I don’t think it’s any secret that, before Gradon tamed me, I was a slut.
Actually, I prefer the British term, “slag.” It sounds more like something one would find in a quarry, as if I was a lovely piece of granite, just waiting to be laid across your countertop.
In any case, I lost my virginity when I was 11 and before you wonder, let me hasten to add that no, I was not molested. It was with another 11 year old and we were both VERY willing participants.
“You mean these things do more than pee?”
“I think.”
“What else do they do?”
“Here – I’ll show you.”
Oh. Oh. Ooohhhhh. Don’t stop showing me, motherfucker. Don’t you dare fucking stop.”
We showed each other all kinds of things, in all kinds of inappropriate places – church, Boy Scout camp (be prepared, I always say), airplane hangers, roofs, basements, parks, in the middle of the road (we were into the Beatles), school and yes, ladies and gentlemen, across some of your countertops.
At some point, we discovered that we weren’t the only two boys out in the cotton fields of the Bootheel having a gay ol’ time. There were others. Lots of others. And I figured, Why eat the same thing for dinner for the rest of my life when there’s all this variety? I’m young, incredibly fucking dumb and full of… joie de vivre, so why not taste all that the buffet has to offer?
I guess I was 12 or so by that point, and that’s when I started really enjoying life. I did it with every willing participant I met and believe me, there were A LOT of willing participants. I’ve always been surprised that there were so many, considering that (a) we were in the middle of no-fucking-where and (b) I was built like a Butterball turkey with four toothpicks stuck in it, but no one ever complained, so even though I was disgustingly fat, boys still wanted to screw around. I guess beggars can’t be choosers.
Getting my driver’s license opened up even more opportunities for me, because I could now (a) screw in my car and (b) screw guys from neighboring towns. To this day, I refuse to own a car with anything but leather interior because of what I did to the interior of every car I owned as a teenager (I’ll leave those details to your imaginations). To whomever has my first Miata, sorry about the stains on the roof – TOTALLY not my fault.
And don’t think for once second that I changed my ways once I was a member of the United States Air Force. If anything, I only refined previously acquired techniques, offering many an airman a safe port in a long storm (I should note that most – all but two, in fact – have since come out of the closet and are enjoying their queer lives).
By the time I was living in New Orleans, I had dispensed with any pretense at all, using one of two trusty pickup lines. If I thought a guy was merely fuckable (i.e., he had no more than three prosthetic limbs and at least a weak pulse), I would walk up and say, “Hey. Wanna fuck?”
If I thought the guy was really cute, I’d accidentally-on-purpose bump into him and mumble, “Did you tell Harpo to beat on me?” á la Oprah in “The Color Purple.” If he laughed, then I’d sleep with him. If he frowned 0r just looked at me like he didn’t get it, I’d tell him he was culturally illiterate and move on.
But that was many, many years ago. I’m old now. And dammit, I’m tired. These days, if I see a cute guy other than Gradon, I sniff and say something like, “Yeah, but he’s not as cute as he thinks he is,” knowing damn well he is, but who has the time, energy and money for the chase anymore?
All of this brings me to a very interesting conversation I had via Facebook over the holiday with an old lover and friend. I should note that I was not originally going to change the names of the parties mentioned herein, but Gradon insisted that I do so, reminding me, “Bitch, we don’t have enough liability insurance for all the people that are gonna sue us over that damn blog. Your family’s probably already gonna take everything we have and there won’t be anything left for these guys to fight over, anyway, so just change their fucking names.”
So, for the purposes hereof, I’ll use the names “Rick,” “Mark” and “Steve” (because, as all Southern men know, all gay men are named Rick, Mark or Steve, and all gay men have track lightin’) and “Tom,” “Dick” and “Harry” (because I needed a second cliché).
Facebook’s neat little chat window popped up, and it was Rick, a friend and lover from ages ago. After a few niceties were exchanged, Rick said that he’d often thought of me (NOTE: I didn’t save the chat transcript, so please pardon any poetic license, but I promise the spirit of the conversation as herein relayed is true).
“I’ve thought about you a lot through the years, too, Rick. I should have moved to Memphis with you when you invited me.” When Rick left the Bootheel to head to Tennessee, he asked me to go with him, but I chose to stay, I think for my job at the time. “But everything happens for a reason, I suppose.”
“Mark is on Facebook. He’s on my Friend list.”
Mark was another former lover whom I adored, but it was never meant to be. We dated for a week, and after seven days, Mark told me he was in love with me. I was definitely in major like with him, but love? I didn’t love anybody when I was 19 except Madonna.
“Really? I haven’t seen him in years. I’ll have to look him up.” (Mark is happy, healthy and partnered and grew up to be a great guy, by the way.)
“Steve is on here, too. You remember, Steve, don’t you?”
Uhm, I thought. This is odd. Steve and I also shared a brief and sordid past. “Sure, I remember Steve. How’s he doing?”
“He’s fine. He’s on my friend list, too. So is Tom, and so is Dick and so is Harry.”
I blinked. Dick and Harry, I definitely remembered. Great teenage sex, but I don’t remember any sort of love connection. Who the hell was Tom?
I paused to look at Rick’s friend list and Tom’s picture triggered my memory. Oh, THAT Tom. Now, I remember Tom. Tom was great in the sack and very, very sweet and I thought we would date for a long time until he did something that totally freaked me out.
He peed. Sitting down. Every time. My immature mind couldn’t face such unabashed femininity. We were men, for God’s sake! We pee standing up! We piss willy-nilly and let the urine fall where it may. We shake it and hike our legs to put it back where it belongs.
I remember leaving his apartment and stopping at a pay phone to call my surrogate sister for some advice.
“Courtney, the strangest thing just happened.”
“You topped?”
“No, bitch. Tom peed.”
“Wow. That is totally weird.”
“Sitting down.”
She waited a beat. “Dump him.”
“Really?”
“Think about this: does he shit standing up?”
But back to my chat with Rick. “Oh. Okay,” I responded, wondering why Rick was bringing up this parade of former fag shags?
I had become extremely uncomfortable. As usual, Gradon rode to the rescue, this time by walking in the door with our youngest niece in tow. I quickly said good-bye and signed off, but didn’t stop thinking about it.
What was Rick trying to say? Had I hurt all these boys? It was never my intent, and if I did so, then I am truly sorry and I hereby apologize.
Was I young, incredibly immature and, as Aerosmith sang, F-I-N-E, fine (fucked-up, insecure, neurotic and emotional)? You betcha.
Do I regret my trysts with these guys? No, not at all. Each was special and wonderful in its own way, like sex is supposed to be when you’re a horny country boy looking for love in all the wrong places.
And I hope everyone else had as much fun as I did. Because I did have fun. In the middle of all the growing up bullshit, I had a lot of fun. Hell, I’m still having fun, it’s just that I’m having fun with Gradon these days.
And I’ve learned something I didn’t know how to do then: I can laugh at myself now. In fact, I spend a lot of my time laughing at myself, because I do a lot of really dumb shit.
And, on occasion, I’ve been known to pee sitting down.
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