Chapter 3 – Chapter 3

Chapter Three

Before my Sophomore year, I pierced both of my ears, inspired by George Michael of Wham. I didn't like his music, but I sure liked him. Lori went with me. She promised it wouldn't hurt. She lied. It killed.

On our first day back at PHS, I had gym with Coach Berkman, a close minded jarhead who took great pride in being a self-proclaimed "man's man," a reference I have never understood. It is intended to signify masculinity, but it always smacked of homosexuality to me. After all, my life's dream was to become a "man's man."

Coach Berkman had heard about my ear rings, and he was ready for me, coiled like a snake. As soon as class started, he called any boy with an ear ring to the front. I stayed in line, and he glared at me. "Akers, I can see your ear rings from here. Step forward."

"Coach, you called out anyone with an ear ring. I have two ear rings, not an ear ring. I'm where I'm supposed to be."

The class sniggered. Coach Berkman did not.

He strode directly toward me, glaring. He stood before me, enraged and greasy, like a piece of fried chicken, fresh out of the bucket.

"Akers, you're a sissy and a smart ass," he thundered, stepping in front of me, and putting his hands on my shoulders. As his knee hit me squarely in the groin, he announced that if I was willing to look like a girl, then I should talk like one, too. I crumpled to the floor and broke out in a cold sweat.

Today, Coach Berkman would have been hauled off in cuffs and certainly out of a job. Back then, no one even helped me up.

When I regained my composure, I struggled to my feet and headed out of the gym, embarrassed and shamed. Laughter slicked my departure. Coach Berkman didn't care. He had endeared himself to everyone but me.

I hid in the band room. My balls ached. I couldn't stop sweating. I was surprised when the door opened and I heard my name. "Eric, are you in here?"

I didn't respond. The voice belonged to Steve Lustig, one of the most popular kids in the school, much less our class. His family was the richest in Paris, "richer than the Roosevelt's" in my mother's words. He was well-bred, and it showed in how he treated others. He was the only person I knew who'd actually been to the real Paris.

"Eric, I know you're in here. I just wanted to let you know that was total bullshit."

"I'm over here," I said, revealing my hiding place behind the drums.

Steve walked over and sat down next to me. "Berkman's a tool," he offered.

"Yeah, well he crushed my tool," I tried to joke. Steve chuckled a little, but not a lot. My chuckle made my balls ache.

Neither of us said a word. Finally, Steve offered that my "an ear ring" play had been inspired.

"It got me a knee to the balls."

"No, it didn't. That was coming anyway."

"Probably."

Steve stood to go. I decided to pry.

"Lustig, what're you doing in here? Why'd you track me down?"

"I wanted to make sure you're okay. And, I wanted to tell you that I admire you. You're resilient. You get knocked down, but you just keep getting back up. I don't know that I could do that. But, I hope you keep it up."

"It'd be easier if people stopped knocking me down."

"I don't think you're one for easy."

"I guess I'm not."

"I'm glad. You make this a more interesting world."

"That's not my goal."

"That may be true. But, it's your effect."

Somehow, some way, Steve and I became secret friends after that. We studied together. We talked on the phone almost every day. We even hung out. But, we didn't talk at school. We didn't even acknowledge each other. It didn't bother me, but it should have. I shouldn't have settled for a friend that wanted to be a friend only if no one knew he was a friend.

For Thanksgiving, the Lustigs invited me and my mother to dinner. It was a welcome change from Swanson's turkey pot pies, which had become our Thanksgiving staple.

Halfway through dinner, Mrs. Lustig suggested we spend the night. As was occurring more frequently, my mother had drank too much, but they pretended that was not the reason for the invitation. We resisted, but my mother gave in when Mrs. Lustig opened another bottle of wine.

My mother took the guest room. Steve and I opened sleeping bags on the family room floor. We talked late into the night and into the morning. Steve asked me if I was gay, and I answered him honestly. He asked me how I knew, and I told him that I'd never been attracted to a girl. I was more interested in being a girl than in being with one.

