you may as well use an eyebrow pencil." With a cheap Bic razor, he took my right eyebrow and then my left. He cut my left brow as he did. It left a scar that I learned to love when my eyebrow returned.

I was disappointed they were not finished. I shook my head back and forth, only to have a foot placed on each side, holding me in a vice. The one who had shaved my eyebrows had a tiny pair scissors. He insisted I hold still. I didn't want to, but I couldn't move. I also didn't want those scissors in either of my eyes. I was helpless as he cut my eyelashes off. As he did, he hissed "what are you going to put mascara on now, you little faggot?" I wanted to respond "whatever I have left," but I decided discretion was in order. I said nothing. I choked back tears of rage.

When they were finished, they took off back toward school. I tried to reclaim my dignity, which was shattered and scattered around me. I surely missed some of it, ground into the grass.

When I got home, I stared in the mirror. I could not have imagined that eyebrows were so significant to a person's appearance. Without them, I looked like a freak.

As I stared, desperation replaced my rage. I felt like I was walking through a series of tunnels, each successive one more narrow than the one before. I closed my eyes and held the sink as I got stuck in the last tunnel, my arms pinned to my sides and my body a plug that sealed off the light. In that moment, it would have been so easy for me to stop pretending I was stronger than I was, to climb into the tub, to make quick cuts on my wrists and feet, and to slowly drift away.

The image of my mother finding me jarred me loose. I had found my father. I couldn't have her find me. I couldn't do that to her. I felt the walls recede and free me. I opened my eyes, let go of the sink, and ran a bath. The persecution was hard on me. I cried myself to sleep many nights, wondering if I shouldn't just conform and spare myself the daily indignities I otherwise endured. I could not decoct which was worse, abuse or obeisance.

Every time I had to, I chose abuse. Obeisance, conformity, being one of many somehow seemed worse than abuse to me, intellectually. At least on my path, I could take some comfort in being authentic, not sublimating who I was to appease others.

It was harder on my mother than it was on me. She ached for me. And feared for me. She'd have really been afraid if knew about the tunnels or the other thoughts that plagued me.

That night, she insisted I report the boys. I assured her I could not, as they had worn masks.

It would also only make things worse. It was one thing to be different. It was another to be different and a narc. Rather than tattle, I chose an eyebrow pencil and fake eyelashes.

My teachers provided no refuge, in any event. The only exception was Michael Kamler, the 27 year old Physics teacher who had moved over from the Catholic High School. Fresh out of graduate school, he didn't earn much, so he and another new teacher -- a female -- moved in together, to economize. The Catholics objected to opposite sexes living together, even platonically. When Mr. Kamler and Ms. Ostein refused to relent, the Catholics fired them both. PHS snapped them up; before Mr. Kamler, the football coach taught Physics, a subject he could not spell, much less teach.

In my mind, Mr. Kamler was the inspiration for the Police's "Don't Stand So Close To Me." He was a young teacher, and he was certainly the object of this school boy's fantasy. He had unkempt, curly brown hair. His glasses tried to hide bright blue eyes, but they failed. He had a permanent five o'clock shadow. He had thick, red lips, and bright white teeth. He had played soccer and coached the JV soccer team. His legs and butt showed it.

Mr. Kamler was almost certainly straight. But, he was also a rare bird in Paris, a liberal. He was in favor of affirmative action. And gay rights. And, horror of horrors, aid to the less fortunate.

The rest of the faculty teased him. I adored him. Whenever I could, I visited his classroom, just to have someone to talk to who did not think everyone else was right and anything different was wrong. He never encouraged me to conform. He urged me to be who I was. But, he also cautioned me that staying true to myself brought certain risks. Principles, he assured me, were not for the faint of heart.

When I showed up to school after the assault, the Administration looked past me. I was invisible to them. They cared not why my eyebrows and eyelashes were gone. They likely wish I was, too.

The students laughed and whispered behind my back, but no one asked me what had happened. Except Lori. She was horrified. She wanted us to attack each and every Senior boy, surreptitiously. Her motto was "To err is human, to avenge is divine. Fuck forgiveness."

There were 43 boys. Only 17 wore letterman jackets. We identified their cars. During the next assembly, we ducked out, grabbed the water balloons we had stored in a box behind the dumpster, and emptied two into 17 different gas tanks. We were indiscriminate and over-inclusive, but it was the era of Reagan, and he preached disproportionate response. We returned to the assembly Reaganites. And vandals. And exhilarated.

Chapter Three

Before my Sophomore year, I pierced both of my ears, inspired by George Michael of Wham. I didn't like his music, but I sure liked him. Lori went with me. She promised it wouldn't hurt. She lied. It killed.

On our first day back at PHS, I had gym with Coach Berkman, a close minded jarhead who took great pride in being a self-proclaimed "man's man," a reference I have never understood. It is intended to signify masculinity, but it always smacked of homosexuality to me. After all, my life's dream was to become a "man's man."

Coach Berkman had heard about my ear rings, and he was ready for me, coiled like a snake. As soon as class started, he called any boy with an ear ring to the front. I stayed in line, and he glared at me. "Akers, I can see your ear rings from here. Step forward."

"Coach, you called out anyone with an ear ring. I have two ear rings, not an ear ring. I'm where I'm supposed to be."

The class sniggered. Coach Berkman did not.

He strode directly toward me, glaring. He stood before me, enraged and greasy, like a piece of fried chicken, fresh out of the bucket.

"Akers, you're a sissy and a smart ass," he thundered, stepping in front of me, and putting his hands on my shoulders. As his knee hit me squarely in the groin, he announced that if I was willing to look like a girl, then I should talk like one, too. I crumpled to the floor and broke out in a cold sweat.

Today, Coach Berkman would have been hauled off in cuffs and certainly out of a job. Back then, no one even helped me up.

When I regained my composure, I struggled to my feet and headed out of the gym, embarrassed and shamed. Laughter slicked my departure. Coach Berkman didn't care. He had endeared himself to everyone but me.

I hid in the band room. My balls ached. I couldn't stop sweating. I was surprised when the door opened and I heard my name. "Eric, are you in here?"

I didn't respond. The voice belonged to Steve Lustig, one of the most popular kids in the school, much less our class. His family was the richest in Paris, "richer than the Roosevelt's" in my mother's words. He was well-bred, and it showed in how he treated others. He was the only person I knew who'd actually been to the real Paris.

"Eric, I know you're in here. I just wanted to let you know that was total bullshit."

"I'm over here," I said, revealing my hiding place behind the drums.

Steve walked over and sat down next to me. "Berkman's a tool," he offered.

"Yeah, well he crushed my tool," I tried to joke. Steve chuckled a little, but not a lot. My chuckle made my balls ache.

Neither of us said a word. Finally, Steve offered that my "an ear ring" play had been inspired.

"It got me a knee to the balls."

"No, it didn't. That was coming anyway."

"Probably."

Steve stood to go. I decided to pry.

"Lustig, what're you doing in here? Why'd you track me down?"

"I wanted to make sure you're okay. And, I wanted to tell you that I admire you. You're resilient. You get knocked down, but you just keep getting back up. I don't know that I could do that. But, I hope you keep it up."

"It'd be easier if people stopped knocking me down."

"I don't think you're one for easy."

"I guess I'm not."

"I'm glad. You make this a more interesting world."

"That's not my goal."

"That may be true. But, it's your effect."

Somehow, some way, Steve and I became secret friends after that. We studied together. We talked on the phone almost every day. We even hung out. But, we didn't talk at school. We didn't even acknowledge each other. It didn't bother me, but it should have. I shouldn't have settled for a friend that wanted to be a friend only if no one knew he was a friend.

For Thanksgiving, the Lustigs invited me and my mother to dinner. It was a welcome change from Swanson's turkey pot pies, which had become our Thanksgiving staple.

Halfway through dinner, Mrs. Lustig suggested we spend the night. As was occurring more frequently, my mother had drank too much, but they pretended that was not the reason for the invitation. We resisted, but my mother gave in when Mrs. Lustig opened another bottle of wine.

My mother took the guest room. Steve and I opened sleeping bags on the family room floor. We talked late into the night and into the morning. Steve asked me if I was gay, and I answered him honestly. He asked me how I knew, and I told him that I'd never been attracted to a girl. I was more interested in being a girl than in being with one.

Steve admitted he'd never kissed a girl. I was stunned.

"I assumed you'd kissed a lot of girls."

"Nope. Not one. I wouldn't know how." "Me, either. I've never kissed anyone. Except my mother. And, I'm pretty sure she doesn't count."

Steve stunned me more than before when he suggested we practice on each other.

"Are you serious?" I asked, incredulous.

"Sure. Why not?"

I pounced. "Okay," I said, a little too giddily.

"Should I kiss you first, or should you kiss me first?"

"You should definitely kiss me first," I said.

We both licked our lips. Steve moved toward me, and put his mouth on mine. Electricity shot through me. I felt like I was being struck by lightning. I hated when he broke the kiss.

"Do you think we should try with our mouths open?" he asked.

"Yes," I responded. "I definitely think we should try with our mouths open."

We both licked our lips again. Steve moved toward me, and put his mouth on mine. Electricity shot through me again and again, especially when Steve touched his tongue to mine. I felt like the monster in Young Frankenstein, jarred by bolt after bolt after bolt. I kissed him back as hard and as long as I could.

We spent hours kissing. Just when I thought we'd stop to go to sleep, we started all over again. Neither of us could give it up. It was binge kissing.

It didn't take me long to fall in love with Steve. He became my everything. And, he was happy in the role, at least when it was only me and him. I spent every Friday night at his house. We talked and talked and talked. I told him things I had never told anyone. I told him about my dad, his dad, and his dad's dad. I told him about the tunnels that closed in on me. I told him about the other thoughts that plagued and threatened me.

He listened more than he talked. He assured me everyone shared my thoughts. I knew he was wrong. I knew my thoughts were dire and unique. I never saw in the eyes of other students the fear and vulnerability that I saw in mine each and every time I looked in the mirror.

When he was tired of listening, he shut me up with his mouth and tongue. We kissed those nights away, our tongues exploring every cranny and nook of each other's mouths. I wanted more, but I also did not want the kissing to end. So, I waited for Steve, fretful that if I acted on my want, he'd back away.

Steve was always the aggressor anyway. He initiated the kissing. When we were sitting, his head was always turned in front of mine. When we were lying down, I was always on my back.

As we kissed, I'd lay there, wondering how far his hand would descend. It never went below my stomach. Sometimes, I'd pull my shirt up so I could feel his warm touch on my bare skin. When I did, it was like being at the top of the ferris wheel, my feet dangling over the edge, nothing but horizon in front of me.

Occasionally, Steve would press against my hip or my thigh, and I could feel him, straining and yearning. I wanted to grab him, release him, take him in my hand or my mouth, and release all that was building up in him.

I never did. Instead, we'd fall asleep with a dull ache in our guts, fear stronger than frustration.

It all came undone over Christmas break. For the first time ever, we ventured out together as friends, seeing the Karate Kid on a Thursday afternoon. Unfortunately, a half dozen or so other kids from PHS had the same idea, and we ran into them in the lobby. They saw us before we saw them, and they called out Steve's name. Steve looked up, said, "Oh, shit," and noticeably stepped away from me. It didn't work. They moved toward us and talked at Steve as if I was not there, expressing surprise at his "date" and wondering aloud how long we'd been "dating." They were having fun, but Steve was not.

In the movie, Steve sat a seat away from me. After the movie, Steve marched to the car, cold and sullen. Neither of us said a word as he drove me home. We certainly didn't hold hands, as we had recently started doing. The next day, Steve was not available when I called. And, he didn't call me back.

I knew the ice beneath us had broken. It was a rupture, not a fissure. As I stared into the mirror, I fell into the frigid water. I didn't try to swim. I let the weight of me push me away from the light. I felt the world go dark. I was in a straight jacket, and I couldn't swim, even if I wanted to. I swear I could taste salt water in my mouth as I shook my head as hard as I could, freeing myself from myself and breaking the surface, seeing the light.

Chapter Four

As the New Year started, I noticed my mother's drinking more and more. She drank a bottle of cheap wine most nights. It was harder and harder to rouse her in the mornings for work. She stopped doing my makeup.

I knew what was going on. When you're a 35 year old woman, your 15 year old son is simply not enough. You need friends and lovers. She had neither. She drank wine instead.

The weekend of Valentine's Day, she went out on Friday night. She didn't come home. She missed work that Saturday. She wasn't home when I went to bed Saturday night.

I heard her fumbling with her keys early Sunday morning. I opened the door to a mess. She was clearly drunk. She had a black eye and a busted lip. Her dress was torn. She was not wearing shoes.

I ran a bath and helped her in. I washed her hair and her face. I held her hair back as she retched. I dried her and led her to bed. I held her and fretted as she slept.

When she woke up, she was surprised it was Sunday and more surprised by the state she was in. She had no idea how she had gotten a black eye or a busted lip. She had no idea how she'd gotten home or where the car was. Or her shoes.

She clearly needed help. She agreed to rehab more easily than I expected. She'd be gone thirty days. I thought I could stay alone. She disagreed. She wondered if perhaps I could impose upon the Lustigs. I said no way. We settled on Lori's.

We packed together. My mother headed to Indianapolis. I headed to the Miller guest room. We would both be changed when the thirty days were over.

Lori and I had a slumber party my first night there, just the two of us. She had sneaked a bottle of her parents' wine, and we drank it and laughed the night away in her bedroom. The irony was not lost on me: my mother was in rehab, and I was drinking stolen wine, tracing her footsteps.

When the wine was gone, Lori suggested that we end our mutual virginities. I was surprised. I had always assumed she knew I was gay, although I had never told her, or anyone else for that matter. I'm not sure I'd ever even said the word out loud.

I did, then, for the first time. "Lori, you know I'm . . . uh . . . uh . . . gay, right?"

"Duh. Everyone knows you're gay."

"I can't have sex with you. You're not a guy."

"I know I'm not a guy. But, I'd like to lose my virginity, and you're my best friend."

I was intrigued. I wouldn't mind knowing what intercourse with a girl was like, for later comparison purposes, if nothing else. But, I wasn't sure that, when push came to shove, so to speak, I'd be able to, well, push. I also was sure Lori was in love with me, and introducing sex into the only friendship I had seemed fraught.

"I don't think I'd be able to do it. And, I'm afraid it would ruin our friendship."

"Have you ever had sex?"

"No."

"Gotten close?"

"Maybe. I'm not sure."

"How can you not be sure?"

I told her about Steve. She didn't believe me at first, but the details convinced her. I thought I could trust her. But, I wasn't sure I cared. Steve had betrayed me, so a little betrayal his direction seemed justified.

Lori was impressed. "Wow," she said. "Steve Lustig. Who'da thunk? Although, there is Lust in his name."

"And in his heart, just like Jimmy Carter."

"Did you touch his dick?"

"No. But he grinded it against my leg a few times."

"Was it big?"

"I don't know. I don't have anything to compare it to."

"You have a dick, ass."

"True. I think it was about the same as mine," I speculated.

"That tells me nothing. You could be hung like a horse or a bug fucker?"

"A bug fucker?" I asked.

"Yes. A guy whose so small he could fuck a bug."

We both cracked up. Lori was awesome. I assured her I could not fuck a bug.

"Why didn't you touch it?" she finally asked. "Or suck it?"

"Fear. Unadulterated, granulated fear."

"What's there to be afraid of? It's not like you could get pregnant."

"Scaring him away. Liking it too much. Falling in love."

"Why'd you two stop?"

I told her the Karate Kid story. Lori captured it quickly.

"He's an ass. I'm glad you didn't touch his dick. He doesn't deserve it."

I felt liberated the next day. Secrets get heavier and heavier as you carry them around, slowing and then dragging you down. It was not a secret that I was gay, but saying it out loud for the first time felt like the releasing of one. And, sharing the secret of Steve made the actuality of it seem more real.

***** My mother was transformed when she retrieved me from the Miller's. Her eyes were clear, her skin glowed, and her merriness had returned.

She embraced AA. She made amends to me, which I told her wasn't necessary. She assured me it was for her, not for me.

I took advantage of the solemnity of the conversation to come out to her. Saying it out loud the second time was easier than the first. There was no hitch in my voice, no faltering over the words. It was just "Mom, I'm gay." Plainly and simply.

"I know," she responded. "I've always known."

"Gosh, you could have said something."

"I wasn't going to tell you something you weren't ready to know. I figured you'd figure it out and let me know when it was okay for me to know what I knew. Which, I assume, it is now."

"It is."

"Okay. I have only one request. Be safe. I've been to too many funerals. I can't bear another one. I just can't."

She started to cry, so I did, too. We cried for my dad, long gone. We cried for my childhood, just ended.

Chapter Five

That Summer, I grew into a man. The fuzz on my face turned to hair. The thin, fine hair under my arms, on my chest, and in my crotch coarsened and thickened. I grew to almost six feet. I filled out, including between my legs. If I had cut my hair short, I'd have been Billy Idol's double.

Somehow, I got a job working at one of Mr. Lustig's plants. I spent my days loading boxes onto pallets and pallets onto trucks. I sweated. I got sore. I thinned where I should and filled out where I wanted. My ass and shoulders rounded. My chest thickened. My arms and legs rippled.

For some reason, I made $5 per hour, almost fifty percent more than the minimum wage. I saved every cent. When the summer was over, I gave over $1,500 to my mother to add to her checking account. She tried to refuse it, but I refused her refusal. She, too, was stubborn and willful, but her stubbornness and willfulness was nothing compared to mine.

My increased stature did not change my status at PHS. As the year started, I confirmed what everyone already knew and came out. It caused quite a ruckus. Some parents wanted me expelled. The priest at St. Mary's refused to give me communion, even though my mother and I had been attending every Sunday since I could remember. The town judged her, callously concluding she was to blame for my homosexuality, as if a little makeup and a wig can transform a straight boy into a queer man. They assumed I'd have stayed straight if my father had not killed himself and been around to be a "male influence." They didn't care or understand that I'd never been straight, that I'd never been attracted the least bit to a girl, that, from the first time I knew what an attraction was, it was toward a boy, or that some straight boys like wigs and makeup and some gay boys like guns and sports. Their assumptions betrayed their ignorance. Their ignorance was unshakeable.

Our isolation increased. At least I had Lori. My mother had no one, or so I thought. I did notice that money was less of an issue than it had been, even before I was able to contribute. I also noticed my mother being gone more, at odd times.

I finally asked her about it. We were still best friends, and I wanted to know what was going on with her.

