Read Online My Husband and My Wives: A Gay Man's Odyssey by Charles Rowan Beye - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Charles Rowan Beye
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meant to be most profoundly intimate with them. Nothing could be sadder. I have friends who cry at the mention of their dead parents and don’t know why, but I am sure that they ache over the basic lie of their relationship. I was also lucky that I never had to experience the long, drawn-out trauma of resistance to and then surrender to the process of “coming out.” Whether they liked it or not, everyone in my hometown had to recognize me as a “queer,” “cocksucker,” “homosexual,” “different,” whatever.
Ironically enough, my school friends forced what might be called an entente cordiale, whether or not they really knew what they were doing. It is the gang—that is, the clique of “nice kids”—I am talking about. Who was this group? They were the ones who ruled the roost in the school, the ones who were never without a date at the school parties, the boys and girls who held all the elective offices, the youngsters with smooth skin and minimal pimples, the students with high grades, warm and winning personalities, the ones who were in some aggressive pursuit of their ideals and dreams. The gang was invited to some girl’s home for an outdoor badminton game followed by something to eat in the cellar recreation room. I was invited as usual. Why? Well, because, as I said, the girls all seemed to adore me. Probably the truer answer is that no one could figure out how to drop me. I was too suitable, desirable, attractive—I had the use of a car, was good-looking, a super dancer, and had lots of pocket money. There was just this one teeny-weeny dubious aspect. We ended playing badminton illuminated by the headlights of the cars parked in a circle. Then it was time to eat and the girls filed in and down the stairs. This was 1946 and the girls were supposed to cook, boys were supposed to stand around talking sports. I sensed danger out there alone with the boys and began to sidle toward the house to take cover helping to get the meal. No luck. I was cut off as the boys encircled me. This was a setup. I froze.
“Listen, you cocksucker.” That was Bill, Bob’s best friend, the boy whose knock I had not responded to the previous summer when he slept over.
“Okay, stop, Bill.” That was Bob. I was identifying voices. Partly my terror and anxiety had somehow temporarily blinded me, and the night was washing the light from the sky as well. Bill’s voice, indignant. “Me stop?” I saw him whirl on me. “He should stop, the son of a bitch.” Then they were all talking at once, and I was crying. The girls must have known what was going on, because they did not call us in to eat. Every one of those boys had a complaint against me. They could not stop using the term “blow job.” I whined and sniveled more. They wanted to “help” me, that was the thrust of this horrible gathering. I, like a dog who will lie down on its back spreading its legs so other dogs can sniff its crotch, yielded to their solicitude. It made me hate them, but it made me safe. If you think about it, it was a kind of odd coming-out party. Now all my old friends of junior high days who had angrily talked about me among themselves and practiced eyes-averted denial when they were with me, now they had finally laid cocksucking on the table, so to speak. I promised to reform, they promised to help me, not that they had anything concrete on offer. Never again did we mention it. Several of them now felt free in the months and years ahead to have sex with me. I continued to have sex with whom I chose, and they maintained a friendly stance. Oh, the joy of things unspoken!
Of course, when I married, and I took my wives back to high school reunions, it was as though it had all never happened. Then, when the marriages ended, the high school reunion crowd all had a story to tell me about a gay son of some friend of theirs. About twenty years ago I brought Richard, the Staten Island native, to give him a sample of “real America,” and the
Ironically enough, my school friends forced what might be called an entente cordiale, whether or not they really knew what they were doing. It is the gang—that is, the clique of “nice kids”—I am talking about. Who was this group? They were the ones who ruled the roost in the school, the ones who were never without a date at the school parties, the boys and girls who held all the elective offices, the youngsters with smooth skin and minimal pimples, the students with high grades, warm and winning personalities, the ones who were in some aggressive pursuit of their ideals and dreams. The gang was invited to some girl’s home for an outdoor badminton game followed by something to eat in the cellar recreation room. I was invited as usual. Why? Well, because, as I said, the girls all seemed to adore me. Probably the truer answer is that no one could figure out how to drop me. I was too suitable, desirable, attractive—I had the use of a car, was good-looking, a super dancer, and had lots of pocket money. There was just this one teeny-weeny dubious aspect. We ended playing badminton illuminated by the headlights of the cars parked in a circle. Then it was time to eat and the girls filed in and down the stairs. This was 1946 and the girls were supposed to cook, boys were supposed to stand around talking sports. I sensed danger out there alone with the boys and began to sidle toward the house to take cover helping to get the meal. No luck. I was cut off as the boys encircled me. This was a setup. I froze.
“Listen, you cocksucker.” That was Bill, Bob’s best friend, the boy whose knock I had not responded to the previous summer when he slept over.
“Okay, stop, Bill.” That was Bob. I was identifying voices. Partly my terror and anxiety had somehow temporarily blinded me, and the night was washing the light from the sky as well. Bill’s voice, indignant. “Me stop?” I saw him whirl on me. “He should stop, the son of a bitch.” Then they were all talking at once, and I was crying. The girls must have known what was going on, because they did not call us in to eat. Every one of those boys had a complaint against me. They could not stop using the term “blow job.” I whined and sniveled more. They wanted to “help” me, that was the thrust of this horrible gathering. I, like a dog who will lie down on its back spreading its legs so other dogs can sniff its crotch, yielded to their solicitude. It made me hate them, but it made me safe. If you think about it, it was a kind of odd coming-out party. Now all my old friends of junior high days who had angrily talked about me among themselves and practiced eyes-averted denial when they were with me, now they had finally laid cocksucking on the table, so to speak. I promised to reform, they promised to help me, not that they had anything concrete on offer. Never again did we mention it. Several of them now felt free in the months and years ahead to have sex with me. I continued to have sex with whom I chose, and they maintained a friendly stance. Oh, the joy of things unspoken!
Of course, when I married, and I took my wives back to high school reunions, it was as though it had all never happened. Then, when the marriages ended, the high school reunion crowd all had a story to tell me about a gay son of some friend of theirs. About twenty years ago I brought Richard, the Staten Island native, to give him a sample of “real America,” and the
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