Thinking Straight

by Robin Reardon

  I heard the click and turned, and he was just standing there with his hand still on the knob, looking at me, his head tilted a little like he was asking a question he already knew the answer to. I set down the notebook I’d just picked up, and I guess that was enough of a sign for him. He stepped right over to me, stopping when there was about an inch between us, and put his hands on my shoulders.

  My arms went around him so fast, and so without any thought, that it was like some puppet master had yanked on them. It was everything I could do not to wrap my legs around him as well. There was this invisible cord pulling us together. Pulling on our mouths. Pulling on our hearts. Pulling on our…well, let’s just say we had matching lumps in our pants.

  His hands came up to my face, his tongue went into my mouth, and when he started rubbing his lumpy pants crotch against mine, my knees went out from under me. He followed me to the floor, laughing softly, and then he was in my mouth again.

  In romantic scenes you see, like in the movies, they often show the lovers taking each others’ clothes off, like that’s supposed to be making things more fun. But—hell, I didn’t want fun. And neither did Will. We took the short route and each unfastened our own jeans as quickly as we could. I don’t know if it comes from being a teenager, or being gay, or being a gay teenager, but I didn’t have time for a sexual tease. I just wanted sex. And, in particular, sex with Will.

  Somehow he managed to reach for the box of tissues on my desk, and we needed them almost immediately. I came in his hand, and he came in mine.

  I wish I could describe, better than I can, how I felt after that. All I can say is, there was some voice in the back of my head trying to tell me how evil I was, how much I was hurting my immortal soul and Will’s. It was trying to sneak in there with Bible verses about homosexuals not being able to enter the Kingdom of God. Or about how the law was made because of immoral people, like homosexuals and others who behave in ways contrary to nature. Or verses that put men lying with men in the same category as having sex with animals, or committing adultery, or sacrificing your children. But I could barely hear that voice, try as it might to break through, because of the one that was screaming, “Yes! Oh God oh God oh God. Yes!”

  I think if the verses had been right, and some bolt of lightning had come down at that moment and killed both of us, the hell we’d have been sent to wouldn’t have been worse than living a life in which what we had just felt was wrong.

  We lay there breathless for a few minutes, and my eyes were still closed when I felt Will sit up. At first I was sad; I didn’t want this to be over. When I opened my eyes he was only half sitting, leaning on an elbow, smiling at me.

  He said, “You were a virgin, weren’t you?”

  I could have lied, I suppose. I mean, on the one hand, that term can imply virtue, and strictly speaking it means that a girl is still intact, if you know what I mean. On the other, when you’re called a virgin, it can make you feel ignorant and maybe even undesirable; and girl or not, nobody had just been inside me. But there was nothing of any of that in Will’s voice. Just affection. So I grinned and nodded. And he kissed me. Softly this time. So, so sweet. And then more intensely. And then…Oh thanks be to God, it wasn’t over.

  I could probably have stayed there for hours with him, just lying on the floor, taking turns massaging each other into ecstasies. But that night we limited ourselves to two ecstasies each.

  Afterward, sitting up and leaning against the bed, and holding hands, I asked, “When did you first notice me?”

  He leaned his head back, closed his eyes, and grinned. “You kept staring at me in church one day last summer.”

  I’m sure I blushed. “How did you know? You were closer to the front.”

  “I knew.” The tone of his voice made it seem like it was something that was meant to be. Like fate.

  Whether he intended that or not, I didn’t question him. I changed the subject to something related. “I loved it that day you put Ted Tanner in his place.”

  “Ted? What did I do to Ted?”

  “He laughed when you said Richard the Lionheart was gay. And you—”

  “Ah, yes. Ted. WAI.” He turned his head and looked at me.

  I knew this was a kind of test: did I know IM lingo as well as he did? I knew enough to respond to that. I said, “Yeah. What An Idiot. That’s for sure. PONA.” This was my test. Did he know this one? It means Person Of No Account.

  Will laughed. “No account at all.”