I was gobsmacked when she told me she was having an affair with Henry Lustig, Steve's father. She had been for months. Her guilt had sent her in search of the bottom of the bottle. She had ended that search, but not the affair.

It had started on Thanksgiving night. While Steve and I were making out in the family room, Mr. Lustig had seduced my mother while his wife slept down the hall. They'd been sleeping together since, whenever they could. And, he'd been helping her out with money.

Mrs. Lustig either didn't know or didn't care. She'd long ago lost interest in her husband and their marriage. She liked her house and her things and her trips, and her marriage was nothing other than the means to all of them.

I tried not to judge my mother. I wouldn't have tolerated any judgment from her about anything I was doing, so I couldn't burden her with any of my own.

Instead, I told her about Steve, about the kissing, and about the end of it all. She responded only that Steve "had too much of his mother" in him, preoccupied with what other people think.

We found it funny that, while I was falling in love with Steve, she was falling in love with his father. Steve was the youngest of the Lustigs's children, and his father assured my mother that he planned to leave Steve's mother for mine when Steve left for college. Until then, they were content to sneak around.

I doubted Mr. Lustig's assurances. I assumed my mother was not the first and would not be the the last woman to receive that assurance from him.

With me now in the loop, Mr. Lustig was free to visit our apartment, which he did regularly. He parked behind the building and entered through the back door. Every once in awhile, he dined with us. I liked him. He seemed real, especially with my mother. I thanked him for the job and for the extra money, both of which I now understood. He asked me what had happened between me and Steve. I didn't tell him.

Usually, I saw him only briefly. He'd enter through the back door and I'd leave through the front. I didn't want to hear what I knew they were doing during those visits.

Lori and I started traveling to Chicago some Saturday nights. There, we could sneak into Berlin, a dance club that allowed boys who looked like me in regardless of our ages. We'd dance the night away and then sleep in her car before heading back to Paris. We referred to Chicago as heaven and to Paris as hell.

"Are we going to heaven this weekend?" I'd ask.

"No, we're stuck in hell," she'd reply. Or, "St. Peter, here we come! Swing those pearly gates wide open!"

Berlin was mostly gay. It took us a long time to work up the courage to go in, but, once we did, we quickly became comfortable with the scene. Men often bought me drinks, and I'd insist they buy one for Lori, too. They asked if she was my hag. I assured them she was.

More than once, a man offered us a place to stay for the night. I knew what those offers were for, and I wasn't ready for it. One, I carried Paris with me, so I thought AIDS was everywhere, and it was difficult to get any true information about the "gay cancer." Two, I had an atavistic streak, and I didn't want my first time to be with a random stranger just looking for a quickie with a hot kid.

Lori disagreed with me. She urged me to spread my wings. And my seed. She thought I should sow and sow and sow, so long as I was careful about it.

I came close only once. His name was Mark, and he was stunning. He was older and professional. He wore a suit. He was dark and tall. He smiled broadly. And a lot.

He cruised me from the across the club. I cruised him back. He made his way toward me. I had never made my way toward anyone. He introduced himself and bought me a drink. He asked me to dance. He wondered aloud where I'd been hiding. And, when I thought it couldn't get any better, he kissed me. Right there, in the middle of the dance floor, like it didn't matter that others were watching.

We were soon in a cab headed to his Gold Coast condominium, Lori in the front seat while we made out in the back. My walls were coming down when he mentioned that we'd have to leave early in the morning, before his wife got home. The walls went back up. The idea of having sex with someone's husband struck me as wrong, and it doused the lust that had propelled me into that cab.

As we drove back toward Paris, I felt the first pangs of disgust at what my mother was doing. If I knew better than to sleep with another woman's husband, she certainly should have.

As Lori drove, the lines in the center of the road starting coming at me faster and faster and faster. I couldn't catch my breath or control my thoughts. I realized my Saturday night away made my mother's lie easier to live out. I was a conspirator in her pretense. I wanted to open the car door and fling myself out. I took the door handle in my hand. It was cold, but comforting. It would be so easy . . . .

Lori knew me. I heard the locks triggered.

I told Lori I couldn't go to Berlin any more. I could not be part of the conspiracy. She understood. She knew my demons and how they worked. She knew I was always on the edge, looking down, my toes dangling. She pulled me back.

Chapter Six

I turned 18 the summer before my Senior year. When my father committed suicide, I failed to finish the grade I was in. I had to repeat it, which meant I was a year behind where I should have been.

I noticed Evans Fowler immediately on our first day back in school. He was new, and new was notable in our town, but especially in our high school. The week before, the Fowlers had moved from St. Louis. Evans' father was managing the largest plant in town, dispatched from St. Louis to modernize it and make it more productive and profitable.

Evans had black hair that was spiked on top and longer in back, black eyes, a thin nose, and thick, red lips. He reminded me of Rob Lowe in the Outsiders.

He was also built. He was 6'2", taller than me by two inches. He was broad shouldered, thick chested, and thick thighed. He was a football player. In St. Louis, he had been the starting quarterback on his private school's team. If he hadn't been new, he'd have been the starting quarterback on our team. Since he new, small minds meant he would not even be part of the team, much less a starter.

He was in my homeroom. Naturally, there was an empty desk next to mine. He slid in. He was not dressed like everyone else. His clothes were elegant, not common. And certainly not from Penney's. Or Sears.

He held out his hand. "I'm Evans," he said. "Evans Fowler."

"It's nice to meet you Evan, I'm Eric. Eric Akers."

"It's Evans, not Evan. There's an S on the end. Please don't call me Evan."

"Okay. So long as you don't call me Erics."

"I won't," he said, flashing a bright, easy smile.

The bell rang, and we were off. By the end of the day, girls were plotting ways to land Evans, and boys were plotting ways alienate or outdo him. It depended on their place at PHS.

Evans seemed to move above and beyond it all. He was distant, but polite. The first weekend of school, he was notably absent from the football game. I was absent, too, but not notably.

Monday morning, girls surrounded his desk, chirping. "Where were you Friday?" "How was your weekend?" "Where'd you go Saturday?" I could smell the estrogen. It was nauseating.

When the bell rand and they scattered, Evans leaned over to me. "Dude, you coated it on too thick this morning. It looks better when it's subtle."

I raised my eyebrows at him.

"Your makeup. . . . It looks better when it's a little more subtle."

"Thanks, I guess."

"You're welcome, I'm sure."

"Why didn't you go to the game Friday?"

"Did you?"

"God, no."

"Well, I probably didn't go for the same reason."

"I hate football."

"Me, too, but only because they won't let me play. I can't stand to sit in the stands with all the hormones soaking the air as everyone tries to pretend they're not doing what everyone knows they are doing . . . trying to get laid."

"I've never been laid," I admitted, for some unknown reason.

"I'm not surprised."

"That seems mean."

"I didn't mean it to be. There just doesn't seem anybody here who you'd be into. I imagine you with Audrey Hepburn, not Kelly Bundy."

"Thanks, I guess."

"You're welcome, I'm sure."

"Why do you keep saying that?"

"It's the difference between confident and diffident. When you say 'I guess,' I say 'I'm sure.' I'm being funny, or trying to be. But, I'm also sure. You never are. You're always guessing."

"Oh."

As I walked out of school that day, Evans pulled up and offered me a ride home. I hesitated and then leaned in through the passenger window.

"You shouldn't give me a ride, Evans."

"Why not?"

"In case you haven't noticed, I'm not the big man on campus. If you're caught with me, you won't be, either. You'll be the object of innuendo and rumor. It's happened before," I said, thinking back to Steve.

"I have no interest in being a BMOC at PHS. And, if they talk about me with you, at least they'll be talking about something more interesting than what they usually talk about. Hop in, Cupcake."

I did. As we pulled away from the curb, I asked "Cupcake?"

"That's what people call you. Behind your back. If I'm going to do it behind your back, I ought to do it to your face, too."

"Or not all all."

"Why? I like cupcakes. I have a sweet tooth."

I got warm from my head to my toes. I felt like Evans was flirting with me. But, I wasn't sure. No one had ever really flirted with me before, so I wasn't necessarily attuned to the subtleties.

I didn't want Evans to see where I lived, so I told him he could drop me at the park about four blocks from our apartment. When we got there, he climbed out, too. I didn't know what to do, so I leaned against his car and talked. He talked back.

Evans had already learned what I had long known: Paris was not an idyllic little town, and it was a tough place to be an outsider. Bonds formed early and were not dynamic. Circles of friends rarely were broken with new names. Cliques closed fast and firm.

Evans seemed nonplussed by it all.

"I'm here only for one year," he said. "And, all I need to get by for that one year is one friend. I already have one friend, so I'm set."

I didn't say anything.

"You know I'm talking about you, right?"

"Oh . . . uh . . . sure," I said, confirming what I had, in fact, not known.

The next day, Evans drove me home again. He took me to the same park, turned the car off, and climbed out. Like the day before, we leaned against the hood of his car talking.

"Why me?" I asked.

"You were nice to me. And, you're not a cookie. I'm not much for cookies."

"I thought you had a sweet tooth."

"Not for cookies."

"What's a cookie?"

"At my old school, it was anyone who was cut from the same cloth. You know, a cookie cutter cuts the same cookie every time. So, all the followers were 'cookies.' This school is full of cookies. It's quite depressing, actually. Everyone's afraid to think something that no one else is thinking. It's like everyone is looking around for approval before they make a move or think a thought. Everyone sits on the edge of the pool. No one's on the high dive. No one will even slide in. They're waiting for someone else. My school in St. Louis was not like that. At all. It's hard to get used to."

"I guess I'm not a cookie."

"You're definitely not a cookie. Dude, you wear makeup to school. In Paris, Illinois. There's nothing cookie about that or you. Your'e on the high dive bouncing up and down as hard as you can, about to soar, and you're not afraid, at all. It's awesome. I'm afraid of the high dive."

We settled back onto the hood of his car and stared straight up. He asked about my family, and I shared things with him I was loathe to share generally. I told him about my suicidal lineage. And about my awesome mother. And about how we felt most of the time like we were the last two Christians in the Coliseum, battling an endless Army of lions, warding off wave after wave but always facing another.

The next day, we were in the same spot, and Evans was telling me about his family. His father was successful professionally, but not personally. He drank too much. He was cold and distant. He thought children should rarely be seen and should never be heard. He was an "ist." Racist. Misogynist. Whatever other "ists" there were, he was.

Evans' mother toed the line. It was not her nature, but she would not cross her husband. She sacrificed her children to him.

Evans was the youngest of five boys. The other four were long gone, scattered hither and yon by careers and college and family and then kept at arms length by their father's coldness and distance and by their mother's supplication.

Evans was an over-achiever. He was a Division II football prospect. He was a straight A student. He acted. He debated. He painted. He played the piano. It was as clear as a bell to me that he was doing anything and everything to gain the one thing that was elusive, his father's approval. He'd never get it, no matter how hard he tried.

He was also a world class charmer. The girls wanted to be with him. The boys wanted to be him, even if they wouldn't admit it.

St. Louis isn't Paris, France, but it also isn't Paris, Illinois. He was way more worldly than we were. He knew black people and black music. He knew gay people and gay music. He was not repelled or repulsed by any of it. Word of AIDS was spreading, but, unlike most of Paris, Evans didn't think the right tact was to quarantine the gays and let them die off.

He changed subjects. "Why do you have me leave you here instead of at your door?"

"I'm embarrassed about where I live."

"No reason to be. It has nothing to do with who you are. It's just a place."

"You can drive me home, if you want."

"I want. And, I'd like to meet your mother."

My mother was thrilled that I had a friend in our apartment. She insisted that Evans stay for supper, which he readily agreed to do. I was mortified. My mother could barely scramble an egg.

By the time our awful, undercooked supper was over, my mother was applying makeup to our faces. She arched Evans' eyebrows with a pencil, painted his long eyelashes with mascara, and raised his cheekbones with base. By the time she had outlined his lips, we looked like glam rockers. Or drag queens.

We laughed a lot. It had been a long time since there had been that much mirth in our little hovel.

When Evans announced he had to go, I thought my mother would cry. She grabbed her polaroid, and took pictures of him and me, of him, of me, and -- holding the camera as far away as she could -- of all three of us. She was taking selfies before selfies were a thing.

We used Pond's cold cream to remove our makeup. Halfway through the process, we looked like mimes. Evans pretended he was trapped in a box, and he was pretty good. I tried to pretend the same, but I only looked like I was groping for someone in the dark.

I walked Evans to his car. Evans put his hand on my shoulder. "I had a great time, Cupcake. Thank you for letting see where you live. And letting me meet your mother."

"You're welcome," I said, and turned to head back up the stairs to our apartment. I was stopped by Evans' voice.

"Cupcake!"

"Yes."

"If any of those pictures show up at school, I'm going to kick your ass."

"No, you won't."

"You're right. But, I really don't want to see those pictures floating around school."

"You won't. You can trust me."

Evans cocked his head and looked pensive. "Of that, I am sure," he said.

I fell asleep that night thinking of Evans. Not in makeup, but with his hair pulled back, his makeup removed, and his beautiful, stripped face, pure and untroubled.

Chapter Seven

Jealousy blinded Lori, and she started campaigning against Evans. He was a user, she said. He'd flee as soon as the rumors started, she said. He'd throw me over as soon as some girl wanted to bed him, she said.

I protested, but to no avail. According to Lori, I was emotionally retarded, naive, and a rube. I was using my head, but the wrong one.

I was in the middle. I was Jennifer Jason Leigh at the end of the Hitcher. I felt like I was going to be pulled apart.

I picked Evans. Lori was sullen and surly, mistreating me because she wanted our story to remain a dyad. Her reaction confirmed the wisdom of my pick.

Still, I was conflicted about it. Lori and I had stood shoulder to shoulder for years, enduring and resilient. So many times, she had helped me up when I had gotten knocked down.

My conflict piqued my mother, and she inquired. I explained that Lori was being ridiculous and selfish. My mother disagreed. "She's stood with you through thick and thin, Eric. Don't choose the new toy over the favorite toy, unless you're sure the new toy will stand the test of time. Otherwise, you'll wind up with no toys at all."

I understood what she was saying, but I didn't understand why we had to be an alliance of two. I thought there was plenty of room for Evans, and I thought Lori was ugly in her exclusivity. It seemed she was perpetuating the them versus us mentality that we had long railed against. I stuck with Evans.

In my core, I knew I was wrong. Lori had earned my loyalty with hers, and I had betrayed it out of self-interest. I could pretend otherwise, but I knew I was pretending.

***** For Halloween, Evans decided we should dress as Sid & Nancy. I told him it was too esoteric, that only he and I would understand our costume. He viewed that as a plus, not a minus.

We did. For that first time that year, I went to a school event. To avoid stereotyping, Evans dressed as Nancy, and I dressed as Sid.

We were not a hit. If you can think only one thought, you eschew other thoughts. We were another thought.

Evans reveled in the ridicule that came our direction. He found the ignorance impressive, and he dismissed it with casual comfort of someone who knew what and who he was and didn't care if others could not or would not.

When the dance was over, we were at our kitchen table removing our makeup and laughing. We were genuinely happy as we stared in the mirror, cold cream caked on our faces. Evans leaned his head against mine, and we looked into the same mirror. When Evans' eyes caught my eye, he smiled at me. I melted into that smile.

Without saying a word, Evans moved to our phone, called his parents, and told them he was staying the night. I was mortified. Our couch made a horrible bed for me, much less for me and him. We'd have to sleep on the floor.

We finished removing our makeup. I used my bare hand to remove cold cream and makeup from his eyes and his cheeks. He ran his fingers along my eyebrows and lashes, cleansing them as he did. The whole experience was unintentionally erotic.

By the time we were done, I was on edge. But, I was still vexed by the sleeping arrangements.

My mother solved the problem. She arrived home from an evening out, offered us her full bed, and took the couch for herself.

I had never been in bed with another boy. Evans seemed unconcerned. He pulled his clothes off, leaving on only his white briefs.

I could not help but steal glances. He was muscular, but almost hairless. Other than a small trail that started about two inches above his navel and flowed into his briefs, there was no hair on his torso. There was little hair on his arms and legs.

I was much hairier. I had curly blond hair on my chest, on my stomach, and on my arms and legs. I had clippered it once, but it had seemed for naught.

When we were in bed, Evans rolled onto his right side, and propped his head on his hand.

"I had a great time tonight," he said, taking his left forefinger and tracing along my clavicle. I cringed at his touch.

"I did, too."

"I have a great time with you."

"I have a great time with you, too."

"Tell me something about you that I don't know."

My trust in him shocked me. I told him about my temptations and the tunnels.

"Do you really think about that?"

"Sometimes, it's all I can think about."

"There's no hole too deep to climb out of."

"That's easy for you to say. You've never been in a deep hole. If you were, there'd be an army to throw you ladders and ropes. I have only my mother."

"You have me," he said, stunning me. He leaned over, kissed my shoulder, and said, "Good night, Cupcake. Sweet dreams."

I couldn't respond. I wanted to kiss him back, somewhere. I wanted to roll over, pin him down, and kiss him until one or both of us suffocated. I wanted to do to him anything and everything I had ever dreamed about doing to anyone.

Instead, I did nothing. He rolled away, and then over, and I laid there, paralyzed and imagining all the things I would have done if I could have done any of the things I dreamed of doing.

When I awoke the next morning, Evans and I were face to face, and light was barely breaking through the blinds. I couldn't resist, so I kissed his nose, briefly.

When he opened his eyes, I sheepishly said, "Good morning."

He shielded his mouth with his hand and responded, "Good morning, Cupcake."

"Did you sleep well?"

"I did. I always sleep better with someone else in the bed. It's calming."

I rolled onto my back. To my surprise, Evans put his hand on my chest.

"You're hairy."

"I am. You're not."

"Nope. I'm part Navajo. I'm almost hairless. Except for the black hair on my head. And a little bush above my crotch."

I was surprised he mentioned his crotch. Between it being morning, me kissing his nose, and his hand on my chest, my crotch was on fire.

I didn't say anything, enjoying the sensation of his fingers gently moving in and out of my chest hair. My nipples were rock hard when he brushed up against one.

His hand never went below my diaphragm. I wanted to grab it and press it to my crotch, but I felt like I was behind enemy lines. I was on high alert.

"Can I tell you something?" he asked.

"Sure."

"I like you better without the makeup."

"Really?"

"Yep. I like the real you, not the mask you wear to hide the real you. I like you right now. Authentic. Genuine. I feel like I can see what you're thinking."

No one had ever accused the makeup of hiding the real me. It had only confirmed the real me.

