I was born into an era of sex and questions. My name is Brad and sometimes I told the men I dated my name was Eric or Steven and another favorite of mine was Josh. They went crazy when I was Josh for some reason. At age sixteen I discovered a feeling that would change everything for me. I recall it ever so clearly and even now I remember the heat behind my ears suddenly flash and pulse down my neck, as he got closer and his breath puffed on my face while he spoke. I was riding on the back of the bus as always, but I was alone today since Nate was sick with the flu, lucky bastard.
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I wasn’t the type that played well with others and I could never quite figure out why. There seemed to be a palpable difference between my schoolmates and myself. They sensed me and something in their DNA told them to avoid or destroy – all except Nate that is, but he was kind of a freak, too, so that doesn’t count. The other kids talked about pop stars, gratuitous sex, and junk food as per the usual and I sat reading my biography on Rod Sterling, very cool stuff for a dork I must say. We pulled in to the museum parking lot and our resident oaf Clay let a great big fart rip, which he and several of our classmates found hilarious, though our teacher Mrs. Gultch disagreed.
Mrs. Gultch was a woman with a severe face and raven black hair pulled back into a motionless bun, unaffected by time, gravity or any other natural force. She wasn’t a particularly kind woman, but her curt manner made me laugh as I thought of the character from the Wizard of Oz – though no one else saw the humor in things. As we disembarked we saw that there were several other schools coming to see the same exhibit on Mark Twain.
I could hear Clay giggling as he had the genius idea to stand next to me in line and flick my ear and whisper “homo boy.” Clay’s breath was hot and even from his angle I could smell the low-grade lunchmeat he had eaten on the bus. He giggled and snorted as he called me by the new pet name he came up with for me and I rolled my eyes and took it, convincing myself I was being mature when really I was afraid. Clay had taken a shine to me in the past few months since he noticed me in the middle of science class. My ability to blend into the scenery of the school had suddenly been lost and with it any semblance of peace. I used to often regret not punching Clay right in the face. Even now, in my early 40’s, with a life almost perfect, I think about Clay at odd moments that stir deep consideration and a desire to travel through time.
A few months prior to the trip, Clay had been particularly restless (his parents had divorced) and was paying me extra attention. He noticed me writing on the bleachers and my spidey-sense didn’t activate until he was right on top of me snatching my journal out from my hands. He read through it and his eyes went wide in an expression that screamed, “I struck gold ma!” It was my rotten luck that he had been reading the passage I just wrote about another boy, Reggie Stone and what his lips would feel like on my own. I looked up at Clay who seemed to be about sixty feet tall as he read intently. I expected him to grab the book and make an announcement to the entire school that I was gay and in love with Reggie Stone, which would be followed by some emasculating episode and of course my prerequisite beating. Clay was a professional, after all. However, as I looked up at Clay, he seemed almost embarrassed by the eye contact and threw my journal to my feet and left without a word. I thought for a while that perhaps there was something like sympathy inside Clay, but a few days later my nickname of “homo-boy” would make its debut.
I noticed another boy from one of the other schools staring at Clay and me. He looked sad watching me. He seemed to have a good number of friends more than I had. I broke eye contact embarrassed at my situation and we filed into the museum. The tour guide explained about Mark Twain and how his works that included the N word were written to reflect the era that they took place which sparked a debate amongst the students, much to the chagrin of Mrs. Gultch.
I snuck away during the chaos and wandered to a display containing some aged papers (probably the first pages of one of Twain’s great works), but I wasn’t in a literary mood. I perused the gift shop picking up and touching snow globes. The shop attendant was an older man with thinning hair and drooping face. He was rather annoyed at my fingerprinting all of the snow globes so I left and found myself on a lonely corridor where neither museum attendants nor visitors seemed to be. It was a glorious sort of quiet in the hallway, nothing but my own resonating footsteps to keep me company and it felt good to be alone with my thoughts despite confusions about who I was or who I loved clouding my everybody movement. I didn’t think as much about how I walked or the sound of my speaking voice in this hallway.
I sat for a few minutes in a small vestibule absently groping at one of the decorative pillars, while I thought of Reggie Stone, but Clay’s unending chorus of “homo-boy” sullied the fantasy. I heard the echo of his footsteps before I saw him coming and then I saw the dark hair and eyebrows that so staunchly contrasted his light brown skin. He was the kind of guy who would undoubtedly grow better with age and then he saw me again. His eyes were dark and not as sad looking as they had been when we’d first connected through our shared gaze. He noticed me and came walking toward me with such certain strides, it made me think of Clay coming for one of my regular beatings, but he stopped just a little bit away. He kneeled down and smiled, “what are you doing” he asked.
The smell of the cologne he wore was too mature for him, but I enjoyed it all the same as I stammered that I wasn’t doing anything. He propped next to me and didn’t speak for a while and we just sat there together, him looking as cool as a cucumber and me sitting silent trying desperately not to think of the gas forming in my lower stomach or the fact that his hand was dangerously close to my own.
He seemed to notice how close are hands were and he playfully danced his index and middle fingers in my open palm and I grew more embarrassed with every step. He laughed and grabbed my palm into his and it was warm. “Can I kiss you?” he asked so casually, I nodded yes as I stared at his lips approaching my own. They were pink. The sweetness of the kiss made me think he had been preparing, the perfect taste of spearmint was divine in that moment. He pulled away and held my hand a bit longer and we exchanged smiles. He stood up all in one quick motion and released my hand and then he turned to me with no smile on his face, but the sad look that up close seemed to be searching for something. “What’s your name?” he said waiting patiently for an answer as my heart rate quickened. “Josh” I said, knowing that was a lie and to this day I am unsure of why I lied, but he smiled at me and said “I’ll see you around Josh. You shouldn’t let people treat you like that.”
He was gone around the corner before I realized it and the empty hall that had given me solace now felt desolate and crushingly empty. I don’t remember when Mrs. Gultch found me, but she was highly upset at my behavior. Clay found it hilarious that she gave me a stern talking to in front of the class when we got back to school and he mouthed “homo-boy” the entire time as his friends, two other potato bodied boys, snorted and chuckled as best as their congested lungs could muster.
I went to sit back in my chair and Clay flicked my ear and whispered homo-boy, like his usual cheer and I turned around and grabbed Clay by the ears and kissed him as deeply as Ray kissed me. His face turned red and the entire class was stunned except a few hushed snickers and Mrs. Gultch clutched her collar in utter shock and horror; I enjoyed Clay’s face most since in the moment before he started wiping his lips like a mad man, he looked into my eyes and I his, and we connected and I could see his heart was scarred not by my kiss, but by everything he held inside and covered in brutish violence. I laughed hysterically as Mrs. Gultch escorted me to the principal and I thought of Ray tearing around town looking for Josh and never finding him.
I stopped laughing as I thought of Ray and I wondered if he would worry about me. I wouldn’t see Ray again, but I would think of him often as the smell of his cologne wafted through a breeze and I would look into crowds hoping to see a pair of dark eyes looking back at me and smiling.