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Authors: Larry Kramer, Reynolds Price
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weights he’d purchased at Herman’s against that fast-approaching day when he just knew he’d put his plan in operation. He was going to kidnap himself, but he certainly wasn’t going to break his routine. It would be bad enough not being able to go out and parade around the Village streets for hours and hours, showing off his nicely proportioned body, six feet, narrow waist, bulging biceps, well-defined pecs, lats like wings, all calculated, or so he hoped, to take the eye of the beholder off his dark, swarthy, unhappy-looking, and rather Jewish face.
I’m going to be a faggot! I’m going to be a faggot! Boo Boo had first realized with terror two years ago during his junior year at Yale when the distinguished gray-haired portly, gentile professor of his History of Art: Greek Sarcophagi class suggested they have a tête-à-tête in his book-walled house on Chapel Street “to discuss the argument put forth in your paper on the marble frieze of Noxos.” After six-and-one-half glasses of some fancy vintage wine, Boo from an early age not being a cheap date, he was laid back, as he somehow knew he would be, and, shivering with the apprehensions and expectations of the guilty, cursed, and damned, which he also knew he would be, he allowed his already erected cock, for the first time, to be sucked.
How did it do that? How did it turn into such a straight and hard flagpole without my even knowing it?, Boo queried his inner self, trying his best not to enjoy it, nor to enjoy the professor’s hands and palms and fingers, rubbing and massaging, much as they must have done to countless other priceless treasures, his nicely developing upper torso, which Boo had acquired courtesy of 1) covertly perusing, like something dirty, in a side aisle of the Yale Co-op, a picture of Arnold Schwartzenegger in a book called Pumping Iron; 2) commencing the loss of fifty pounds of rather recalcitrant baby fat; and 3) two hours a day of working out at the Payne Whitney Gymnasium. Yes, up and down and over and across went the professor’s mitts, and up and down and over and across went the professor’s tongue and mouth, and out of that flagpole flew the nice-flowing, good-feeling release.
To be followed by the guilt.
“It’s not very large,” the professor later said, which also didn’t help.
This was the first verbalized confirmation of Richie’s suspicions. Not only was he a faggot, but his flagpole was not quite the standard-bearer a Bronstein boy was meant to hoist in battle.
“But,” the professor continued, bending down to lead the troops to action once again, “it certainly tastes splendid and your pectorals are perfect. You have the body of an ancient Greek. I believe you’re what’s called a Number.”
I want to be a Number! I want to be a Number!, Boo Boo realized over the succeeding weeks as he moped still lost on campus, his eyes to sidewalk or well-trod grasses, acknowledging no one, or as he sat alone in his Silliman single (who would want to room with him?, a feeling no doubt emanating from those earlier formative years when he shared a john with his older brother, Stephen, who had nicknamed him Boo Boo for his petulance and his whining insecurity: “It’s either ‘Boo Boo’ or ‘Lemon,’ take your choice, I suggest the former, at least it’s euphonious”), staring at the pea-green soupy shade with which Yale walls are nourished, and thinking of his teacher’s mouth and trying very, very hard not to seek it out again. I mustn’t do it, I mustn’t do it, it is Wrong! Even though for those three seconds prior to ejaculation and two seconds post, on each of the many succeeding encounters during the semester (he received a final A), Boo had dim thoughts of what he’d been missing all his years.
The guilt, however, ah yes, The Guilt!, was such as to eventually extrude into a courageous confession to his Pop that he was suffering mightily, “Pop, I got these female problems,” so that Abe, himself in
I’m going to be a faggot! I’m going to be a faggot! Boo Boo had first realized with terror two years ago during his junior year at Yale when the distinguished gray-haired portly, gentile professor of his History of Art: Greek Sarcophagi class suggested they have a tête-à-tête in his book-walled house on Chapel Street “to discuss the argument put forth in your paper on the marble frieze of Noxos.” After six-and-one-half glasses of some fancy vintage wine, Boo from an early age not being a cheap date, he was laid back, as he somehow knew he would be, and, shivering with the apprehensions and expectations of the guilty, cursed, and damned, which he also knew he would be, he allowed his already erected cock, for the first time, to be sucked.
How did it do that? How did it turn into such a straight and hard flagpole without my even knowing it?, Boo queried his inner self, trying his best not to enjoy it, nor to enjoy the professor’s hands and palms and fingers, rubbing and massaging, much as they must have done to countless other priceless treasures, his nicely developing upper torso, which Boo had acquired courtesy of 1) covertly perusing, like something dirty, in a side aisle of the Yale Co-op, a picture of Arnold Schwartzenegger in a book called Pumping Iron; 2) commencing the loss of fifty pounds of rather recalcitrant baby fat; and 3) two hours a day of working out at the Payne Whitney Gymnasium. Yes, up and down and over and across went the professor’s mitts, and up and down and over and across went the professor’s tongue and mouth, and out of that flagpole flew the nice-flowing, good-feeling release.
To be followed by the guilt.
“It’s not very large,” the professor later said, which also didn’t help.
This was the first verbalized confirmation of Richie’s suspicions. Not only was he a faggot, but his flagpole was not quite the standard-bearer a Bronstein boy was meant to hoist in battle.
“But,” the professor continued, bending down to lead the troops to action once again, “it certainly tastes splendid and your pectorals are perfect. You have the body of an ancient Greek. I believe you’re what’s called a Number.”
I want to be a Number! I want to be a Number!, Boo Boo realized over the succeeding weeks as he moped still lost on campus, his eyes to sidewalk or well-trod grasses, acknowledging no one, or as he sat alone in his Silliman single (who would want to room with him?, a feeling no doubt emanating from those earlier formative years when he shared a john with his older brother, Stephen, who had nicknamed him Boo Boo for his petulance and his whining insecurity: “It’s either ‘Boo Boo’ or ‘Lemon,’ take your choice, I suggest the former, at least it’s euphonious”), staring at the pea-green soupy shade with which Yale walls are nourished, and thinking of his teacher’s mouth and trying very, very hard not to seek it out again. I mustn’t do it, I mustn’t do it, it is Wrong! Even though for those three seconds prior to ejaculation and two seconds post, on each of the many succeeding encounters during the semester (he received a final A), Boo had dim thoughts of what he’d been missing all his years.
The guilt, however, ah yes, The Guilt!, was such as to eventually extrude into a courageous confession to his Pop that he was suffering mightily, “Pop, I got these female problems,” so that Abe, himself in
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