"You can't," I assured him. "If you could, you wouldn't have your hand on my chest."

"Maybe not. Maybe I'd have it right here," he said, moving it to my stomach.

"Or right here," he said, moving it to my abdomen.

"Am I right? Can I see what you're thinking?"

"Yes," I croaked, from my arid mouth.

"What about right here?" he asked, moving his hand to my hard bulge. "Am I still seeing what you're thinking?"

"Yes," I croaked again, looking at him. He looked at me as he rubbed and squeezed my hardness. Inexperienced and overwhelmed, I came. I couldn't help myself. I had never been touched by another.

"Dude, did you just come?" Evans asked.

"Yes," I said, more plaintively than I intended.

"My turn, then" he said, moving my hand to his bulge. I started rubbing and squeezing.

"Take it out."

I reached through the hole in his boxers and worked his penis out. It was smooth and turgid. It seemed there was a lot going on, roiling beneath the skin.

I moved my hand on him the way I moved my hand on myself. Evans arched his back, raised his hips, and came all over his stomach. It was the most beautiful sight I had ever seen.

Carol's knock on the door knocked some sense into us. "Breakfast," she proclaimed, through the pressed wood.

Evans hopped out of bed, tugged on a shirt and shorts, and headed to the door. I followed, afraid my mother would see or smell what had happened.

I was also afraid Evans and I had taken a step too far. Momentarily, Evans quelled my fear. Just before he opened the door, he leaned into me, almost putting his lips to mine, and whispered "Boo!" into my mouth.

Breakfast was normal. My mother either did not suspect anything or did not betray that she suspected anything. Evans was Evans, as always.

I didn't spend the rest of Sunday fretting. But, I also didn't hear from Evans, which was weird. On Monday morning, Evans was odd during homeroom. He lingered with the girls, his backpack on his back, his desk empty. He bolted when the bell rang. I was instantly concerned that our rub out was more significant than he'd let on just after.

Chapter Eight

Homecoming was a week later, and I was, of course, dateless. Three months earlier, I'd have gone with Lori. But, she was still off about Evans, and she'd have been more off if she'd known about Halloween.

Evans was not dateless. He was going with Karen Nemelka, who was the likely Homecoming Queen and who had badgered him into taking her.

I went alone in a group of friends, including Lori. We posed for pictures together, but she barely talked to me.

Evans was staggeringly beautiful. He wore a black jacket and a black shirt that complemented the blackness of his hair and his eyes.

I went old school. I wore a tuxedo I had found at a thrift store. I parted my long, blonde hair on the side and combed it slick. I wore little makeup, just enough to hide the imperfections in my face. And to highlight my blue eyes. I looked like the Great Gatsby.

My friends and I danced to the fast dances, but sat out the slow dances. Evans and Karen danced to the slow dances, but sat out the fast dances.

I hadn't really talked to Evans all week. As I trudged toward Homecoming, I'd have given anything to undo the trauma of All Saints morning. It was awesome, but it wasn't worth the rift. I wanted to lie on the hood of his car and talk about life. I walked home alone instead.

Our Homecoming theme was "Follow You, Follow Me" from Genesis, which was hard to get excited about. Phil Collins was just awful. When the theme came on, everyone danced. I grabbed Lori and forced her to dance with me.

"You sure you don't want to dance with Evans," she hissed, as the song played and we swayed back and forth. I couldn't answer her honestly. It would have caused an even greater rupture.

"I'm sure," I said. "I'm dancing with the best friend I've ever had. Or ever will have."

"It hasn't seemed like it lately," she answered.

"I'm sorry about that," I said, thinking Evans was gone and that I needed to circle the wagons. "I got caught up in my shiny new toy. It wasn't all it was cracked up to be."

"Have you seen your old makeout buddy, Steve? He and Sally look like they're out of a fairy tale."

I had noticed Steve and Sally. Steve was in a traditional tuxedo, and he looked perfect. Sally had her hair up, and she looked elegant, like Grace Kelly at the height of her powers. They dripped of class, and they looked like they were headed to a state dinner.

"Yes," I said. "But, she looks more like a beard than a princess."

As I said that, I caught Evans' eye. He was dancing with Karen, about 25 feet away. Unlike the rest of the week, he didn't look away, pretending he didn't see me. Instead, he smiled and arched one eyebrow, a move that reminded me of my mother.

I was surprised when he mouthed "hi" over Karen's shoulder. I did nothing back. I wasn't sure what was going on, but I was sure I was pissed at his week of diffidence and indifference.

I turned Lori around so she was facing Evans and Karen.

"Ugh," she said. "There's Olive Oyl and your ridiculous Evans, dressed in black like he's trying to live out Depeche Mode's 'Dressed in Black.'"

"I think he looks good," I said, not able to help myself.

"That's because you want to suck his dick," Lori responded, cutting to the chase. "But, he's not going to let you, so you should stop pining for it."

I wanted to tell her I wasn't so sure, that we had slept in the same bed, and that we'd made each other come. Instead, I said nothing. Discretion is the better part of valor.

When "Follow You, Follow Me" ended, the lights came up. The dance was over. Everyone would splinter off. Evans and Karen would go wherever that clique went. Lori, my friends, and I would head to a basement, mostly to talk about Evans and Karen and ridiculous people like them who thought things like Homecoming King and Queen mattered.

We were in Peter's basement until almost 1 a.m. I thought of spending the night. I had no curfew, but it was about 15 blocks to our apartment, and it was a chilly November night. I don't know what persuaded me otherwise, but I had an urge to walk home instead.

I was stunned to find Evans sitting on the porch of our building when I walked up. He was shivering.

"What are you doing out here?" I asked.

"Waiting for you, Cupcake."

"Why?

"Because I wanted to see you."

"Did you buzz? My mother would've let you in."

"No, Eric. I decided to wait in the cold instead," he said, obviously sarcastically. "Of course, I buzzed. I got no answer. I almost gave up on you."

I wanted to say something clever, like "You should never give up on me." But, I couldn't. I was in deeper water than I was used to, and I was an awkward and clumsy swimmer.

I opened the door and led him up the stairs. Once in my apartment, we plopped down on the couch and covered ourselves with my blanket. The walk home had chilled me to the bones. I could only imagine how cold Evans was.

"I'm sorry," Evans started.

"For what?" I answered, pretending to be oblivious. "You didn't do anything."

"I did. I freaked. I told myself I wouldn't, but I did."

"It's okay."

"It's not. You didn't do anything wrong. You didn't do anything I didn't want yo to do. But, I kind of punished you anyway. It was a cookie move. I'm not a cookie."

"It's okay, I promise."

"It's not. Anyway, I really like you, Cupcake. A lot. I didn't do anything I didn't want to do. I'm just not sure I'm ready to do what I did. I talk a good game. But, it's pretty much all talk. I'm afraid of this. Really, really afraid."

I wasn't sure what he meant by "this." It could have been me and him. It could have been resolving who he was.

I wanted to comfort him. I wanted to encourage him. I wanted to reassure him.

But, I had no experience or innate wisdom from which to draw. I was as afraid as he was. But, I was afraid of something different. He was afraid of finding me. I was afraid of losing him.

I had nothing to say, so I put my head on his shoulder instead. He lowered his head to mine. When I turned my face toward his, he asked if he could kiss me.

"Only if you want to."

"If I didn't want to, I wouldn't have asked."

We were making things way too difficult. I should have said "Yes, please." And, he should have said "I do."

Still, he lowered his mouth to mine, and everything happened at once. The sun came out. The rain poured down. Thunder struck. Lightning hit. The Earth trembled.

When we needed air, he pulled away. "My God," I said.

"Yes," he agreed. "My God."

We rested against each other. I wanted to ask him to stay, but I didn't. I was too timid. I said nothing.

Nature abhors a vacuum. He filled the silence with his turmoil. "I'm not sure I'm ready for this. It's very scary to me."

There are essential moments in life. They usually occur when two options confront you, one that can be captured with a bold move, and the other that defaults from a tepid move. I was tepid, and defaulted to what was easy, but unwanted.

"Look, Evans, we can just be friends. I love being friends with you. I don't need more than that. Hell, I don't want more than that. Let's forget Halloween and the next morning and that kiss and go back to the way things were. There's nothing scary in that."

I could tell from the look on his face that he was hoping for the bold move. But, I couldn't take back what I had said.

"Yes, let's," he said, pulling the blanket off of himself and standing up. "That'll be perfect. We'll go back to the way things were. We'll pretend last weekend never happened. We'll pretend that kiss -- that awesome kiss -- meant nothing."

He ducked out as my mother was coming in. I was crying when she closed the door behind her.

"What's wrong, Honey?"

"Nothing. Everything. I don't know. I think I just made a terrible mistake."

"It can't be that bad."

"It is. I hate pretending. And, I just pretended I didn't want what I want. I think my pretension was terrible."

My mother settled next to me and cradled me to her bosom. She let me cry for awhile before imparting motherly wisdom.

"Honey, there's nothing that's done that can't be undone. Tomorrow's a new day, and it holds endless opportunities. Wash today away. Embrace tomorrow and the opportunities it offers."

I fell asleep wondering if I could heed her advice. And, if I could, how I would.

My sleep was troubled. I awoke wondering why I had pretended to want other than what I wanted. As I thought about it, I felt myself hurtling down tunnel after tunnel, each narrower than the one before. Before I got stuck, I hopped up and headed outside. The cold air jarred and rescued me. I stayed outside until I was so cold I thought my teeth may break as I chattered.

Chapter Nine

I slept in on Sunday. I was troubled, and I liked to sleep when I was troubled. Even if slumber didn't bring clarity, it at least could quell the thoughts I had trouble controlling. I was always at peace when I slept. I didn't have night demons. I had day demons.

I awoke full of regret. Evans had tossed me a meat ball, and I hadn't even fouled it off. I was not a ballplayer, and it showed.

I was still full of regret at school on Monday. I was plain faced, but I had my hair back in a headband.

Evans was not at school. I was crushed.

Evans was also not at school on Tuesday. Arrogantly, I thought his absence had something to do with me. I called his house when I got home. His mother answered, dismissively told me he was sick, and hung up.

Evans was not at school the rest of the week. I called every day. His mother wouldn't let me talk to him any time I called, dismissing me with a "he's sick."

I fretted. He'd seemed perfectly healthy in the wee hours of Sunday morning, but he was too sick to attend a second of school that week. Something was up.

On Saturday morning, I decided to find out what. I walked to his house and asked to see him. His mother blocked the door and refused to say anything other than "Evans is sick."

As I walked away, I turned back toward the house. Evans was in an upstairs window. He raised one hand in a meek wave, and I waved back.

Evans was in school Monday, but he pretended I was not. The shoulder he gave me was as cold as ice.

The week went on like that. Friday morning, I couldn't take anymore, and I cornered him in the bathroom.

"What the fuck, Evans?" I asked. "This on again off again bullshit is fucking me up."

"I'm sorry, Eric," he said. "I fucked up. And, my fuck up is costing me. I'm not allowed to talk to you, much less be friends with you."

"What happened?"

"I was pretty upset when I left your apartment Homecoming night. My mom was still up when I got home. I thought I could trust her. I told her I had feelings for you, and she betrayed me to my dad. He . . . freaked . . . the . . . fuck . . . out. He threatened to 'beat the gay' out of me. He blamed 'the fag in the makeup.' I'm on house arrest. I can only come here and then go straight home. I'm not allowed any calls. I'm not allowed any friends."

"Jesus, Evans, that's not a life. That's a prison."

"It's fine. I'll be leaving in less than a year. I can make it until then."

"Maybe, but you shouldn't have to. This is fucked up. You have to know that."

"They're my parents. There's already been enough of a breach. I can't cause more."

"They're not parenting you. They're oppressing you. Parents offer their children unconditional love. Not 'I love you if' . . . . "

"That's easy for you, Eric. Your mother is awesome, and you're all she's got. She's not going to let you go, no matter what you do or who you are. I hold no such exalted place. I'm expendable, and I can't make it on my own. I have to walk the line."

I was as sad as I'd ever been. I'd lived through people who gave up on themselves, but never someone who'd given up on someone else. Or threatened to. It was a sickening feeling. I wanted to retch.

I hated but understood Evans' choice. I was tearful as I turned to leave the bathroom. Evans grabbed my arm and turned me back to him.

"I'm sorry, Eric. I really am. I just don't know what else to do."

"It's okay, Evans. It really is. It'll all be fine."

When I tried to pull away, Evans wouldn't let me go. He pulled me into him, and I buried my head in his chest. He raised my face to his, and he kissed me again. I had the same reaction I had to our prior kiss. I felt strong and weak, like I was flying and like I couldn't move. I could tell from the look on Evans' face when the kiss ended he had the same sensations.

We ducked into a stall. We kissed and kissed and kissed.

I felt powerful. I unbuckled Evans' belt, unbuttoned and unzipped his khakis, and released him.

"Is this okay?" I asked, my voice a sandpaper whisper.

"Yes."

I stroked him as we kissed. He used his right hand to clamp my mouth to his as hard as he could. He sucked my tongue and grunted in my mouth as he came, coating the front of my pants. I kept stroking him and kissing him. I don't know how long we were in there and didn't care. He was completely soft when we finally broke the kiss. I was lightheaded, and my mouth felt raw. He put himself away.

"Look at me," I said. My pants were covered in cum. I was going to have to go home. There was no way I could go back to class.

"Sorry," he said. "I drop a pretty heavy load." "No shit."

"Can we kiss again?"

"Sure."

We did. It was another long kiss. I tried through that kiss to convey "No matter what, I love you." I'm not sure I did.

When the kiss was over, Evans quietly offered, "We can try to be friends at school."

I told him I didn't think we could just be friends. I told him I thought that, if we hung around each other, we'd wind up back in this bathroom, or in an equipment closet, or in the boiler room, and we'd eventually get caught. And then it would all be over for him, especially with his father.

I squeezed him, and he squeezed me back. I broke free and left the bathroom. I was emotionally bankrupt as I walked home. Looking back, I should have explicitly told Evans I loved him. That way, he could have taken that knowledge with him.

That night, Evans' father asked if he had spoken to me at school. Evans tried to lie, but was bad at it. So, he told his father about the encounter in the bathroom, at least some of it. Evans never returned to school after that. I heard that his parents had shipped him to a boarding school. But, I also heard that they had shipped him to one of those facilities that pretends to convert someone from gay to straight. I had no idea which was true, until I got a letter from Evans telling me what had happened with his father and that his "conversion therapy" was not working, he still thought about me all the time, and he missed me every time he thought about me. He told me not write him back, because they read every letter he received or sent. He had snuck his letter to me out.

I cried and cried that night as I tried to allow sleep release me from the grip of sadness. I cried because I felt I had been cheated out of Evans. Mostly, I cried because Evans was being cheated out of his life.

Chapter Ten

I moped around school for a couple of weeks. I couldn't even tell Lori why, as she still had a blind spot for Evans, and she'd have been pissed about the encounter in the bathroom.

I was raw and so unprepared for Steve's return. I was at my locker, and Steve -- out of nowhere -- asked me what me and my mother were doing for Thanksgiving.

"I don't know. Why do you care? You haven't talked to me for, like, two years."

"I know. That was douchey of me. I knew it was douchey, but then it went on and on and just got easier and easier."

"It wasn't easy for me."

I thought Steve was going to cry. I was not a good person, but I decided to do a good thing, so I tried to let him off the hook.

"Look, Steve. What's done is done. It's all behind me. I move forward, not backward."

Steve grabbed my hand and apologized. "Eric, I'm really sorry. But, things we spiraling out of control. We were making out all the time, I liked it but wasn't sure I wanted it, and then my friends accused me of dating you, and I lost it. I felt like I was getting painted with the wrong brush."

"It's okay. I'm fine. I missed you, but I got over it. I'm resilient, remember."

"Yeah, I remember," Steve said, defeated. "I'm a better person than you think I am."

I wanted to be curt and say "that's a low bar" or "I don't think about you at all" something similarly accusatory and bitchy. But, I had already tried to let him off the hook, so I decided in that split second to try again.

"Steve, I don't think you're a bad person. I just think you did bad thing. And, I'm over the bad thing. If you need or want to be forgiven, you are. You have been. Be free. Walk with a clear conscience. I'm over it." I wanted to add "and you," but I didn't.

"Thank you. Anyway, my dad thinks you and your mom should come for Thanksgiving this year."

Of course he did. And Steve almost certainly didn't know why. He would not have been so cavalier if he had.

I didn't think we should go. My mother disagreed. Vehemently. I felt the tunnels starting to narrow. I felt the water covering me. I felt the flames engulfing me.

It was an extremely awkward dinner. Mr. Lustig sat at the head of the table, directly across from his wife, pretending. My mother sat between them, also pretending.

The pretense was suffocating me. The conversation got faster, the words smashing into my like bullets from a machine gun. I couldn't breathe, and I needed desperately to get away from that table, from my mother and from Henry.

I excused myself and went to the bathroom. I put cold water on my face, but it didn't help. I sat on the edge of the tub, trying to think of something other than the game that was being played at the dining room table. My thoughts started to scramble, and the demons started pressing in. I put my head in my hands and tried to slow my breathing down. I knew the demons fed off my anxiety.

I was in jeopardy when I heard a knock at the door. It was Steve, and he was checking on me, just as he had when I had taken a knee to my stones.

I didn't answer him, but I moved from the tub to the floor. I leaned my back against the door. I couldn't open it. If I had, I'd have spilled my guts. And, the story was not mine to tell.

Steve asked me to let him in, and I told him I couldn't. So, Steve leaned his back against the door, too. Neither of us said a word for the longest time, but I started to calm down, knowing someone was on the other side, that I was not alone. Finally, Steve asked again if he could come in. I didn't answer, but I unlocked the door and moved out of the way.

Steve came in, and I settled back into my spot. Steve sat down next to me.

"Are you okay?" "Did you know people call me Cupcake?"

"Yes."

"Do you?"

"Yes."

"I'd rather be a Cupcake than a Cookie."

"I'm not sure I understand the difference."

"Of course you don't."

"You never answered me, Eric. Are . . . you . . . okay?"

"I'm not, but I think I will be."

"Can I help?"

"No."

"I'd like to."

"Okay, but you can't."

We sat silently. Without thinking, I rested my head on Steve's shoulder, and he rested his head on mine.

I tried to match his breathing. I could feel myself calming down. I could feel the threats evanescing, the demons retreating.

"I'm not good with secrets," I finally offered. "They threaten me."

"You kept a pretty big one for a long time."

