Chapter 5 – Chapter 5

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.