  Yes! This was going to be an amazing year. “How come you know so much about history?”

  “It’s always been really interesting to me. I like seeing how little people have changed. You can go back one year, fifty, seven hundred—and people have the same reasons why they do things. It’s true the ways they go about getting what they want can change, and maybe society at one point in history makes us believe something is important that another society doesn’t even believe in, but people are predictable. It’s what’s underneath that’s interesting. The why. What drives us.”

  He sat up a little. “You know what I’d really love to do? After college? Maybe after grad school, too. I want to write. I’m going to write historical fiction, about us. About guys like us, anyway. One book might be what it was like for Richard to be gay in twelfth-century England. Another could be about a gay man’s life in ancient Egypt. Or during the French Revolution. Wouldn’t that be cool?”

  His face was almost shining, and I felt like he’d given me some special gift, telling me that. I got up and planted my knees on either side of his thighs. “That would be totally cool.” And I kissed him. And he kneaded my ass.

  The feeling I had was like I’d been given another gift, too. Only this one was from God. Because only from God could there come a feeling as wonderful as this.

  We spent some time, maybe half an hour, reviewing material for the test. But it was a history test, after all, and Will hardly needed to work. So really it was more like he was helping me study. But even though his perspective on things was more interesting than any I’d thought of, my mind was on other things. I couldn’t help asking him about the girls he’d been seeing.

  He shrugged. “It’s just study sessions. And I don’t mean like the one you and I are having. I don’t ask them out on dates, though. I won’t lie. I just don’t feel the need to give anyone a direct response to personal questions unless I feel like it.” He kissed me. “With you, I feel like it.”

  “Why?” It was out before I knew it.

  “Why what?”

  “Why me?” I’d been wondering this ever since study hall, ever since he’d asked about getting together with me for anything.

  He cocked his head at me, a question in his eyes. “Why would you ask that? Don’t you know how sexy you are?” I just blinked. Well, I guess I must have shaken my head, too, because then he said, “You don’t worry about those other idiots.” He pushed me down onto the floor on my back, his hands propped on either side of my head. He kissed me again. “It’s just who you are, Ty. You’re your own person. It’s a kind of self-confidence.”

  The funny thing was, that’s exactly what had attracted me to him. Other than the fact that he’s gorgeous. Self-confidence in someone is seductive, you know? Makes you want to be with that person. Makes you want that person to call you a special name. Like Ty. No one had ever called me that before. I decided not to call attention to it, just to cherish it.

  What I said instead was, “But I’ve never thought of myself as self-confident. That’s you, not me.” And it’s true. If I seem not to care about whether I’m in a clique, or a group, it’s because I don’t want anyone to figure out what I really want. I don’t want to make the same mistake I made with Jim. It’s isolation more than self-confidence. But maybe the two have some things in common.

  Will gave me another kiss, and I thought, I could get used to this. Then he said, “Truth is, self-confident people are attracted to self-confident people. We feel comfortable with each other. We
understand each other.” He pulled away, but he was smiling.

  I sat up again and said, “But wouldn’t it make more sense for someone who’s self-confident and someone who needs that in someone else to pair up?”

  He shook his head. “That happens, sure. But usually it’s not really self-confidence. It’s more likely to be arrogance. And that person actually wants to be with someone who’s less confident, so they have the upper hand. They may not take unfair advantage, but they know they’ve got it.” He reached out a hand and lifted my chin just for a second. “And if there’s one thing you are not, Taylor Adams, it’s arrogant.”

  “And are you?”

  “Can’t be, if I’m attracted to you.”

  I looked at him out of the corners of my eyes. “I think you might be, just a little.”

  That’s the first time I remember him flashing that lopsided grin at me. That grin that makes me smile back, that pulls pleasantly on my dick. “Well, maybe just a little.”

  I have to stop this. He’s not here now, is he, Ty? You’re trapped in this place, and he’s out there. Christ!