"No, I didn't. People just chose not to know what they didn't want to know."

"I knew."

"I know."

We stayed like that, quiet, our breathing matching each others', unconcerned about what was going on at that table. "Talk to me," I insisted.

"About what?"

"I don't care. I just need you to talk." I couldn't tell him I needed him to drown out the voices in my head, the ones that wanted me to do what I didn't want to do. "Just talk about you."

He started. "Alright. Let's see. I'm color blind. Not a lot of people know that. My favorite color, to the extent I have one, is orange. I see orange better than I see other colors. But, it's not your orange. It's my orange. My colors are different than everyone else's. For some reason, I like the idea of having my own colors. My favorite sport is football. My favorite player is Joe Montana. I like how calm he is under pressure. I'm not. I get rattled. My favorite movie is Animal House. My favorite TV show is Cheers. Your turn." "My favorite color is red. Blood red. I don't have a favorite sport. I don't much care for sports. I like athletes, but not sports. My favorite athlete is Bjorn Borg. Like me, he has long blond hair. And, he's hot. My favorite movie is Ordinary People. It's also my favorite book. I don't watch TV much. Your turn."

"I rooted for McEnroe over Borg at Wimbledon. Because he's American. I hated Ordinary People. It was too slow. And Mary Tyler Moore was not the Mary Tyler Moore I knew. They made her awful. Raging Bull was a better movie and should have won the Oscar. My favorite book is In Cold Blood. My favorite song is Bruce Springsteen's 'Born to Run.' I miss kissing you. Your turn."

I was surprised by the candor of "I miss kissing you." With that admission, I felt free to move my right hand under his shirt. I wanted to be distracted from what I would have given anything not to know but could not un-know.

Like me, Steve had both filled out and thinned out in the intervening two years. He was 6'4". His curly brown hair was longer. His face and body had lost all vestiges of any baby fat. His arms and chest and legs were thick with muscle. He shuddered a little when I rested my hand on his stomach.

"I love Ordinary People because Donald Sutherland and Timothy Hutton survive the brother's death and Timothy's attempted suicide. It resonated with me, in light of what me and my mother have gone through. My favorite song is Dolly Parton's 'Coat Of Many Colors'; it reminds me of my mother and what she's done for me. Although I also love Allison Moyet's 'Invisible.' I feel that way most times . . . invisible. I started wearing makeup when I was little. It made me feel special. It still does. I miss kissing you, too. A lot. Your turn."

"You're not invisible, Eric. You're among the most visible. You wear makeup and stake out ground that no one else walks on. It draws the light to you . . . ."

I didn't hear the rest of what Steve said. I held my breath as I moved my hand over him. His nipples were hard, and had a hint of hair around them. He had a narrow, thick mat of hair on his chest. As I moved my hands to his belt, I felt the same hair leading from his navel to his crotch.

I started to unbuckle his belt. I was disappointed when he told me to stop. "Not here," he said, "not like this."

"Why not?" "One, they're going to come looking for us soon. I don't think they should find us rolling around on the bathroom floor. Two, I don't want my first time with you to be on a bathroom floor."

"With me?" I asked.

"I'm not a virgin."

"I am. Mostly."

"Mostly? You either are or you're not."

"I made a guy come once," I said, ignoring the events of the bathroom stall as too sordid to share.

"Evans?"

"How'd you know?"

"I was jealous."

"Really?"

"Yes. Very much . . . . Since it's confession time, I have one. I'm really nervous about this. I've never been with a guy. Ever."

"Are you sure you want to be," I asked, standing up, and preparing myself to return to the table.

"I'm sure I want to be with you," he answered, certainly. "I have for a couple of years."

With my mother sober, there was no reason for her to spend the night, and she didn't. I did. When we got back to the table, Steve asked his mother and my mother if it was alright if I stayed.

My mother raised an eyebrow and asked to talk to me one on one before answering. We went to the family room, and she asked about my abrupt and extended departure from the table. I was honest with her, even though I feared I'd wound her, and I had never wounded her before.

"I just couldn't take the pretense. We were all just sitting there, ignoring the betrayal and the damage and the dishonesty. I had to get away. I couldn't control my thoughts. They were pinging and racing and out of control."

"Son, with all due respect, you don't know as much as you think you know." She then proceeded to tell me about the Lustig's marriage, which apparently had been sexless for a decade and joyless for longer than that. Mrs. Lustig had long taken a "don't ask, don't tell" approach toward her husband and whatever he did without her.

For the first time, she didn't comfort me when I told her my thoughts were uncontrollable. She must have trusted that I had worked through it. Or, she was more interested in her self than in me.

My mother's explanation did not assuage my concerns. But, they were at least cast in a different light, encased in a different context. I didn't head toward Steve with a clear conscience, but it was clearer than it had been.

Mollified, my mother headed home knowing that I was not in jeopardy. I don't know what I was in, but it wasn't jeopardy.

Chapter Eleven

"How do we do this?" Steve asked as we settled on the floor of the family room, sitting cross-legged and stripped to our underpants. It was obvious we were both excited about what was about to happen.

"Beats me," I responded. "You've at least had sex before. I never have."

"It has to be pretty much the same."

"One would think."

"We should lie down," Steve insisted. We did, on our sides and face to face. Steve pressed his groin to mine and started rubbing against me. I gripped his hip and pulled him harder into me. Our foreheads were pressed together.

I rolled onto my back, pulling him on top of me. I raised my knees and spread my legs as Steve moved his hips and crotch against me. I was quickly headed over the edge, and I could tell he was, too. He breathed raggedly into my ear. "I'm so close."

"Me, too."

I shoved my hands down the back of his briefs and squeezed his cheeks as hard as I could. He panted and came, grunting as he did. I was so thrilled, I came, too, filling my briefs.

"Wow, that was pretty awesome."

I didn't think so. I was disappointed. I wanted to touch him with my hands and my mouth. I wanted to kiss him, lick him, suck him.

He rolled off of me and onto his back, announcing he needed to catch his breath.

"I'm taking my underwear off," I announced. "I don't want my cum to dry in them."

"That's a good idea. Me, either."

We stood up and stepped out of our briefs. For the first time, I was looking sexually at a live, naked man. Steve was looking back at me.

I had been right about his dark chest hair. I was a narrow patch, but it was thick. It stopped at his diaphragm and re-started at his navel, trailing down to a thick bush above and around his penis. It had felt large against me, and I could tell looking at him soft that he was hung, certainly moreso than I was. Like his arms, Steve's legs were also hairy and muscled, and the tops of his feet were hairy, too.

Mine were not. I had more hair on my chest and stomach, but it was blond and curly. My body was not as defined as Steve's, but it had come a long way in my two summers at the plant. I was just over 6 inches maxed out, and thick enough, although by no means thick.

I got hard as a I looked at Steve, and I felt a desire from somewhere deep within to feel him inside me. "So, you've fucked girls?" I asked.

"One. Sally. A lot." "You want to try with me?"

"Seriously?"

"Sure," I said, more confidently than I was. I moved to the floor, on my stomach. Steve moved behind me.

"I'm not sure how to do this," he said.

"I don't want to oversimplify things," I said, "but I think it's pretty much the same. You slide in and start going."

"Help me in."

I reached behind me, touched him for the first time, and guided him to my opening. He pushed, but nothing happened. He pushed again, but nothing happened again.

"I think we need something," I said. "Like lotion or oil."

"You're probably right. Sally's always soaked when we have sex. I slide right in."

He left and returned with Extra Virgin Olive Oil from the kitchen. When he showed it to me, I laughed at the "Extra Virgin" promise. He caught my drift and started laughing, too.

We were both nervous, but we were also both having fun.

When we were re-positioned, he poured some on him and poured way too much

into my crack. It did the trick. Both of us were slippery, and it was much easier for him to push in. I gasped when his head pushed past my ring. He was thicker even than he looked.

"Stop, please."

"Am I hurting you?"

"Of course."

"You want me to pull out?"

"Of course not. Just let me catch my breath." I paused for what seemed like forever, but was probably only a matter of seconds. "Okay, I think I'm ready for more. Please go slow."

I'm sure Steve thought he was going slow, but he wasn't. He was only 18, so slow was not in his bones. He pushed the rest of the way in.

I had never heard the noise that came from within me as he filled me. It was somewhere between a low moan and a deep gasp. I hadn't realized it, but I was biting my forearm to stifle whatever noise I wanted to make.

"Please hold still."

"I'm not sure I can."

"You have to."

I was sweating. I felt full. Somehow, I also felt happy. I loved the feeling of being covered and full. I felt something inside me give. Steve gasped when it did.

"Eric, can I move now? I'm about to come."

"Yes, but please go slow."

Steve pulled slowly out and then lowered himself slowly back in. I felt a little pain and a lot of excitement.

"Oh my God," Steve whispered in my ear. "You're so smooth and tight and warm."

Combined with the rubbing of my dick against the sleeping bag, the whispering sent me over the edge, and I finished. I must have clenched as I did, because Steve twitched and finished inside me. He grunted as he did.

Neither of us moved. Steve relaxed on top of me, and we both tried to get our minds around what we had just done. Steve slid his fingers between mine. His hands were large and strong. He softened and slid out of me.

"Was that horrible?" he asked, in a gentle whisper.

"Not at all. I kind of liked it."

"Really?"

"Did you?"

"Sure. A lot. It was super tight."

"I liked it, too, I think."

"Didn't it hurt?"

"Some. But, the thrill kind of drowned that out, after a bit."

"Can I do it again?"

"Sure. When you're ready."

I rolled out from under him and took him in my hand. I wanted to really touch him. He was warm and soft and tender. His glans was silky. It was not long before he was hardening in my hand.

I rolled onto my stomach and guided him back in. He was flat on my back again, moving in and out of me. He lasted a lot longer. I loved the feeling of him moving in and out of me, the sound of his breath quickening as he moved closer and closer to the edge, the thickening of him as he grunted "Oh God" and filled me.

We were both sweating when he rolled off of me, onto his back, and ran his hands through his hair. "Wow," was all he said.

I scrambled over him. I straddled him, took myself in my hand, and brought myself over the edge. I coated his stomach and chest. He winced a little when the first jolt hit him. I don't think he was thrilled by the idea of being coated. I was. I felt like I was marking him.

Steve discreetly left to clean himself up. When he was back, so did I.

When I returned, Steve was on back, his underwear back on. I settled next to him, put my head on his shoulder, and played with his chest hair.

"Can I ask you a question?" I asked.

"Another one?" Steve responded, sophomorically.

"Sure," I answered, dismissively.

"How did that compare to having sex with a girl."

"Funny, I was just thinking about the same thing. It's close. It's harder at first, but, once you get going, it feels pretty much the same. Definitely tighter, but I suspect that depends on the girl. I suspect a virgin girl is close to a virgin guy. I don't know for sure, I've never taken anyone's cherry. Sally's pretty loose."

"You took my cherry."

"I don't think guys have cherries."

"It sure felt like I did."

I tickled Steve's chest and stomach. I tickled him through his underwear.

"It'll be good practice for you," I offered.

"I guess it will."

"Will you take your underwear back off?"

"Sure," he answered, raising his hips and sliding them off. I returned my hand to him, tickling his balls, his length, his pelvis, and his taint.

"Does that feel good?" I asked.

"Yes. Very."

"Do you want me to try to give you blow job?"

"Sure. If you're up for it."

"I am," I answered, showing him my hard on through my briefs and laughing at the play on words.

I moved between his legs. I wasn't sure what to do, but my limited experience reading gay porn suggested it was not a difficult task. I licked my lips and moved my mouth toward him. The smell emanating from his crotch made me lightheaded. As when my fingers touched it, his glans was silky and smooth on my tongue. Steve twitched when they made contact. I encircled him with my mouth. I heard another low moan as I did. I cupped his balls with my left hand and started moving my mouth up and down his length. Steve started raising his hips to match my rhythm. Before long, he tapped me on the shoulder and said "I'm close." I think he was trying to warn me so I could pull off, but there was no way I was pulling off. I wanted him to come in my mouth. I wanted the full experience of my first blow job. And, I wanted to bring him as much pleasure as I could.

"Oh, God, I'm gonna come, I'm gonna come," Steve cried out, just before filling my mouth. It was his fourth load in less than two hours, so it was weak and small. I didn't care. I swallowed it all. It was bitter and salty and delicious and made me gag a little and then made me very, very happy.

I kept at it until Steve insisted that I stop. I moved to his balls and his thighs, kissing and licking and not wanting the experience ever to end.

"How was I?" I asked.

"Awesome."

"As good as a girl?"

"I don't know. I've never gotten a blow job before."

"Really? Sally doesn't blow you?"

"No. She let's me fuck her, but she barely touches my dick, usually only to help me in. She won't even consider sucking it."

"I'll suck it whenever you want."

"I'm going to want a lot."

I hoped so.

We fell asleep naked. When we awoke, light was streaming into the room, and we could hear dishes in the kitchen. I wondered if Steve's parents had checked on us. If they had, there's be no mistaking what had happened. We were in the same sleeping bag, wrapped around each other.

We dressed hurriedly. Steve didn't look at me, much less talk to me. He sent me into the kitchen first. Apparently, I was the scout.

"Good morning, Eric," Mr. Lustig greeted me. "Did you sleep well?"

"I did."

I sat down to a cup of coffee. As I sipped it, I realized that, even if Mr. Lustig had looked in on us, he could not say a word. He'd have to keep our secret if he expected me to keep his.

Steve came into the kitchen from the bathroom. After I'd left the family room, he rolled up the sleeping bags and tucked the Olive Oil into the center of one of them. He'd have to sneak it back when no one was looking.

I couldn't read Steve. I couldn't tell if his aloofness was a mask or regret.

When breakfast was over, I asked if I could use the telephone to call my mother to retrieve me. "No need," said Mr. Lustig. "I'll drive you."

"Let Steve do it," Mrs. Lustig offered.

"That's okay. I'll do it. I want to talk to Eric. And, I want to swing by the plant for a bit. There'll be no one there. I'll catch up on some paperwork, undisturbed.'

I knew it was all a ruse. There's be no trip to the plant.

Chapter Twelve

We weren't even out of the driveway when Mr. Lustig asked "How long has that been going on?"

"What?"

"Don't play coy, Eric. I'm not blind. Or stupid."

"Last night was the first time."

"For you, for him, or for both."

"For both."

"Are you being honest with me?"

"Well, we made out some a couple of years ago. But, that stopped when Steve's friends saw him with me and joked about me being his 'date.'"

"I wondered what happened between the two of you. I asked Steve, and all he would say was 'nothing.'"

"It wasn't nothing to me."

We stopped behind of our building, and Mr. Lustig turned off the car. I knew he wasn't going to the plant.

"Is Steve gay?"

"I don't know. I don't think you can tell with 18 year olds. They experiment a lot."

"I can tell with you."

"I think I'm a special case. I wouldn't make footprints on a beach."

"Maybe."

"Would it bother you if he is?"

"Of course."

"Does it bother you that I'm gay?"

"No."

"Then why would it bother you if he's gay?"

"I don't know. I guess maybe it shouldn't. But it would. It just would. He's my son."

"Please don't ever tell him that. No one should hear that from a parent."

We were quiet for awhile. "You going in?" I asked.

"Yes."

"I'll stay out here."

My mother was at the salon that day 12-8, so she was home when Mr. Lustig knocked. I napped in the car, avoiding whatever filled the 45 minutes he was inside.

Our apartment was visible from many others. Our neighbors had to wonder about the strange car that was always out back or the man that disappeared inside for brief respites. I did not see how my mother's affair was not going to become a public spectacle. I prayed mine would not, if it was an affair I was having.

***** I didn't talk to Steve all weekend. I didn't call him, and he didn't call me.

I did have to talk to my mother about him. While I napped in the car, Mr. Lustig told my mother that her son and his son had spent Thanksgiving night exploring each other. My mother was like a high school girl. She wanted to hear all about it. I'm generally afraid of secrets, but this felt like one I needed to cherish, not fear. I deflected my mother's inquiries, insisting it would be weird to share details with her. "I don't want to know yours, and I don't want to tell you mine."

She relented on details, but insisted on knowing the scope of our relationship and where I thought it was headed.

"I don't think there's a relationship," I said. "For all I know, it was a one shot deal." I laughed at my minimization (it had at least been a four shot deal). When my mother asked why I was laughing, I deflected her again.

"Whatever happened with Evans?" she asked, ripping the scab off a pretty fresh wound. I told her about the letter I had received, another secret I had cherished, not feared. I dug it out from under the shoebox I kept in the hall closet and let her read it. Tears ran down her cheeks as she finished.

"That poor boy," she said.

"I can't understand a parent doing that."

"Me, either," she agreed. "It's terribly, terribly wrong. It makes me sad and sick. It makes me want to visit the Fowlers and give them what for. It makes me want to scream."

I knew my mother's rage resided in her fear that Evans' parents' actions would make him feel like he had only one way out. And that he'd take it, like my father had.

"Me, too," I agreed. Tears were now running down my cheeks, too. But mine were tears of happiness, at not being a Fowler, of being an Akers, of not being alone, of having a mother who loved me, accepted me, embraced me, and shaded me.

***** To my great relief, Steve was at my locker when I got to school on Monday morning. I was pensive about his presence until he said "Hi, Cupcake."

I answered by whispering "I wish you wouldn't call me that."

"I have to. For appearances. Plus, you'd rather be a cupcake than a cookie, right?" "Right."

"Anyway, I slipped something in your locker. Read it, but not until you get home. Do not read it here. Think about it after you read it. And then let's talk about it."

I was thrilled to find the envelope Steve had left. I folded it over and tucked it in my front pocket for safekeeping.

I read it as I walked home that day:

It's Friday morning. You just left with my dad. I'm going to write this down before I chicken out.

I'm a little freaked out about last night.

I'm not sure why I did what we did. I'm not sure what it means. I've always had a soft spot for you. I'm not sure why.

I'm not sure what happens going forward. But, I know that what happened last night, and whatever happens going forward, has to be vaulted. You can't tell anyone, not even Lori. We have to act at school like nothing's changed between us. We can be casual, but we can't be friends. I'm stronger now than I was two years ago, but I'm not strong enough for innuendo and rumors. I won't run from them (I'm still very sorry about that!), but I can't court them.

I want you to spend the night Friday.

Please tear this into as many pieces as you can and then burn those pieces. Then bury them.

I read the note over and over as I waited for my mother to get home from work. At one level, the idea of "whatever happens going forward" thrilled me. On another, the whole idea of pretending all day every day scared me. Witnessing it over a dinner had sent me spiraling. Doing it every day -- and worrying about what would happen if the pretense failed -- might overwhelm me.