Steve admitted he'd never kissed a girl. I was stunned.

"I assumed you'd kissed a lot of girls."

"Nope. Not one. I wouldn't know how."

"Me, either. I've never kissed anyone. Except my mother. And, I'm pretty sure she doesn't count."

Steve stunned me more than before when he suggested we practice on each other.

"Are you serious?" I asked, incredulous.

"Sure. Why not?"

I pounced. "Okay," I said, a little too giddily.

"Should I kiss you first, or should you kiss me first?"

"You should definitely kiss me first," I said.

We both licked our lips. Steve moved toward me, and put his mouth on mine. Electricity shot through me. I felt like I was being struck by lightning. I hated when he broke the kiss.

"Do you think we should try with our mouths open?" he asked.

"Yes," I responded. "I definitely think we should try with our mouths open."

We both licked our lips again. Steve moved toward me, and put his mouth on mine. Electricity shot through me again and again, especially when Steve touched his tongue to mine. I felt like the monster in Young Frankenstein, jarred by bolt after bolt after bolt. I kissed him back as hard and as long as I could.

We spent hours kissing. Just when I thought we'd stop to go to sleep, we started all over again. Neither of us could give it up. It was binge kissing.

It didn't take me long to fall in love with Steve. He became my everything. And, he was happy in the role, at least when it was only me and him. I spent every Friday night at his house. We talked and talked and talked. I told him things I had never told anyone. I told him about my dad, his dad, and his dad's dad. I told him about the tunnels that closed in on me. I told him about the other thoughts that plagued and threatened me.

He listened more than he talked. He assured me everyone shared my thoughts. I knew he was wrong. I knew my thoughts were dire and unique. I never saw in the eyes of other students the fear and vulnerability that I saw in mine each and every time I looked in the mirror.

When he was tired of listening, he shut me up with his mouth and tongue. We kissed those nights away, our tongues exploring every cranny and nook of each other's mouths.

I wanted more, but I also did not want the kissing to end. So, I waited for Steve, fretful that if I acted on my want, he'd back away.

Steve was always the aggressor anyway. He initiated the kissing. When we were sitting, his head was always turned in front of mine. When we were lying down, I was always on my back.

As we kissed, I'd lay there, wondering how far his hand would descend. It never went below my stomach. Sometimes, I'd pull my shirt up so I could feel his warm touch on my bare skin. When I did, it was like being at the top of the ferris wheel, my feet dangling over the edge, nothing but horizon in front of me.

Occasionally, Steve would press against my hip or my thigh, and I could feel him, straining and yearning. I wanted to grab him, release him, take him in my hand or my mouth, and release all that was building up in him.

I never did. Instead, we'd fall asleep with a dull ache in our guts, fear stronger than frustration.

It all came undone over Christmas break. For the first time ever, we ventured out together as friends, seeing the Karate Kid on a Thursday afternoon. Unfortunately, a half dozen or so other kids from PHS had the same idea, and we ran into them in the lobby. They saw us before we saw them, and they called out Steve's name. Steve looked up, said, "Oh, shit," and noticeably stepped away from me. It didn't work. They moved toward us and talked at Steve as if I was not there, expressing surprise at his "date" and wondering aloud how long we'd been "dating." They were having fun, but Steve was not.

In the movie, Steve sat a seat away from me. After the movie, Steve marched to the car, cold and sullen. Neither of us said a word as he drove me home. We certainly didn't hold hands, as we had recently started doing. The next day, Steve was not available when I called. And, he didn't call me back.

I knew the ice beneath us had broken. It was a rupture, not a fissure. As I stared into the mirror, I fell into the frigid water. I didn't try to swim. I let the weight of me push me away from the light. I felt the world go dark. I was in a straight jacket, and I couldn't swim, even if I wanted to. I swear I could taste salt water in my mouth as I shook my head as hard as I could, freeing myself from myself and breaking the surface, seeing the light.