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 the 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.

To be continued....