My mother raised one eyebrow as she read the note. It was a skill I had inherited and that I had used for great effect, especially at school with teachers.

"What do you think?" I asked, when she looked up.

"I'm not sure. What do you think?"

"I'm not sure, either. On the one hand, I'd like to see where this goes. On the other hand, I'm afraid it will go to a bad place, especially if innuendo and rumors start swirling."

"You should plan on that happening. You have over half the school year left. You boys'll slip up, and the fishbowl will fill."

"I know. I'm fine with it."

"That's easier for you, Eric. Innuendo and rumors have swirled around you your entire life. Not everyone has experienced the same sort of scrutiny. Most people don't start a journey together from the same spot. One's always ahead of the other, at least a little. You can't insist that Steve or anyone else be where you are, at least to start."

"So, you think I should be okay with this?"

"I think you have to figure out what you're in for. I think you have to figure out how strong you are. I think you have to figure out what you want. I can't answer any of those questions for you. I can tell you what I would do, but I'm not you. And, you're not me. You certainly wouldn't have made some of the choices I've made."

I was on my own. I had an adult decision to make. I needed some quiet time to think it through.

I was awake most of the night, searching for clarity. I thought I knew what I should do. I know I knew what I wanted to do.

In the end, I followed my heart. I reasoned that, in life, the only constant is change. Neither life nor relationships were static. Today's non-negotiable condition could be tomorrow's memory. When my mother woke up the next morning, I told her I was spending Friday at Steve's.

Chapter Thirteen

When I arrived at Steve's on Friday, he made his intentions clear. We went to his room, and he showed me a bag of condoms and personal lubricant he had bought for the sleepover. From the amount, it looked like he was planning for there not to be much sleeping.

Steve closed and locked his bedroom door.

"My dad's at work, and my mom's getting her hair done," he said, slipping his shirt over his head and unbuttoning his jeans. He was quickly naked and needy in front of me. I buried my face in his musky crotch, smelling as much of him as I could. He leaned back against the door as I took him in my mouth and quickly drained him.

When I tried to kiss him, he insisted I rinse my mouth with Scope first. He didn't want to taste himself on my tongue.

When I got back to his room, Steve was ready and had rolled a condom on. Without kissing me, he lubed us both up, and penetrated me from behind. I was on all fours. I stroked myself as he did. He came first. The feeling and the sound of him coming finished me off. With no other option, I spilled on his comforter.

"Fuck, Eric, how am I going to explain that?" he asked, wiping it up with his shirt.

"Don't. You're 18. Your mother has to know you masturbate."

"Maybe, but we should have planned better. Next time, we need to put down a towel or something."

"Why the condom?" I asked.

"I dunno. It seemed a little gross finishing inside of you."

"For you or for me?"

"For you."

"Not at all. I liked it better when you did."

"Really?"

"Yes."

"Awesome. I hate condoms. Sally always makes me wear two. I can barely feel her, and sometimes she makes me stop before I come."

"Why two?"

"She doesn't want to get pregnant." "What time will your mom be home?" I asked. Steve looked at his watch and guessed we had about a half hour. Time for one more.

"Can we try it with me on my back?"

"Sure."

We put a towel down, I rolled onto my back, and Steve moved over me. I grabbed him and guided him to the target. He pressed, but the angle wasn't right.

"I think you're going to have to raise your legs up." I did, but it still wasn't right.

"Here," Steve said, hooking his hands under my knees and pushing my legs back toward my head. He tried, but couldn't find me without my help. I took him in my hand, and he pressed in. I gasped, and he said "whoa" as his pubic hair pressed against my taint. As he started to slide in and out of me, I started to tingle in my stomach.

"Oh, God, right there," I said.

Steve lasted longer than he had yet. I tingled with every thrust. As he got closer, he gripped my calves tighter and tighter, and I got harder and harder. He had his eyes closed and a look of pure pleasure on his face. A thin layer of sweat coated me as I gripped myself and matched his pace.

He fucked me recklessly. He panted, "I'm gonna come, I'm gonna come," as I felt him fill me. I came, too, harder than I ever had. I hit myself in the face, neck, and chest. Steve collapsed onto me, smearing my load between us. I kissed the side of his face.

Once he caught his breath, he pulled out of me and wiped himself off. "That was awesome," he said. "And loud. Did you hear the bed? It was a rockin', but no came a knockin'," he said, laughing.

"Yeah, it was loud."

"So were you. You were groanin' and moanin' like a girl."

"I know. You hit something in me. It was almost like I had a clit. It made my stomach tingle, like the bottom had dropped out."

"Interesting. I wonder what it was."

"I don't know. But, we're doing it on my back from now on." Steve left to take a shower. I thought of trying to join him, but it was too risky; his mother could be home anytime.

While he was gone, I wondered about the dynamics of what was going on. I noticed that we hadn't kissed. And that Steve still had not touched me, even with his hand.

When Steve returned from his shower, he exclaimed, "Pew. This room stinks of sex. Open the window."

I did, then went to clean myself. I braced myself against the wall and let the water run down my back and neck.

When I climbed into bed next to him that night, I asked why there was no kissing.

"You'll think I'm crazy."

"I already know you're crazy. We're all crazy."

"Well, first, there's Sally."

"What?" I asked, sarcastically. "Did she say it was okay for you to have sex with other people as long as you don't kiss?"

"No. But, somehow, it feels less bad if we don't kiss. It feels less like cheating."

"You are crazy." But, at least he had some sort of conscience. Unlike his father.

"What's the other reason?"

"Huh?"

"You said, 'first, there's Sally.' Which means there's a second. What's the second?"

"It seems gay to kiss."

"We used to kiss all the time."

"I know. It didn't seem gay then. It was just practice. But, adding sex makes kissing seem gay."

"The sex is gay, Steve. I hate to break it to you, but fucking a guy in the ass is as gay as it gets."

"I know, but kissing seems to make it worse, at least to me."

"Well, it makes me feel bad that we don't. It makes me feel cheap. Sucking you and letting you fuck me without kissing makes me feel like a whore."

Steve didn't say a word. He just sighed, rolled into me, and put his lips on mine. He kissed me long and deep, our lips folding into each other's, our tongues gently touching and then fighting and then just touching again.

"You are kind of a whore," he whispered, before adding "Thank God."

"Touch me," I whispered.

"I want to, but I'm not sure I can."

"You have to."

Steve kissed me again. As he did, he tentatively ran his hand down my torso. I pushed his crotch into my hip as he slid his hand under the waistband of my briefs and took me in his hand. His was the first hand other than my own to touch my bare cock. I slid my underwear down.

"Grip it tight," I whispered between kisses. He did, and I moved my hips back and forth. It didn't take long for me to grunt and come. I broke the kiss and bit his shoulder as I did.

It didn't take long for Steve to move over me. He was needy, and he wanted to take me yet again. I wanted him to take me. I was so glad we had the resilience of youth on our side. We could come and come and come.

Steve slid into me. I loved the sight of him over me, the vulnerability of being under him.

We should have moved to the floor, but we didn't. So, Steve moved slowly in and out of me, trying not to make the springs squeak. When he found the sweet spot he had found earlier, I ached to cry out. I stifled it. I opened my eyes and stared into Steve's. "Shhh," was all he said as he slowly pleasured himself and me.

"Tell me when you're about there," I insisted.

He did't say a word. He just kept going, slowing in, back out, in, back out. It was delirious and excruciating.

"I'm really close," he finally said.

I touched myself. Steve watched me.

"I'm there, Eric," he said, arching his back and driving himself into me as deeply as he could. The sensation of him swelling and finishing was enough for me, and I joined him, coating my stomach. He collapsed onto me again, burying his face in the pillow next to my face.

"Jesus Christ," he whispered. "I wish Sally would let me slow fuck her like that. She always hurries me."

"Steve, please don't talk about Sally."

"Right. Sorry."

We cleaned each other up and settled back into each other. I wanted to ask some questions, but I wasn't sure I wanted the answers. My mind was running fast and hard.

I rolled onto my side and kissed Steve's cheek. He rolled onto his side and kissed my nose.

"Can I ask you something?" I asked.

"Sure."

"Are you gay?"

"I don't think so. I really like Sally and I really like fucking her. I wish it was better and freer, but I really like doing it."

"So, you're bi?"

"I'm really not sure. Like I said in my note, I've always had a soft spot for you. But, I'm not really into guys. Like, I wasn't attracted to Evans. I was jealous of him, not you. I'm not attracted to Luke." Luke was the quarterback of our football team and unquestionably the hottest guy at PHS. "But, I really like you, and I really like what we just did."

"I love you," I blurted. For no good reason.

"You can't. Not yet."

"I do."

"Well, then, thank you. It's good to be loved."

"You don't love me, do you?"

"I'm not sure. I'm not sure I've ever loved anyone. So, I'm not sure what it feels like. But, like I said, I really like you, Eric. A lot."

"What do you like the most about me?"

"Your strength. I wish I was as strong as you. I break in the storm. You don't. You're still standing after the hurricane's gone through."

"You don't have to."

"I know. I resolve to be better, to be stronger. And, when the opportunity arises, I'm not. I'm like Peter. I know I should't falter, but I do. Three times, before the cock crows."

"This is heady stuff for 18."

"I know. It's another reason I like you. I can talk with you about things I can't talk with anyone else about. I certainly couldn't talk like this with Sally. She's great, but she's not layered."

I moved my face toward Steve and kissed him. "It's okay if you don't love me yet. You will."

Chapter Fourteen

Steve and I awoke Saturday morning still face to face and wrapped in each other's arms. As we looked into each other's eyes, I tickled his back and side. Once you start having sex, you don't want to stop.

"Let's move to the floor," I suggested.

"Okay."

"Put two condoms on."

"Why?"

"I have an idea. Start with two condoms on. Then take one off. Then take the other off. That way, it'll last longer."

"You want it to last longer?" he asked, incredulous.

"I do. I love being under you." Advertently or inadvertently, I was drawing a stark contrast with Sally.

With no springs to worry about, Steve entered me and went at me hard. I grabbed his briefs, wadded them up, and bit down on them to stifle any noises I might make. Steve hooked my knees over his shoulders and pinned my hands over my head. I was quickly lost in what he was doing to me. When he hit the sweet spot, I closed my eyes, arched my neck, and tried not to cry out. I could feel an orgasm building, but I couldn't touch myself.

I was saved only by Steve stopping to remove the first condom.

I pulled his briefs out of my mouths and urged him to take them both off.

"Am I hurting you?"

"Now, you're thrilling me."

I could tell when Steve returned to me that he'd left the second condom on. I was quickly headed back toward an orgasm. With my hands again pinned down, I couldn't touch myself. I didn't need to. I arched my back and neck as the most intense orgasm I'd ever had thundered through me and shook me from head to toe. I couldn't help myself. I cried out. Steve clapped has hand over my mouth with a look of horror on his face. "Sorry," I said, using only my eyes. He accepted my apology by removing his hand and kissing me.

"Take the other condom off."

He pulled out and did.

"Now, come here."

He straddled me, and I took him in my mouth. His hips quickly matched my rhythm. I took his shaft in my hand and focused my tongue on his head.

"Oh, here it comes," he rasped. And it did, filling my mouth and throat. I gulped it all as I kept going, licking and sucking him until he couldn't take anymore. I didn't know if I was competing with Sally, but, if I was, I wanted to make sure I was winning.

As we dressed, I thanked Steve. "That was awesome."

"It was. Just when I think it can't get better, it does."

When I reached for the door, Steve turned me around, and pressed his mouth to mine.

"I want to tell you something before we go downstairs. . . . This isn't just sex. The sex is great, but this is more than that. I seriously don't want you to feel like a whore."

"I don't," I laughed.

"Good, because it's more than that."

I knew what he was saying. He wasn't explicit, but he was saying it. I decided to confirm it for him.

"I love you, too."

He didn't say a word. He just smiled and turned toward the stairs.

We went downstairs for breakfast. Steve's parents had to know what was going on, but they pretended not to. I wondered how much pretense existed under that roof and within that family.

***** I floated home. My mother was still at the salon, so I had the apartment to myself. I decided to do myself up to celebrate. By time I was finished, I looked like Cher in one of her most glamorous videos.

I danced a little in the mirror, lounged on my mother's bed like a starlet, and then started the slow process of cleaning my face. When I was finished, I filled the tub, slid into a warm bubble bath, and listened to the Cure. I must have fallen asleep, as my mother startled me when she knocked on the bathoom door.

I invited her in, and she sat on the toilet lid and asked me about my night. I filled her in, alluding to what had happened, but sparing her the details. She visibly flinched when I mentioned Sally.

"He has a girlfriend?"

"Yes, but not a wife," I rejoined, reminding her -- not at all subtly -- that Mrs. Lustig was being cuckolded by what she and Mr. Lustig were doing.

My mother leaned against the tank of the toilet and sighed, looking defeated. I thought she was tired of my lack of support for her affair, but that turned out not to be it at all.

"What am I teaching you?"

"Excuse me?" I challenged her, thinking she thought she was imparting lessons that I was ignoring.

"What kind of behavior am I modeling for you? How can I expect you to care about Sally if I don't care about Ellen? What kind of role model has your mother become?"

"Mother, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to rattle you."

"I'm not rattled, Butterscotch. I'm thinking clearly. Finally."

My mother hadn't called me Butterscotch since I was little. She had found that name in my blonde hair.

"It's all good, Mom. Don't fret."

"I am fretting. I need to clean my life up. And you need to clean yours up, too."

"Why? That's between Sally and Steve. It's not my problem."

"It is, at least partly. You're part of it. Ellen and Henry are my problem, at least partly. I'm part of it."

"Are you going to break up with Mr. Lustig?"

"I think I have to, at least until he's no longer married. You've reminded me who I'm supposed to be. It's not who I am right now."

"Do you think I have to break up with Steve?"

"I'm not making any decisions for you. You're 18. You can make decisions for yourself. I can only make decisions for me. But, I want you to really think about what your doing, not only selfishly, but also selflessly."

She was right. I pretended not to like pretense, but I appeared content with it when it was in my interest.

Chapter Fifteen

The following day, I slipped a note through the slits in Steve's locker. "We need to talk about you/me and you/Sally. Meet me in the band room after school."

I waited in the band room for an hour. Steve never showed.

As I was walking home, a car pulled up beside me. I glanced over, saw Sally, her brother (John), Luke, and a couple of other football players. I hurried up.

They drove faster than I could walk.

I started to run.

They drove faster than I could run.

They cut me off and spilled out of the car.

Sally's brother tackled me and pinned me to the ground.

"Why are you writing love notes to my sister's boyfriend?" he demanded.

"You should ask him."

"I did," Sally snorted. "He said you've been doing it for awhile, and he's told you to stop. He said you pretend in the notes that there's something going on between you two, and you won't stop. He said you're delusional."

"He's lying."

"You're lying," Sally hissed, as Luke kicked me in the side. "We're here to make you stop."

Sally watched as I was kicked, spit on, and stomped on. I covered my face, making sure all they could land were body blows. When they were certain I'd had enough, Sally warned me that they'd be back if she even caught me looking at Steve, much less talking to him.

I limped home, stopping only to vomit. Not only because I was hurt, but because Steve had been complicit in the attack, if not the cause of it.

My mother vomited when she saw me. I loved the Black Knight, so I tried to convince my mother they were "mere flesh wounds," but she didn't buy it. She wanted to take me to the emergency room. She was sure I had broken ribs. I was certain they were only bruised.

She also wanted to call the police. She wanted Sally and her thug friends arrested and hauled in.

I avoided both. After a hot bath, I settled into my mother's bed. I put on the Smith's and wallowed, sharing Morrissey's pain. I was almost asleep when my mother knocked on the door and told me Steve wanted to see me. I would have told her to tell him to go away, but my ribs were too sore for me to muster much volume.

Steve went white when he saw me. I had protected my face, but my body was bruised and cut. His eyes were wet with tears when he got to the edge of the bed.

"My God, Eric, what did they do to you?"

I didn't respond. I was angry at him for fueling Sally's fire. When he tried to kiss my forehead, I turned away.

"Eric, I understand why you're mad, but what was I supposed to tell her?"

"How about the truth?"

"That wouldn't have made things any better."

"We don't know that. We just know you chose to protect yourself."

"We do know that. 'We're sleeping together behind your back' would not have spared you. Why'd you slide a note in my locker anyway? You know Sally has my combination and is in there all the time."

He had a point. I had been careless. I didn't deserve this outcome, but I had not been as careful as I should have been. I don't think I was trying to force the issue, but I might have been.

"I don't know. I guess I wasn't thinking."

"Bullshit. You're always thinking, Eric. Always. You think more than anyone I know."

I closed my eyes. I didn't want to think about what I didn't want to think about.

"I can't believe you told her I was stalking you."

"I know. . . . I'm sorry," he said. I could tell he meant it.

I wanted Steve to leave. I also wanted him to stay. I wanted to spurn him. I also wanted his arms around around me.

I kept my eyes closed. I felt him move. I felt his lips on my neck, my shoulder, and my chest. I quickly realized he was kissing each of my bruises and cuts. It hurt when he kissed my ribs. But, it also titillated me. I got hard. I couldn't help myself.

"Raise your hips," he said. Without thinking, I did. He pulled my underwear off and moved between my legs. For the first time, I felt his lips on me. I wanted to push him off. I knew this was an act of penance, not desire. I wanted him to want me. I didn't want him to take me only out of pity.

I did nothing to stop him. I felt tears run from my eyes as he worked me toward an orgasm. I couldn't stop him or myself. He sucked and sucked as I got closer and closer. He kept at me as I came in his mouth. He spit my cum in the shorts he had pulled off of me.

He kissed his way back up me. He didn't exactly trace the trail he had traveled down, but he didn't deviate by much.

"Why are you crying?" he asked.

I felt like I had to tell him the truth. "I feel like you betrayed me to Sally. And, I feel like you know you did, and you just did what you did to try to make up for it, not because you wanted to. I want to be wanted, Steve, not pitied. And, I want to be someone's someone, not someone's other one."

"I know, Eric. I'm doing the best I can. I begged them not to come after you. You have to know that."

I soaked in what he said as he lowered his face to mine and gently kissed my lips. I pulled out of the kiss in disgust.

"You knew they were coming after me?"

"I knew they said they were."

"Why didn't you warn me?"

Steve raised up. "What do you mean?"

"You knew they were threatening me. Why didn't you find a way to warn me? Or drive me home? Something to protect me?"