  I have to stop thinking about Will kissing me, touching me, even just grinning at me, or I’ll have to report it in my MI.

  Ha! Like I’m going to report anything important. Morality Inventory? How can anyone take an inventory of morality? It ought to be Immorality Inventory. That’s what they want to hear about.

  It’s in this Booklet someplace. I’m supposed to be memorizing this stuff, but…here it is. I’m to write up any struggles, thoughts, or temptations that have to do with sex, drugs, violence, or disobedience. Step One clients must complete four MIs per week unless otherwise instructed.

  That’s me. Step One. In the Program under four weeks. It goes all the way up to Step Three—in the Program eight or more weeks. Eight weeks! And I’m praying to get out in six. Hell, just to survive for six!

  Demerit.

  If only they’d freakin’ let me talk to someone! I feel like I’m going insane. They call this SafeZone, but it feels downright dangerous to me. My roommate, Charles, Step Two, has been here five weeks now. He can talk. I can talk after tomorrow, but not until then. I hate how sanctimonious Charles is. Seems. I’m not sure anyone is what they seem to be in here.

  He was called to the office on Sunday, the day my folks brought me here, just after the program director, Dr. Strickland, read me the riot act. Strickland sat under that all-too-realistic crucifix on the wall behind his desk and kept looking at me over the tops of his eyeglasses, I guess to make sure I was listening. Or maybe to see if there was a devil whispering into my ear.

  “We’re not going to talk about the reasons your parents have brought you here, Taylor.”

  I tried to look into his piggy eyes so he’d think I was following him, but that crucifix kept screaming at me: Look! Look at me! You think you’re suffering?

  My dad was listening, though. He boomed, “What do you mean, we won’t talk about that? It has to be addressed!” He sat forward on his chair, the last strings of hair still attached to the front of his scalp flopping around. He swiped at them distractedly with one hand.

  I’ll give Strickland this: he spoke only to me. He didn’t try to calm Dad down, didn’t get defensive, didn’t even turn toward my folks. Looking at me still, he said, “You’ll meet other residents whose sins are the same as yours, and others whose sins are different. The important thing is not what the sin is. The important thing is that it is sin. Your entry into this Program represents a clean slate for you. It’s a chance to start over, to be born new into the Church, into God’s ways. When you leave this office, your roommate, Charles, will give you an orientation and then take you to the chapel, and Reverend Bartle will pray with you and cleanse you. You’ll stay there with him until your sins are forgiven. Only then will you be ready for the Program here at Straight to God.”

  Dad sat back with a thud, arms crossed over his chest. He’d probably been hoping they’d give me thirty-nine lashes or something. You remember the thirty-nine lashes? The Old Testament says that you aren’t supposed to actually kill anyone with a whip, just hurt them really bad. They figured that for the average guy, forty should be the max. But the Jewish lawmakers wanted to be really sure they never overstepped the limits; after all, forty-one might kill somebody, right? Where forty wouldn’t? Sticklers. Anyway, to make sure they never went beyond merely getting the guy to wish he were dead, they always counted to thirty-nine and stopped. And I figured that would be my fate here. They’d only make me wish they’d go ahead and put me out of my misery, but they wouldn’t actually do it.

  Strickland went over the Program Rules. All of them. My folks were following along in the Booklet (not to be confused with the Book, you understand), or at least my mom was, and we read through everything in painful detail. He told me that as soon as Reverend Bartle was done with me (not his words), I would be in SafeZone, which would mean I wasn’t allowed to speak. With anyone. For anything. For Three Fucking Days.

  And then he reached into the file cabinet behind his desk and pulled out, of all things, a digital camera. I was clueless and just sat there, arms crossed on my chest, a look on my face that basically said, “Do your worst, all of you. And fuck off while you’re at it.” My nothing brown hair was falling in that stupid curl just a little left of center on my forehead, my eyes were clouded with repressed fury, and the crooked part of my nose—from when I fell out of a tree when I was ten, and the spot Will likes to lick—offset the curl. I know this because I’ve seen the photo. But more on that later.