"I'm not sure what you're suggesting."

"Yes, you are. They told you they were coming after me, you begged them not to, but you didn't warn me, you didn't intervene, and you didn't inform anyone else so they could intervene."

"I just didn't know what to do," Steve pleaded.

"So you did nothing?"

"I don't know. I guess so."

"You need to leave."

"Eric."

"Get out. . . . Mom . . . Mom."

My mother was quickly at the door. "Mom, I'm tired. I need to rest. Make him leave."

"Steve, let him rest."

I could see the pain in Steve's face. But, I could feel the pain in mine. I was sure he had left me out to dry, to protect himself. I wanted to vomit some more.

I closed my eyes. I felt like I was falling down a hole that narrowed with every foot. I gripped the sheets as hard as I could. I called my mother into the room. I didn't want to get wedged.

"What's wrong?"

"I need you to talk to me."

She did what she always did in these dire moments. She told me the story of "The Giving Tree," which she had read and re-read to me so many times she had it memorized.

Her voice calmed me down. She returned to the kitchen.

Steve hadn't left. As I tried to sleep, I could hear him and my mother through the door. I heard him plead he was only 18, and I heard her insist she would protect me, come hell or high water. The quills were out, and she wasn't buying his bullshit. I fell asleep listening to her hector him and knowing that I needed and wanted to be with someone who put me first, not with someone who sacrificed me to protect himself.

Chapter Sixteen

I woke up to different voices. My mother's, of course, was constant. The other I could not decoct through the door. It was deep and resonant. I assumed it was Henry.

It wasn't. My mother knocked on the door, stuck her head in, and told me there was someone who wanted to see me. Before I said "okay," Mr. Kamler appeared at the door.

He sat on the edge of the bed and looked at me. His voice faltered as he apologized and assured me that Sally, John, Luke, and the others involved would be dealt with. He was motivated, and he intended to take on the powerful interests who were already trying to make sure any punishment was muted.

Mr. Kamler held my hand as he talked to me. He told me things I already knew, like this wasn't my fault, that I shouldn't let them break my spirit, and that I would be letting them win if I took this as a call to conform.

I was embarrassed that I cried as he talked. I cried at how hard things were. I cried at how vulnerable I was. I cried at how needy I was.

Mr. Kamler cried, too. He assured me PHS and Paris needed to do better by me. I knew they wouldn't.

Like Steve the night before, Mr. Kamler didn't leave. He and my mother talked over coffee as I waited for the Percocet to kick in. I drifted away, listening to their muffled voices.

My mother was ebullient the next day. Mr. Kamler had stayed for hours after I fell asleep, including for what I was sure was an insipid, uninspired meal. He was undeterred; they had a dinner date the following Friday.

I was happy for her. Almost happy enough to forget the pain that pierced my side every time I breathed.

I asked my mother about her conversation with Steve. Apparently, she had let him have it. She insisted it was his fault I was convalescing, that I deserved more than he was able to give, that Sally deserved more than lies and faithlessness, and that he owed us both more than we were getting.

"What's going on with Henry?" I ventured.

"What do you mean?"

"You said you were going to break it off. Did you?"

"Not yet."

"But you're going on a date with Mr. Kamler, Mrs. Robinson?" Before she could answer, I started humming "Jesus loves you more than you will know, oh, oh, oh." My ribs rocked me as I laughed.

"Hey. I'm only 8 years older than he is."

"So, you'd have no problem if I brought home a 26 year old guy?" I asked, incredulous.

"I don't think that's the same."

"It's all a matter of whose ox is being gored, isn't it?"

"I'm so happy."

"Why?"

"Your sass is back. That means you're feeling better."

"It's the Percocet."

"Steve wants to visit you."

"No."

"Okay. But, I think he knows he screwed up."

"He did. And, I'm broken because of it. I'll forgive him. But not yet."

"Forgiveness is not a dish best served cold, Eric."

"I know." ***** PHS's solution to my attack was to suggest I should accept my diploma now and spend the rest of the school year mending. In other words, my attackers would remain in school, and I would be bought off and secreted away.

Lori insisted I should tell them to go fuck themselves. My mother echoed her insistence, as did Mr. Kamler, who was now at our apartment every day. >From where I rested, it was hard to tell who was crazier about the other, my mother or him.

I wasn't so sure. I kind of liked the idea of being finished with school. I also was thinking about my return to school and how awful it would be for me if I was the reason Sally, John, Luke, and the other mutts were expelled.

"They all hate you anyway," Lori reassured me, although there was nothing reassuring in that fact. "So, what does it matter if they hate you a little more if you stand up for yourself and insist 'never again.'"

"My God, woman, it's not the Holocaust."

"It's just as bad. Gay-bashing is the new Holocaust. You have to stand up for yourself and all the gay boys who are going to follow you. You have to insist 'this is not okay' and make a safe path for them, even here in little old Paris, Illinois."

"You're so dramatic."

"That's what they said to Rose Parks. She didn't think so. She just wanted the seat she deserved. You should insist on the seat at the table you deserve."

Mr. Kamler was just as indignant. He had his social justice glasses on. "Every once in awhile, you get the chance to stand up and be counted. Take the chance, Eric."

I took their advice. I decided I would not give in and give PHS the easy way out. They were going to have to deal with me.

My mother had used her polaroid to take pictures of my injuries. I put them all in a book and took them to school. I showed them page by page to the Principal.

He seemed nonplussed. He suggested I deserved the wounds because I was stalking Steve Lustig, the son of a prominent Paris family. I insisted that didn't matter, and he disagreed.

"Steve didn't do this," I insisted. "His friends didn't do this at his behest. In fact, he begged them not to do this. They did it anyway. They weren't protecting him from me. This was a vicious, unprovoked attack."

"It was not unprovoked, young man. You left a blackmail letter in Mr. Lustig's locker."

I had had enough. "You're as ignorant as ignorant can get. That's harsh, but it's true. There was no blackmail in my note. I simply asked my boyfriend to meet me. And, writing your boyfriend a note is not provocation for a vicious attack. It's just not."

"Boyfriend?"

"Yes. Steve and I are . . . were . . . together. If he says otherwise, he's lying. But, it doesn't matter. They beat me. No matter what I did, they beat me. They beat me."

I stormed out of the office. I scribbled a quick note and shoved it in Steve's locker. "I told Principal Barnes. I'm sorry. He provoked me, and I blurted it out. I wanted you to hear it -- read it -- from me first."

Mr. Kamler put me and my mother in touch with a lawyer from Chicago who had been a college friend of his. She was a militant lesbian from an elite law firm who was chomping at the bit to expose what PHS and its principal were trying to do by blaming me for the beating I had endured.

She made quick work of them. Within a few days of her arrival in Paris, everyone in the car that had followed me that fateful day was expelled. The Catholic school happily took them in. I didn't care. I cared only that they would not be at PHS with me.

Chapter Seventeen

The Principal protected Steve and the Lustigs. For all anyone at PHS knew, I was a crazed stalker who had gotten what I deserved and then thrown a fit until Steve's avengers were themselves victimized.

I didn't care. Lori had been correct. My status at PHS was where it had always been, at the bottom with the dregs.

Steve was again gone from my life. He had not appreciated my candor with Principal Barnes, a self-centered turnabout that I found ripe. He had betrayed me, yet he was the one who was claiming I had betrayed him.

Henry was also gone. Mr. Kamler had replaced him. It was clear he was smitten with my mother. And that she was smitten him. Where things with Henry had been fraught, things with Mr. Kamler were easy and uncluttered. It was thrilling to see.

The town was agog over it. Mr. Kamler was the object of everyone's affection, and my mother had captured his. She went from being a threat to being the object of envy.

I did not. I remained a threat, the victim who used my victimization to destroy PHS from the inside.

I could not believe how ignorant people were. They were like the people who blamed the abused woman for staying, or the victim's clothing for her brutal rape. It was the antelope's fault the tiger attacked. It was the deer's fault the hunter shot.

I grew calloused to it all. I had my mother, Lori, and, now, Mr. Kamler. He was as attentive to me as he always had been and as he was to my mother. We talked and talked and talked when he visited. He was funny and smart and wonderful. He was the first male friend I'd ever really had. Evans had been my friend, but also the object of my affection. Mr. Kamler was just my friend.

He was helping me with my college application process. Over Christmas Break, Mr. Kamler took me to visit my three top choices. We went east to Ohio (Denison), then west to Iowa (Grinnell), then north to Minnesota (Carleton). It was the first real road trip of my life, and we had a blast. Mr. Kamler let me pick the music. I tried to show off, but failed. He was familiar with every band I chose.

It was easy to see why my mother had fallen overboard for him. He was easy on the ears. He listened more than he talked. He offered only when asked. And, he seemed to know everything. He must have read a lot.

He was also easy on the eyes. I got to see almost all of him on our trip, and he was something to see. The curly hair on his head also covered his chest and stomach, both of which were ripped. I noticed on the trip that he ate almost nothing but chicken and fish and vegetables. He did sit ups and push ups every morning and every night. He stretched and held his body in strange positions for extended periods of time. He meditated cross-legged on the floor, his sculpted feet turned up on his thighs. I was ashamed that I was lusting after what appeared to be my mother's boyfriend.

As we drove home from Minnesota, I was settled on Denison. I loved its hilltop campus and liberal bent. I was excited to escape Paris.

I asked Mr. Kamler if he had ever had sex with a man.

"That's a pretty strange question, Eric. And pretty personal."

"So, the answer is yes."

"I didn't say that."

"Yes, you did. There are only two answers to questions like that. No, and everything else. Everything else is 'yes.'"

"The answer is yes. I think most boys do. At least to some extent. A high school buddy of mine and I jerked each other off a couple of times. It was no big deal."

"Did you like it?"

"I liked getting jerked off. It was the difference between washing your own hair and someone else washing your hair. It's okay when I wash it. It feels great when someone else washes it."

"I've never had sex with a girl."

"I think you're pretty far gone on the scale."

"The scale?"

"The scale of sexuality. If a one is totally hetero, a ten is totally homo. A five is exactly in the middle, so totally bi."

"I must be a ten."

"I think you must be an eleven," he offered, laughing.

"Where are you?"

"I'm probably a three. I'm attracted to women. I'm not attracted to men, but I notice attractive men. I can enjoy the beauty of a man's body. The muscle. The strength. The firmness. But, that's all I want to do, admire it. I don't want to touch it."

"Have you had sex with my mother?"

"Eric! That's definitely none of your business."

"So, yes?"

"No. Your theory is imperfect. We haven't, but don't you dare raise it with her. It'd embarrass her."

"Why haven't you?"

"I'm old school. I'm waiting until I marry her."

"So, you're . . . like . . . a virgin?"

"That's exactly right. I'm like a virgin. I had a lot of sex when I was too young to know better. I haven't had sex in the last three years. I'm reclaiming my virginity, to the extent I can. I don't want to have sex again until I'm married."

"Are you going to marry my mother?"

"It's awfully early to talk about that. But, I hope it heads that direction. She's the best woman I've ever met. Resilient. Strong. To her core."

"Should I start calling you dad?"

"No. But, you should start calling me Michael, at least away from school."

Chapter Eighteen I was stunned when I returned to school from Christmas Break to find a folded note from Steve. It read:

Eric,

There's too much done to undo. I'd apologize, but an apology seems so small and useless in light of all that's happened.

Still, I'm sorry I betrayed you. I'm more sorry I didn't warn you. It seems so easy looking back. It seemed so hard then.

I miss you. A lot. I love you. A lot. I should have told you then. I didn't, and that's on me. It's late to say it, but I hope it's not too late.

If you don't have a date for Coronation, I'd like to take you. I want to walk in with you on my arm. I want to dance in your arms. Right there, in front of every one.

If you already have a date, would you save the last dance for me?

Yours (whether you know it or not), Steve

PS Hang this on the front of your locker if you want.

I sobbed as I read and re-read the note. It was the most amazing thing I had ever read. Dylan Thomas's "Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night" paled in comparison. So did W.H. Auden's "Stop All The Clocks."

I showed the note to Lori. She was gobsmacked. She cracked, "Things . . . just . . . got . . . interesting" as she read and re-read the note.

I showed the note to my mother and to Michael. My mother's reaction was simple and elegant, like her. "You don't have to give in to him, but you have to forgive him."

"I already have."

"You have to tell him you have. You have to help lift the yolk of guilt from his shoulders."

Michael assured me my mother was right. He also told me that, if I accepted his invite, we should tell no one in advance. "You have to surprise everyone. If you don't, they'll try to stop you. They'll block you if they know, but they won't kick you out."

I tried to write back, but written words failed me. I swiped Mr. Kamler's car and headed to the Lustig house. Mr. Lustig answered the door. Steve wasn't home, but Henry welcomed me in.

"Eric, how is your mother?"

"Mr. Lustig, she's awesome. I know it's hard for you to hear, but she's doing great. Mr. Kamler treats her better than she deserves, and she's mad about him."

Mr. Lustig's eyes were wet. "Don't ever say that about your mother. It's not possible for him or anyone else to treat her better than she deserves. She deserves the best. I'm happy for her, Eric. I really am. No matter what, I love that woman. She deserves a life of fireworks and ice cream."

"You were never going to marry her, were you?"

"I don't know. Maybe. Maybe not."

"I don't think you would have."

"You're probably right."

I handed Mr. Lustig Steve's letter. He read it, held it to his chest, and sighed heavily. "He's like me," he said. "A romantic. A lover. I chose wrong when I was his age. There's nothing romantic about Ellen. She's useful, not romantic. She gets things done, but she doesn't chase dreams. She doesn't even have them."

I didn't know what to say. I was out of my element. Mr. Lustig seemed to be confronting a sad future, and I was there to hope his son was not doing the same.

"You're like your mother," he continued. "You're a dreamer. And, you have the courage to chase your dreams. When they don't come true, you dream another dream, and then chase it. What I wouldn't give to be your age and chasing a dream."

"It's never too late," I offered, ignorantly.

"Oh, it is. Life passes you by. You think you're getting a second chance. But, then you don't take it, not really. You flirt with it, but you don't take it. Then, it's gone, and you watch someone else take it. And there's nothing you can do about it."

I knew what he was saying. He had postponed my mother. And Mr. Kamler had arrogated that chance to himself. Now, Mr. Kamler was living the life Henry wanted, but didn't take. And, Henry was back living the life that had led him to my mother in the first place.

I didn't want him to fight for my mother. She needed things simple, not complex. They were simple now. They wouldn't be if Henry tried to push back.

"Can I wait in Steve's room?"

"Sure."

I went upstairs. I settled back onto Steve's bed. I smelled him in his pillow. I felt him in his mattress.

I sat on the edge of the bed and fretted. I was on the edge of a love affair. Sally was gone. Steve was available. I had never been in this situation. I had always been a luxury, never an essential.

I collapsed onto my back in anticipation. I dozed off. I awoke to Steve's strong hand on my shoulder.

"Hey, Cupcake," he said.

"Hey, Cookie," I answered.

"I still don't know what a cookie is, but I'm pretty sure I don't want to be one."

"Your letter proved you're not one." I then explained to Steve what Evans had explained to me. It was lost on him.

"But, aren't cupcakes like cookies, the same shape and size?"

I distilled it down for him. "Evans' school did not have Cupcakes. That's a gem the good folks of PHS came up with, just for me. It had Cookies, which was for people who danced only the to same tune. The clones who did what everyone else did."

"Speaking of which, will you go to Coronation with me?"

"Of course." "So, you forgive me?"

"Of course."

Steve's eyes filled with tears. "You are an extraordinary human being, Eric Akers."

"You are, too."

"I'm not."

"You have to be. I love you, and I don't love ordinary people."

"I thought you did. I thought it was your favorite movie. And book."

"You're a dork."

Steve didn't respond. Instead, he pinned me to the bed with a long, tender kiss. In it, he said I'm sorry, I've missed you, I love you, I want you.

It was an endless kiss. Every time I thought it would end, it renewed. Our mouths remained locked together as we stood and stripped. We were mouth to mouth, chest to chest, and crotch to crotch. As we kissed, I took us both in my hand and started to move back and forth. I didn't care about the past, I cared only about the future.

"Don't come," he whispered into my mouth. "I want you to take me."

"We don't have to do that," I assured him.

"I know. But, I want to. Very much."

We fell onto the bed. We continued to kiss, and I continued to work both of us together. Steve scrambled off the bed, got lube he had hidden somewhere, and coated me and him with it. I was on my back, and he moved over me. He took me in his hand and tried to lower himself onto me. I was on fire. I couldn't believe what was happening. I felt myself slip past his ring and into him. He gasped, stopped, and held perfectly still. He lowered himself very slowly the rest of the way, holding his breath as he did. I was lightheaded by the time I felt him against my pelvis.

"Are you okay?" I asked.

"I'm more than okay," he responded.

I was surprised. The instant he tried to rock back and forth, I swelled and filled him.

"Did you come?" he asked.

"Yes."

"I thought so. I want to come, too," he said.

I took him in my hand. I didn't have to do much to release him. He leaned back on one hand, arched his back, and shot into the air. It rained down on my chest and stomach. He collapsed on his back between my legs. I rose up and followed him down, pinning my mouth to his.

"I love you, Eric," he insisted.

"I love you, too, Steve. A lot."

"I love you more. I win."

"I love you the most."

"You can't. I already won."

"Can we be serious for a second?" I asked.

"Sure," he assured me.

"We don't have to go to the dance together."

"Sure, we do."

"I'll be fine if we don't."

"I won't."

"Are you sure?"

"I've never been more sure of anything."

"What did you think about what we just did?"

"It was fine, but I think I like it better the other way. I prefer being the man."

"That's great. I like the other way better, too. I prefer being the woman."

I know now I wasn't "being the woman." But, we were only eighteen, and we didn't know what we didn't know. Man/woman was our only referent.

Chapter Nineteen

When I arrived home, my mother insisted I sit down to talk. I assumed she wanted to know about what had happened with Steve, but my assumption was off. Way, way off.

"Eric, I'm pregnant," she announced, matter of factly.

"But, you and Michael aren't having sex."

"How do you know that?"

"He told me. He said he's trying to reclaim his virginity. . . . " I paused, quickly putting two and two together. "Oh my God, it's not his. It's Henry's."

"Sometimes, you're too smart for your own good."

"So, like, when you were sick over Christmas, it was morning sickness, not the flu."

"Like I said, sometimes, you're too smart for your own good."

"You should have told me."

"I'm telling you now."

"What are we going to do? Does Michael know? Does Henry know?" I fired questions rapidly, like a fusillade.

"Calm down and listen, Eric. Henry does not know and will not know. You are not tell him, Steve, or anyone else, even Lori. You hear me? No one. Not a soul. . . . Michael knows and has known. I was devastated when I figured it out. I wanted nothing to do with another baby, especially since it was . . . is . . . Henry's. I wanted an abortion. Michael talked me out of it."

"Why? That's crazy. Why would he want you to have someone else's baby?"

"He's a piece of work. He understands Henry preceded him, and he doesn't care that this baby is Henry's. He wants to marry me and raise this baby as his own."

"Seriously?"

"Seriously."

"Are you going to do it?"

"Yes. I told him yes this morning. That's why I'm talking to you right now. He had a plan, but I couldn't embrace it. I have now. We're getting married over Spring Break. We're leaving Paris once the school year's over. You'll be leaving this Fall for Denison, so there'll be nothing but ghosts in Paris for me. I need fewer ghosts in my life. Michael wants to live somewhere more progressive in both action and thought. He's hated Paris since you're beating. He wants out. I want to go with him."

"Is it a boy or a girl?"

"I don't know."

"I hope it's a boy."

"You want a brother?"

"No, I want to be your only daughter," I answered wryly, resolving whatever concerns my mother had about my reaction. My mother put her arms around me, and we shared a moment unlike any we had shared for a long time. It was heady stuff, too heady for me in that moment considering all the other emotional tumult I was going through with Steve.

I decided to ease the emotion. I asked quietly into my mother's shoulder, "Aren't you a little long in the tooth for a baby?"

"Eric Akers," she said quietly back. "I've never spanked you, but that doesn't mean I never will."

"I was kidding."

"It's actually a good question. I was 19 when you arrived. I'll be 38 when this baby arrives. With more experience and more maturity, I hope I'll make fewer mistakes and be a better mother."

I leaned my head back and looked my mother right in the eyes. "Mom, that's not possible. You're perfect mother to me. You can't get better." My mother's eyes welled with tears. "I hope I've been a good mother to you, Eric."

"You've been a great mother. Everything about our lives together and me has been a challenge, and you haven't skipped a beat. Your husband abandons you, no problem. Your son wants Barbies, no problem. Your son wants to wear makeup, no problem. Your son's gay, no problem. You took what came and kept going. You're a great role model for me. You just kept going. You're the strongest woman I know. I got my strength from you. I'd be dead otherwise."

We were both crying when I finished. I didn't know where that testimonial had come from. I had to have been carrying it around in my head and my heart for a long time. It was all true.

Chapter Twenty

Our Coronation theme was Taco's "Puttin' on the Ritz." Steve and I each wore traditional tuxedos. He parted his hair on the side and slicked it. I pulled mine straight back in a black headband. My mother darkened my eyebrows, lined my eyelids, popped my eyelashes, lined my lips, and then popped them with bright red lipstick.

"Jesus Christ," Steve said, when he picked me up. "You look amazing."

"You're not so bad yourself."

"You make me look pedestrian."

We swung by for Lori on the way. That was part of the deal. We were going as a throuple.

There was no fairy tale that night. Everyone and everything had not changed. We were not applauded or lauded.

Instead, the gym fell silent when we walked in. We had not told a soul in advance. We were unexpected.

The fact we were a throuple confused many. Some thought Lori was my date. Others thought Lori was Steve's date. Only a select few thought Steve was my date. No one thought I was Steve's date.

We ended any confusion with the first slow dance. Lori sat it out. I focused on Steve and he focused on me to Journey's "Faithfully." We didn't want to see what we didn't want to see.

We heard groans and moans. We heard whispered "faggots." We heard people leaving. We heard Steve Perry's vocals end prematurely. It was the last slow song played.

When it was time to announce the Coronation court, those who remained chuckled knowingly. The voting had preceded the dance, so the results were in before the revolution started.

Our class President announced me as Queen and led the laughter after offering that "the King had abdicated when he learned the identity of his Queen." I was not going to be cowed. I marched onstage and took my crown, placing it on my head to catcalls and hoots.

Unbeknownst to me, Steve had followed me up the stairs and onto the stage. He took the King's crown, announced he was first in line for the abdicated throne, and placed the crown on his head. He took my hand, raised it in the air, and then leaned over and kissed me on the lips, right there in front of everyone. Lori and the group around her clapped and stomped their approval. The rest of the gym stood in stunned silence, their ploy foiled and turned against them.

We were high as we drove to Steve's house, leading a parade of cars that included Lori's and the rest of her group. Every once and again, I couldn't take the excitement ripping through me, and I waved my crown and screamed out the window. Steve almost always screamed his answer out the other window. A couple of times, we screamed into each other's faces.

Back at Steve's, we all huddled in his basement and relived the cutting off of the music and the attempt to shame me, like the telekinetic girl from the Stephen King book.

"You can't shame the shameless," Lori offered. "God save the new Queen," I rejoined.

"There's nothing new about it," Lori shot back. "You've always been a Queen. Ever since you had your mother buy you Barbies instead of balls."

It was true. When I was a kid, I didn't want baseballs, basketballs, or footballs. I wanted Barbies. All of them.

"What can I say?" I asked. "I liked Barbies better than I liked balls."

"Not anymore," Steve offered, joining the fun.

"Truer words have never been spoken."

No one argued with me. No one.

We chided and chortled and laughed and talked the night away. When it was time for everyone to go home, it was too late for anyone to go home. Steve talked to Henry, and he approved the group camping out on the basement floor.

We would not be joining the camp. We were going to return to the family room floor. The King and Queen had unfinished business to finish.

We were teased as we headed upstairs, Steve leading me by the hand. "Oh, you're all just jealous," I called back, over my shoulder.

"Of you, not of Steve," Lori called back.

"Yeah," someone echoed Lori.

What they were saying didn't register until Steve said, "See, everyone thinks you're luckier to have me than I am to have you. . . . And everyone can't be wrong. There's wisdom in crowds."

I raised one eyebrow. "There's also something known as 'the hysteria of the masses.'"

As we settled on the family room floor, Steve pinned me down, kissed me on the mouth, and told me he was about to make me hysterical. He yanked my shirt over my head, unbuttoned my pants, and tugged them down. He kissed and licked his way back up my body, taking me in his mouth as he did. What I thought was a prelude turned into an interlude, as Steve kept at me until I finished in his mouth. He spit what I offered into his hand before continuing his trek up. As he kissed my neck and then my mouth, he covered himself with my load, raised my legs, and started pressing into me.

Steve gave himself to me slowly. He'd go in as far as he could, pause, and then withdraw, deliberately. Over and over and over. I thought I was going to burst.

He raised up on his arms and continued. I was drifting away, lost in his contact with whatever it was that sent me over the edge, and mesmerized that he could move so slowly and cause so much pleasure.

Steve kept coming at me. We were both soaked with sweat, but he seemed no closer to the finish line than he was to the starting gun.

"Are you getting close?" I asked.

"No. My God, Eric, this is by far the most sensual experience of my life. I'm tingling from head to toe. I'm teasing myself."

"You're teasing me, too."

"I can speed up if you want."

"No. I want this to be everything for you."

Steve continued, slowly, surely. I could tell his arms were getting tired. He was getting wobbly.

"I can take the top you if you want," I offered.

"That might be best. My arms are jello."

We maneuvered around. Steve was on his back, and I was on him, sitting, writhing. As slowly as I could, I rose up and lowered myself down, rose up and lowered myself down.

I felt like we were one person, conjoined. I stared into Steve's eyes as I rode him. I gripped him as hard as I could.

"Oh, my God, Eric, I can't take much more."

"I don't want you to."

"Please bring me home."

I heeded his plea. I clenched and unclenched as I rode him. I felt him thicken and unload inside me. I lowered myself toward him but kept going, draining every ounce out of him I could.

When he was finished, I climbed off, and slipped between his thighs. He squeezed his legs together, and I came between them as we kissed. I collapsed, dropping all my weight onto him.

I fell asleep. Steve did, too. I'm not sure how long I slept, but I woke up shivering. I rolled off Steve, pulled a sleeping bag over us, put my head on his shoulder, put my hand on his crotch, and fell back asleep.

I awoke first. I wanted Steve to wake up, but I didn't want to wake him up. So, I gently tickled his chest and stomach.

When Steve stirred, I moved to kiss him. He turned his head away, explaining "Morning breath."

"I like the taste of the morning on your tongue."

"Well, then taste away," he said, turning his face to me and kissing me back.

When the kiss was over, he asked if I wanted to fool around again. "Sure," I said. "But I'd rather talk."

"Talk away."

"I want to hear your voice. Tell me something about you I don't know, a secret you've been keeping."

Steve took a deep breath. "I knew and know about my father's affair with your mother."

I raised up and raised one eyebrow at Steve. "It wasn't my father's first affair. He's a bad poker player. He has tells. His spirit lifts. He goes into the office at odd hours. I knew someone was making him happy. It wasn't hard to figure out who."

"Did your mother know?" "I'm sure she did. She's not the most attuned person, but she's also not ignorant. I think she just accepts it as part of the price of doing business. It's pretty clear my parents don't love each other anymore, if they ever did. They're going through the motions of a marriage, for external consumption. There's no marriage under this roof."

"Did it bother you?"

"No, not at all. It's not my marriage. It's not my business."

"Do you really believe that?"

"I do. One day, I'll get married. When I do, I'm not going to allow my parents to influence or judge it. Their marriage is their marriage. Whatever they've worked out they've worked out. My marriage will be my marriage, not theirs."

I was disappointed by the "I'll get married." I decided to leave it for later.

"I knew, too," I confirmed.

"Of course you did. I'm sure your mother told you. You two are different than I am with my parents. But, you'd have figured it out if she hadn't. You don't miss much, Eric, if anything."

"It's over."

"I know. My father is back to his old self, for bad or good."

"My mother wanted to marry him. We'd have been brothers, in a way."

"He was never going to marry her."

"I know."

"He'll never leave my mother."

"I know."

"He's either too good or too weak. I'm not sure which. It's hard to tell."

I wanted to tell Steve about the baby. I wanted him to know that, before long, his half-sibling was going to be my half-sibling, that there'd always be a bridge between the two of us. Again, though, it was not my secret to tell, so I didn't. I wanted to, but I didn't.

Instead, I asked "Do you really think you'll get married?" It was 1986, and there was not even the dream of gay marriage, much less the possibility of it. His "I'll get married" necessarily implied "to a woman."

"I hope so."

I told Steve about Mr. Kamler and his scale of sexuality. I offered that I was an eleven, and Steve laughed. "Only if eleven is the highest. I think you're like that cartoon thermometer that explodes through the top . . . 11 . . . 12 . . . 13 . . . boom!"

"You don't seem to mind."

"I don't. At all." With that, Steve started softly singing Billy Joel's "Just the Way You Are." I held his hand as he did. He did not sing well, but it was the most beautiful thing I'd ever heard. When he was finished, I kissed him and told him I loved him.

"I love you, too, Eric. It's hard for me to believe, but I really do."

"Where do you think you are on the scale?"

"I'll take a 4, but only because of you."

"So, more straight than not?"

"I think so. I know it doesn't make sense, but it's still just you to me. When I masturbate, I think of you or a girl. I don't think of other guys. I don't fantasize about having sex with other guys. I just don't."

"I've noticed. I have this theory. I think you can tell which gender someone wants by watching who they watch, by following their eyes. Like, if an attractive girl serves me in a restaurant, my eyes don't follow her when she leaves the table. At all. If an attractive guy serves me, it's the total opposite. My eyes and my head follow him across the room when he leaves the table. I've watched you. Your eyes never follow guys. Never. They follow only girls."

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be. You are who you are. You can't change that, even if you wanted to."

"My eyes follow you," he said, kissing my forehead.

It was such a sweet thing to say and such a sweet moment, I said nothing in response. I just rested my head against Steve's cheek, wanting that moment to go on and on and on.

Chapter Twenty-One Other than me, no one at the breakfast table knew Steve. They were all friends of Lori's, and they bombarded him and us with questions. Henry was in and out, but Ellen was still in her room. Thank God. The questions got intrusive, going from "How long have you two been together?" to "How often do you have sex?" and then to details about the sex itself, like "Do you both top?" and "Do you both blow the other?"

The questions embarrassed me. I wanted to shut them down, but Steve was taking them on, answering matter of factly and, periodically, holding my hand as he did.

Lori changed the subject. "Where do you want to go to college?" she asked Steve. I knew the answer was Hamilton, where his father had gone. Steve surprised me by adding "or Kenyon" to his answer. He knew I hoped/planned to go to Denison. Kenyon was only 30 miles away from Denison.

As the conversation continued, I floated away from it. I watched Steve react and talk and realized I did, in fact, love him. Very much.

I loved his blue eyes. I love his thick, dark eyebrows. I loved his thick lips. I loved his unfinished ears (the tops splayed flat; they did not roll over like everyone else's). I loved his sinewy muscles. I loved his mats of hair. I loved his length and his thickness and how he used it to make me feel.

But, it was more than that. I loved that he sought me out, so long ago when no one else did. I loved that he whispered to me when I needed to hear a voice, then forced me to whisper back. I loved that he compared himself to Peter when talking about his betrayal of me after the Karate Kid. And, I loved that he followed me up on that stage, took my hand, and kissed my mouth, the rest of the world be damned.

I knew, sitting there, that Steve loved me, too. He had faltered, but he had righted himself and risked himself for me.

I also knew, sitting there, that Steve was not my forever. We were too young and he was too straight. One day, he wouldn't be enough for me, and I wouldn't be enough for him. Not today, but one day.

I also knew, sitting there, that Steve and his father deserved to know about the baby. It would be my mother's decision, but I would tell her what I thought. If I were Henry, I'd want to know. If I were Henry, I'd think I deserved to know.

***** My mother surprised me when I offered her my unsolicited advice. "I know," she said. "I've been thinking the same thing myself. I talked with Michael about it, and he agrees. We're going to tell him."

"Holy shit."

"Yep. Holy shit."

"When are you going to do it?"

"We haven't decided yet."

"Can I watch?"

"No, Eric, you can't watch."

***** The secret of the baby became an obstacle for me with Steve. Every time his lips touched mine, I felt the weight of the pretense and secrecy. Every time one of us pleasured the other, the rawness of the moment made me want to share everything I knew.

One Saturday morning, Steve's father knocked on the door to Steve's room right after we had finished. We had been loud, too loud, and we expected him to insist that we be quieter in the future. Steve tried to put him off. "We'll be down in a minute."

"Unlock the door, Steven Michael." Two names connoted a seriousness for which we were not prepared, sitting in our underwear on the bed's edge as Henry paced the room.

"Look, I've been kind of missing in action as a father recently. I was confused by the fact you're both male, but I realized this morning as I tried to ignore what I was hearing that the rules -- and your respect for this house -- should be no different than if one of you were male and one of you were female. If that were the case, you wouldn't expect to share a bed under my roof, and you certainly wouldn't fill my house with the sounds of sex on a quiet Saturday morning. I know I can't stop you from doing whatever it is you two do. But, I can stop you both from being so damn cavalier and disrespectful about it. Steven, I'm quite certain you don't want to hear the sounds of lovemaking coming from my room, so I'm not sure why you think the reverse is okay. It's not. I'm also quite certain you had no expectation that your mother and I would let Sally or any other girl share your bed, but you've just assumed it was okay for Eric. It's not. Going forward, I expect more from both of you. Eric, Steve'll take you home."

He was right. We'd been pretty selfish and self-centered. I would never have subjected my mother to what we had subjected Steve's parents. And, there's no way I'd have wanted to listen to the noises from my mother's room that had emanated from Steve's in recent weeks. It was disappointing, but we were going to have to start sneaking around, like all other teenagers.

"Well, that's disappointing," Steve said.

"Yes, but he's right. I hadn't looked at it from that side. But, it now seems totally presumptuous to think he has no say in it. I don't think my mother would let us fuck under her nose."

"She let you and Evans sleep in her bed."

"I don't think she would have if she thought he might touch me."

"I guess we're going to have to start having sex in the back seat of the car."

"I've never done that. It sounds kind of hot."

"It does," Steve said, grabbing his crotch through his shorts, and then grabbing mine. Steve was not the defiant type, but he was in a defiant mood.

"If we need to start sneaking around, we may as well start now," he said, pinning my back to the wall, kissing me, and taking me in his hand. I took him back, and we pleasured each other as we made out. Steve bit my tongue and came in the hair above my dick. I responded on his thigh.

As we cleaned ourselves with socks, Steve said, "Please don't tell my dad." We were still laughing as we bounded down the stairs, past Henry, and to Steve's car.

Steve did not head straight to my apartment. Instead, he headed out of Paris and down a rural route.

"Where are we going?"

"You'll see."

Steve drove for about twenty minutes and then pulled into a small, secluded area with a picnic table. We didn't have any food, so we were clearly not having a picnic.

Steve stepped out of the car, pulled off his shirt and jeans, and climbed in the back seat. "Get back here," he insisted, and I did as instructed.

"If we're going to start sneaking sex in the car, we may as well practice."

"You're insatiable."

"We don't have to if you don't want to," he said, pulling his lips from mine and feigning like he was going to get out of the car.

"Oh, no you don't," I said, grabbing his arm and pulling him down on top of me. "I always want to."

Steve hurriedly took me on my back. I hung my head off the back seat and looked at the world upside down. I liked the perspective.

When Steve was finished, we dressed and settled next to each other on the grass. It was March, but it was unseasonably warm. It was one of the first balmy days of the year, and the ground was still cold under us.

Steve took my hand and suggested we spend the day in the clearing holding hands.

A need overwhelmed me. "I have to tell you something first."

"Tell away. You know you can tell me anything."

"My mother's having your dad's baby."

"What?" he screeched, sitting up.

"My mother's having your dad's baby," I repeated, using the same inflection and the same tone of voice.

"I heard you, Eric. Jesus Christ. Does he know?"

"Not yet, and you can't tell him. My mother's going to tell him."

Steve peeled toward the car. I had to hustle not to get left.

"When's she going to tell him?"

"I don't know."

"Find out, Eric. He deserves to know. I'll tell him if she doesn't soon."

"She will."

We drove in silence for about ten minutes before Steve pulled over, slammed the car into park, and slammed his fists against the steering wheel. I had never seen him like this.

"Jesus Christ, do you know how fucked up this is? I'm driving and thinking and this is like some horrible movie that no one wants to see. My dad fucked your mother, I'm fucking you, and we're going to share a sibling. I know it's not incestuous, but it sure feels gross. All the way around."