  I couldn’t wait for my folks to get out of there. But when they finally stood up to leave, I panicked. I felt like I couldn’t get enough air, and I wanted to scream. Mom hugged me and I leaned over so I could rest my head on her shoulder, wondering when she had gotten shorter, and I inhaled the smell of her perfume. When she let go, Dad just nodded at me and took her arm. She looked back at me as she went through the door, her sweet face so sad, and I had to hang onto the back of my chair to keep from running after them.

  They were leaving me in this prison!

  Strickland picked up his phone and spoke to someone about sending Charles in to get me. Then he said, “Do you have any questions, Taylor?”

  I tried not to shake as I sat down again. There was one thing I was dying to ask: How many other kids here are in for the same thing as me? How many other queers do you have?

  I took a deep breath and asked the only thing I could think of that he was likely to answer. “What’s SafeZone supposed to do for me?”

  He could almost have closed his eyes and taken a nap, his response seemed that memorized. “SafeZone provides residents with an opportunity to maintain an internal focus while remaining physically present in an environment designed for their enlightenment.” He stopped there. I waited for him to go on, ’cause that didn’t really tell me anything, but he gave me this half-smile that didn’t affect any other part of his face, like he was done. Like I was expected to know what the hell that canned statement meant. Then he said, “Other questions?”

  I shook my head. MWBRL. I mean, More Will Be Revealed Later. Isn’t that what the Bible says? Though I had my doubts about getting an answer to the SafeZone question.

  We sat there in silence, him pretending to read something on his desk, me trying not to stare at the crucifix and clenching my hands so hard my knuckles were white, until someone knocked on the frame of the open office door.

  “Ah, Charles. Come in. I want you to meet Taylor Adams, your new roommate. Taylor, this is Charles Courtney. Charles will show you around the facility, where the meeting rooms are, the dining hall, bathrooms, laundry room, library—everything. And then he’ll take you to the chapel, as I mentioned earlier. Are you ready?”

  Was I ready? I was ready, but not for what he meant. I was ready to run screaming from the place. Bad enough I’d be trapped here for six weeks minimum, but to have to deal with Charles Courtney was adding insult to injury. He was maybe seve
nteen, a year older than me, tall, so clean-cut he looked artificial. Light brown hair at what was certainly the perfect length for this place, thin nose, pale brown eyes, and no lips. Oh, and his nose sat a little high in the air. Kind of an Aryan android.

  He smiled, or did something he meant to pass as a smile, and his thin lips got even thinner. “Taylor. Welcome.” He held his hand out and I had little choice but to stand and shake it. Then he turned to Strickland. “Sir, if Taylor is ready, we’ll leave you now.”

  “Taylor, I’ll see you in a few days—when you’re out of SafeZone—for our first talk. God bless you.”

  Yeah. Gesundheit to you, too.

  The first place Charles showed me was the laundry room, following a map of the place that he gave me.

  “This will be your first work assignment,” he told me. “They’ll show you what to do. It’s the first one because it’s pretty straightforward work and there won’t be any need for you to speak. You’ll be here for a week.”

  He looked like he expected me to say something, but I was practicing. Practicing not speaking. Wouldn’t do to fail at SafeZone, would it?

  Dining hall was next. “If you’re lucky, Reverend Bartle will release you in time for you to get something to eat. You might need to get here as quickly as you can or you’ll miss dinner. I’ll keep an eye out for you.” To which I was dying to respond, Don’t do me any favors.

  We went through the meeting rooms, starting with a really huge space that had nothing in it. “After dinner we’ll come to this room for Fellowship, for around half an hour, and then we’ll have an evening Prayer Meeting. We don’t always have one on Sundays, but this week we do.”

  Fellowship? Well, I couldn’t participate in that; how can you have Fellowship with people you don’t even know if you can’t talk? Now, Fellowship with Will—that I could do with very little talking. But Charles didn’t give me time to dwell on any images.