My feelings were hurt, and I lashed out. "Is that what this is? You're 'fucking' me?"

"Goddamn, Eric, everything is not about you. This is about my dad and my mom and a baby that no one knows about and that could tear everything apart."

"Because, if that's all it is, it needs to stop." We were talking past each other.

"How could your mother get pregnant? It's 1986, for Chris-sake."

My hair stood up. I would not tolerate an attack on my mother. "It's not her fault. Your dad was there, too."

"What? Was she trying to trap him?"

"Oh my God, you are a neanderthal."

"Well?"

"No, Steven Michael, she wasn't trying to trap him. She didn't even want to keep the baby. Michael talked her into it. She didn't want to tell your dad at all, but decided she had to."

"How long have you known?"

"Awhile."

"How long's awhile?"

"I don't know."

"And you kept it from me? How could you do that? How could you tell me you love me and let me tell you I love you and keep this monstrous secret between us? You're a phony, Eric. You claim you don't like pretense, but you pretend all the time. You wear makeup for the same reasons others wear corduroys; it's who you want to be, not who you are. And, you claim you don't like secrets, but you keep secret after secret after secret. You're a fake just like the rest of us."

"It's not pretend," I insisted.

"It is. It's who you want to be, not who you are."

"And, it wasn't my secret to tell."

"But, you just fucking told it, Eric. Out loud. When it suited you."

My head was about to explode. I thought telling him was the right thing, but everything was going wrong. I wanted to retreat to the clearing, hold Steve's hand, and drift off to sleep.

"Can you please take me home?"

"No."

"What?"

"No. You have to walk. I can't be around you right now. Get out of my car. Now!"

I got out of the car. I flipped Steve off through the back window as he drove away. I was embarrassed by myself as I did. Chapter Twenty-Two

I called my mother collect from the first gas station I got to. She sent Michael to pick me up. He was very angry with me. He reiterated it was not my secret to tell. I knew he was right.

My mother was angrier. I had never seen her so angry, certainly not at me.

"I am really tired of this, Eric. I am tired of cleaning up your messes. I am tired of you thinking only about yourself. You need to understand that your actions and your deeds and your words affect others, not just you. Did you think about how many people were going to be impacted by your carelessness? Did you?"

I couldn't respond. I had only been the object of my mother's affection. I had never before been the object of her ire. I didn't like it. I didn't like it at all.

I told her what happened, starting with Henry's declaration of chastity in his house. I told her why I had felt compelled to tell Steve about the baby. I tried to explain that it was, in fact, a compulsion, not a choice. I was not sure even I believed my words.

When I was finished, my mother called the Lustigs. When Henry got to the telephone, my mother told him he needed to come over, and to bring Steve.

There was quite a scene around our table. In order, it was my mother, her lover, her former lover, her former lover's son, and her son, who was dating her former lover's son.

My mother told Henry about the baby. He did not seem surprised. I assumed Steve had warned him, so he did not react emotionally in front of all of us.

My mother told him the depth of his involvement was up to him, that she did not expect anything from him, that she was leaving Paris, and that she and Michael planned to raise the baby as their own. Michael chimed in that he already loved the baby like a father.

Henry responded that he needed to think, but he was glad he knew and certain Ellen could not know. It would be too much for her. He was also certain he wanted to contribute financially to raising the baby. My mother assured him that was not necessary, that the only question he needed to resolve was whether and to what extent he wanted to know his child.

My mother looked to me and asked if I had anything to add. I didn't want to, but she had already insisted that I had to.

"Mr. Lustig, I want to apologize for how disrespectful I've been to you and your family. I should have behaved better as a guest in your home."

"Apology accepted, Eric."

"Steve, I want to apologize for my reaction today. I'm a bit of a porcupine. When I feel defensive or vulnerable, the quills come out. Anyway, I'm really sorry."

"I understand." Not an acceptance, but not a rejection, either.

My mother added her voice. "Steve, I know you're mad at Eric for not telling you sooner. Please understand, I'm mad at him for telling you when he did. It was not his secret to tell. He felt pressure from all sides, and it's hard to know what to do in that situation. When I told him about the baby, I had no intention of ever telling your father, and I swore him to secrecy. I shouldn't have. I know how secrets weigh on him. They trap him."

"Can we leave?" Steve asked.

"Don't you want to talk to Eric privately?" his father asked back.

"No," Steve crushed me back.

****** As I laid in bed that night, I worried Steve was slowly drifting away from me. I thought love was ephemeral and vulnerable; I fretted that my response to Steve may have fractured the fragile egg that was our "relationship."

Steve was clearly struggling. I did not hear from him on Sunday, and he was ambivalent to me on Monday. I was pouting at home on Monday night when he knocked on the door.

"I was not very gracious Saturday, Eric. I should have accepted your apology."

I was trying to figure out how to play it when I decided not to play it at all. "You're being gracious now. That's good enough for me."

"I'm struggling, Eric. I don't think the ground beneath me was very firm to begin with, and I was unsettled by the news, by the cavalier way you acted, and by the way you reacted to my reaction. It was an ugly side I had never seen before."

"We all have an ugly side, Steve. I saw yours long ago. You saw mine Saturday."

"I think I need some time to think, Eric. I got caught up in a whirlwind, and I'm not sure I like where it's dropped me. It's all a bit much for me, actually."

I wanted to scream. I didn't understand how our car had just gone faster and faster and faster and was all of the sudden stopping. Instead, I told Steve to take all the time he needed, I would be there when his time was up. I pretended to be stronger than I was. I broke when he was gone.

Michael was there to piece me back together. He rocked me, talked me, and walked me back to peace. Then, he dosed me with truth.

"Eric, you need to take inventory of where you are and where you are going. Steve is not where you are. He doesn't want what you want. You want him to be your now and your tomorrow. He just wants you to be his now."

I put my hands over my ears. I didn't want to hear what I knew.

Chapter Twenty-Three

As Steve struggled, I waited. Lori interrupted my wait with troublesome news. "Karen Nemelka's sniffing around your man," she said.

"She's sniffing the wrong man," I said. She didn't believe me. I didn't, either.

With Sally not around to invade, I slid a note through the slats in Steve's locker:

Steve:

I am so sorry for my part in this rupture.

I hope you come back.

I miss you.

I miss us.

Eric

When school ended, Steve was at my locker and offered to drive me home. But, he didn't drive me home. Instead, he drove me back to the scene of the crime, the secluded picnic table.

"Why are we here, Steve?"

"To turn back the clock. I want to go back to where we were. Lie down on the grass."

I did. He did, too. We were as we were.

"Let's pretend there's no baby," he said. "Let's pretend we've just finished making love in the back seat and are here, relaxing and soaking it all in."

"I love you, Steve."

"I love you, too, Eric."

"I want to spend the day here with you."

"Let's do it."

We rested there quietly for a long time. Every once and again, Steve squeezed my hand, and I squeezed back.

Calm spread over me, for the first time in awhile. Every other time I had been this close to Steve, sex intruded. On this day, in this moment, there was no intrusion. I loved this moment for this moment, not for what it portended or promised, but for what it was.

As we drove home, I joked that Steve could drop me where he'd dropped me before. "Don't tempt me," he joked.

I decided to press the moment. "I hear Karen's been sniffing around."

"She has."

"Are you interested?"

"I'm interested in the fact she's interested."

"Why?"

"She knows about you, but she either doesn't care or thinks you're no match for her. I'm interested in finding out which one."

I wondered if it was that innocent. I hoped it was, but I was circumspect.

"You should ask her out," I said.

"Eric, stop. You don't mean that, and I know you don't mean that. Stop pretending you mean what you don't."

"Okay, Steve. But, I think sooner than later, you are going to have to choose your future, and I don't think you're going to choose me. I don't think I'm your future."

"We can't know the future. We can only know the now. I'm here now."

"Pull over."

He did. I moved my face to his, kissing his mouth, his chin, and his neck. As I did, I unbuttoned and unzipped his jeans and released him. It had been awhile. I took Steve in my mouth, and I sucked him as hard as I could. He came quickly, filling my mouth. I drank all he offered.

Steve responded by pinning me to the door. He kissed me, licked me, and did what I had done to him; he took me in his mouth, and he worked me until I finished deep in his throat.

***** As the semester headed toward its close, Karen kept sniffing around. I had Steve, but my grip was tenuous.

I was certain Steve and I would be going to Prom together, but he never asked. I didn't, either. Action became inaction, and we ultimately decided to skip Prom. And, by we, I mean, he.

Lori busted my bliss. "He wanted to take her, not you. He knew you'd explode, so he balked at taking either of you."

"You're speculating."

"Maybe. But, maybe not. And, that's pretty scary, isn't it?"

It was. I wanted to ask Steve, but I couldn't bear the pain of the wrong answer.

Instead of going to Prom, we gathered in Steve's basement. We had a great time, mimicking our post-Coronation party. Steve and I abided by the new rules. When the party was over, we slept in different rooms. I lay there hoping he'd sneak in, but he didn't.

Chapter Twenty-Four

As graduation approached, my mother, Michael, and my unborn sister were planning their move to Columbus, Ohio. They wanted to be in a college town. It was not lost on me that Columbus was only a half hour from Denison. The cord that bound me and my mother had never been cut. I doubted it ever would be.

I was stunned when the faculty nominated me to speak at our graduation ceremony. I could only assume Michael had engineered it, so I asked him about it.

"I nominated you, but that's all. In my nomination, I explained that you more than any other student exemplified the resilience necessary to navigate high school and emerge better and whole upon graduation. Enough other people agreed that you now have a platform. Use it bravely and wisely."

I doubted that they agreed. I suspected they feared the return of the Chicago lawyer more than they admired my "resilience."

Still, I worked furiously on what I would say. Michael helped me a lot, pulling me back when I was too close to the edge and pushing my forward when I was too timid.

Steve and I had spent the past two months in a bit of a rope a dope. Some days, it was like it had been. Steve couldn't get enough of me, and we snuck out together whenever we could. We were together, emotionally and physically, like that day in the clearing when we cleared the air.

Other days, Steve was aloof and distant. Even when we were together, he was elsewhere.

I knew he was struggling, straddling the now and the future. I also knew there was nothing I could do about it. I could not change what I could not change.

I was wearying of the tergiversations. Like I said, I wanted to be someone's someone. Increasingly, I knew I would never be that for him.

The summer could be tell-tale. My mother and Michael were leaving as soon as Michael completed his year. I could go with them or stay in Paris with the Lustigs (Henry had agreed I could live with them and work at his plant, provided Steve and I abided by the rules). I put it to Steve, and he was thinking about it. I knew he enjoyed spending time with me. We learned a lot from each other, and our conversations were beyond the normal conversations of 18 year old boys.

I also knew my presence challenged who he thought he was or would be. Like I said, I could see the struggle in his eyes as he counter-balanced today and tomorrow.

My graduation speech was coming together. I entitled it "The Climb." I took my inspiration from Evans' story of the hole and from William Goldman's "The Princess Bride," namely Vizzini's commentary as Inigo ascended the cliffs.

On May 24, 1986, I delivered my speech in an anxious voice. I wore a black gown and hat. I wore two ear rings. I wore eyeliner, mascara, and lipstick.

To summit the mountain. That's our goal. Today, tomorrow, always. We climb, yearning to reach the top.

For some, it is easier than it is for others. No one starts at the same spot. If you're poor, you start lower. If you're a woman, you start lower. If you're a minority, you start lower. If you're gay, you start lower. No matter where you start, you must climb.

There are natural obstacles. If you're not intellectually talented, it's going to take you longer. If you're not athletically talented, it's going to take you longer. If you're not physically attractive, it's going to take you longer. If you're not whatever it is that society wants you to be, it's going to take you longer. But, no matter how many natural obstacles litter your path, you must climb.

There are unnatural obstacles. Some are external. The biases of others, the bullying by others, the ignorance of others, the prejudices of others, the suicide of your father. All will make the path steeper. But, no matter how steep the path gets, you must keep climbing.

Some are internal. If you are a boy and you play with Barbies, like to wear makeup, and pierce your ears, you'll make your path steeper. If you're challenging or defiant, you'll make your path steeper. If you buck strictures or refuse to conform, you'll make your path steeper. But, no matter how steep your path, you must keep climbing.

No matter where each of us started or how steep our path, we are here because we all started and kept climbing. You must keep climbing.

As we go forward, I have two hopes for all of us. First, I hope that, when we get the chance, we make the climb for others as short and as smooth as we can. Remove obstacles, don't add to them. Flatten the incline, don't steepen it. Clear a path as you climb, so it's easier for those who follow, yearning to reach the top.

Second, I hope that each of us keeps climbing, no matter what obstacles are in our path or how steep the path becomes. We will falter and we will fall. Some of us will fall all the way back to the bottom. When we do, we have to get up and start climbing all over again.

No matter what, we must keep climbing. It's the only way to reach the top, and each and every one of us deserves and needs to reach the top, to summit the mountain, to breathe the thin air of achievement.

So, please keep climbing. Whatever you do, whatever comes your way, keep climbing.

Thank you.

I walked off the stage into my mother's waiting arms. I knew I'd be emotional when I was finished, as, on some level, I was talking about my father. He had stopped climbing.

But I was also talking about my mother. Her path had been more littered and steep than it should have been, but she had kept climbing. And, she had kept me climbing, no matter what obstacles life or I had placed in my way. We both kept climbing.

***** After the ceremony, we found ourselves in a fraught circle. Ellen, Henry, and Steve were with me, Michael, and my mother (and, of course, my unborn sister). Steve crushed me in an embrace, told me how awesome my speech had been, and told me he wanted to kiss me hard on the mouth. I whispered "do it," and he said he couldn't in front of his mother. Ellen and Henry echoed Steve's sentiment, at least about the speech.

Steve surprised us all. "I want to be with Eric. So, we can either all go out to dinner together, or Eric and I can go alone."

The adults were stunned into silence. Ellen, who didn't know what the rest of us knew, suggested we all go together. "It's probably the last time we'll see the Kamler's."

My mother visibly blanched. I saw Michael squeeze her hand. Henry waded in.

"Ellen, that sounds lovely. But, I think maybe we should let the boys have this day. It's their graduation, after all." Before anyone could disagree, Henry pulled bills out of his wallet, handed them to Steve, and told us to have a wonderful time on him.

I kissed my mother good-bye and told her I loved her and would see her the following day. Lori was having a graduation party, and all attendees were required to spend the night.

"I love you, too, Eric. Very much. Keep climbing."

Chapter Twenty-Five Over dinner, I was reminded again of all I loved about Steve, especially his eyes and his smile. Both were dancing as we talked.

"I knew what you were going to say, Eric. But, the words on paper didn't match the words in my ears. They were lyrical."

"Thank you."

"I've been thinking about this summer. I think you should stay with us and work for my dad."

"Thank you," I answered, not accepting. He had taken a long time, maybe too long, in reaching that decision.

Steve was glued to me at Lori's, holding my hand, nuzzling my neck, and stealing kisses whenever he could. "Can we go somewhere?" he asked.

"Sure. I know a place."

We grabbed a sleeping bag and snuck out the back, climbed the fence, and headed to the creek bank. We settled on the grass under the moon and kissed and kissed and kissed. "I need to be with you," Steve insisted.

I pulled my shirt over my head, and he did the same. As we kissed, we touched each other's chests, sides, and shoulders. Steve pushed me backward and covered me. My skin tingled under his. I clamped him to me as he drove his tongue deep into my mouth. He kissed me with a passion and recklessness that had been missing for awhile.

As Steve kissed my neck, my shoulder, my chest, my side, and my stomach, he unbuttoned and unzipped my jeans. I raised up as he pulled them and my underwear down and took me in my mouth.

"Hold on," I croaked. "Take them all the way off."

Steve pulled my shoes and then my jeans and underwear off.

"Yours, too."

Steve stood up, stepped out of his shoes, and tugged his jeans off. He covered me with himself, mouth to mouth, chest to chest, and crotch to crotch. I took his toes between mine. It was the most intimate moment of my life. I never wanted it to end, but I knew it had to. Sex was in the air.

Steve moved back down my body and took me in his mouth. Every time I got close, he backed off. For the first time with him, I felt like what was happening was about me. My entire body was on fire by the time he finally let me finish. He kissed his way back up my body. I could taste myself on his tongue.

"I want to make love to you."

"Please do."

I raised my legs and guided him in. The sex was tender and slow and sweet. As he had with me, every time he got close, he backed off. I begged him to come, not because I wanted the sex to end, but because I needed to feel him swell and fill me. I ached for it.

I came when he did, coating my chest and stomach. Steve collapsed onto me, spent.

"My God, Eric, that was the best yet."

He was right. It was. Because there was mutuality to it.

"Can we sleep out here tonight, under the stars?" I asked.

"Sure," he said.

We cleaned up with our shirts and climbed into the sleeping bag, naked. We intertwined ourselves as we kissed. I felt Steve's breathing change as he fell asleep. I fought sleep off. I didn't want this night to end. I knew more than the night would end.

When Steve woke up the next morning, I was either awake or still awake. I knew what I needed to do, but the prospect of doing it made me anxious.

"Good morning," Steve said, kissing my forehead.

"Good morning."

"Did you sleep okay?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"I spent most of the night thinking."

"About what?"

"About this summer and about us."

"I think it'll be fun."

"I think it can't happen."

"Why not?" he asked, sitting up.

"Many reasons. One, I want to be there when our sister's born. Two, I want to spend time with my mother and her new husband before I head off to college and everything changes. Three, and most importantly, I need to let you go. I think I cloud your judgment. I think you'd have floated away by now if I wasn't holding so tight to the string."

"I love you, Eric."

"I know, Steve. I love you, too. But I think you're pretending to be something you're not. And, I think I'm pretending you're something you're not. I think we need to stop pretending. You know how much pretending threatens me. . . . I'd love it if I was enough for you. But I'm not. I'd love it if you were enough for me. But you're not. We should stop pretending otherwise while we can do so voluntarily and without a complete rupture. With our sister coming, we're going to be in each other's lives a long time. We need a happy ending, not a sad or ugly one."

Steve didn't say anything. I put my head on his shoulder, and he put his head on mine. When the silence was too much for me to bear, I asked Steve to talk to me.

"About what?"

"Whatever you want."

"Okay," he said. "Once upon a time, there was a strange boy in makeup at a small high school in small Illinois town. . . ." As he talked, I lowered him, and I put my head on his chest. I cried as he told me the fairy tale of a popular high school boy who accidentally fell in love with the strange boy in makeup at a small high school in a small Illinois town.