by Mia Kerick
What started as a mere get-together with my accepting new friends has morphed into much more. Since that Thursday afternoon meeting of our lips, everything has changed between David and me. There’s friction and a flirting added to our friendship, and I feel a sort of new hope for the future.
But it’s a complicated blend of feelings I hold for David Gandy. There’s certainly a sense of sincere appreciation, as he’s been my safety net when I needed one. And I also feel a deep connection with God when I’m with him. For a long time, and still now, even, he’s been like a lifeline that dangles from Jesus’ robes—all I have to do is hold on and I’m still in close to God. And then there’s respect for David’s intelligence, in general, as well as his passion for, and knowledge of, the Bible.
But I’d be lying if I didn’t admit the other part—the elephant in the room part.
Not only does David appeal to me intellectually and spiritually, but I’m also seriously attracted to David physically and…and I’m gonna say it—sexually. This attraction starts with the very top of his head—his hair is long and silky and I want to know what it would feel like sliding between my fingers. And his body—tall and lean, not muscle bound like I thought I’d be into—dressed in skinny jeans and all of those dark layers. And his face—a perfect face if you ask me—all angular and fine-boned, with a slightly pointed chin and slim lips that twist a bit to one side when he studies me closely. In all honesty, I can’t even look at him without feeling an almost-electric zing of attraction.
Yup. I have it bad.
In fact, I didn’t know I was even capable of having it this bad.
And when he arrives at my front door to pick me up to go see a magic show that I’m not even interested in—respectfully coming into my house to say hello to my tongue-tied parents, and then opening the door to his truck for me—I’m beyond words, for one thing, and rational thought, for another. It isn’t close to the feeling I had with Elizabeth on our date—you know, what the heck do I say to this girl? I have so much going on in my head—so much I want to express—that I don’t know where to start. And then there’s the not-so-minor detail that I haven’t yet decided if what I’m doing right now is beautiful or sinful.
When we’re in his truck on the way to the theater, David reaches across the console to touch my knee. I jolt away. “Relax, dude. Don’t overthink it.”
“Overthink what?” My voice is snippy and defensive.
David laughs a little bit, but doesn’t take his eyes off the road to look at me. “Don’t overthink the significance of our first date.”
“What makes you so sure that this is a date?” I’m wound tighter than a spring.
“The fact that I picked you up and met your folks, and that I paid for your ticket, and I’m going to buy you popcorn, if you want it, when we get to the theater, and that I’m also going to drive you home and kiss you goodnight.” David finally pulls his piercing eyes from the road in front of us, and glances over at me for a split second. “That’s how I know it’s our first date.”
I don’t say another word until we’re at the Blackhall Theater, where David proceeds to buy me buttered popcorn and a Coke. I have no strength to argue with him, as he’s offering me everything I want.
The six of us have an awesome time at the magic show—Lenny and I whisper constantly throughout the show, sharing our perspectives on how The Amazing Ralph pulled off his tricks—and an even better time at Friendly’s where we go afterwards to indulge in ice cream sundaes. The six of us squeeze into a booth for four—Sarah, Beth and Lenny on one side, Cameron, David, and I opposite them—and we joke around about everything from Sarah’s recent makeover at Makeup Wagon in the middle of the shopping mall to the upcoming visit of Lenny’s Great Uncle Arthur who has a major problem with excess digestive gas. After the chatting dies down, though, I’m left with a thought, and I’m a little bit freaked out because I’m actually planning to say it aloud.
“I came here alone a few weeks ago, after I went on a super unsuccessful first date with a girl from my old church youth group. Had a strawberry Fribble.”
My five friends gawk at me, as I’ve never been at all open with any of them, with the exception of David, about personal stuff. Still, though, even David appears taken aback by my revelation, as Anthony Duck-Young Del Vecchio is not one to spill his thoughts or feelings.
And I don’t really pour out my heart, but I crack open the door to it, and I must admit I’m as surprised at myself as my new friends are. After all, hadn’t my bosom buddies of more than a decade, the Our Way kids, dumped me flat, as if I’m a worthless waste of breath if I don’t live the way they think is right?
The light touch of David’s fingertips to my forearm whisks me back to Friendly’s.
I add to my previous remark. “I want you guys to know that a lot has changed since then. And lots of stuff is still changing. But I’m…I’m glad I’m here.”
Nobody in our jam-packed booth says anything for about a thirty seconds, a silence that seems to last forever. The five of them just stare at me, and then at the sloppy endings of our ice cream sundaes, and then back at me. David’s fingertips stay on my arm, brushing back and forth every now and again, as if to remind me that I’m not alone.
“It’s their loss, Del Vecchio.” Lenny finally says. I’m beginning to notice, he’s a quiet guy, but he doesn’t mince words on the rare occasions that he chooses to speak up. “Which makes it our gain, I guess.”
Sarah leans over the table, risking the possibility of getting a mighty sticky forearm, to grasp my hand. “You’re all ours now—mwahaha!” She giggles evilly.
“We talked about you when your weren’t around, just so you know.” Beth studies me boldly, and then pulls her long blonde hair over to one side of her collar. “And we decided that we’re gonna keep you, Anthony. Um… no going back to the Zealot Zone. Or, you know, the awe-scoff lunch table.”
“The Our Way gang is really nothing but another clique here at the high school. And I, for one, never thought I’d get to know any of you,” Cam has a humorous manner, even when he’s totally being serious. “Those kids should open their blessed eyes and notice that there are other people in the school, instead of keeping to themselves, all cloistered away like a bunch of nuns. It’s good that you’re broadening your horizons, Anthony.”
Everything feels right in my world at that moment.
Then David leans over and whispers softly into my ear, “I wanna drive ya home now, dude.”
I have a feeling that I know what is going to come next, and I’m admittedly more psyched-up than nervous.
Hello Caution, meet Wind. And Wind, this, over here, is Caution. Why don’t you fellas shake hands and say hi? Now Wind, get ready to catch Caution because I’m throwing him your way.
I let myself fall into the magic and the danger and the come-what-may feelings. Parked outside in my driveway in his shiny black truck, I literally give myself up into David’s hands. At this point, we’ve been making out for a quarter of an hour, give or take. I’ve tasted the sweetness of his lips, engaged in swordplay with his tongue, and nuzzled the skin of his face. I’ve breathed in his breath, and spoken his name in a husky tone. I’ve heard the sounds of our intimacy—the soft moans and whimpers that come with wanting more. Which sounds like the text of a romance novel, at least from what I’ve heard, but it’s all true.
I want more.
I want it all. Yet a little part of me still wants to scream, “Stop it! This is wrong! We’re gonna be condemned!”
But being adept at pushing things out of my mind, I take all my thoughts and feelings and worries and shove at them hard. They only dig in their heels slightly before sliding over the edge of my consciousness, and I lean in to David again, and murmur, “Kiss me more.”
Unitarian Universalist
“I liked the service. It’s just, this uh… Unitarian Universalist Church… you know….”
“It’s the First Unitarian Universalist Church of Wedgewood.�
�� My parents are sitting across the table from me at Dunkin’ Donuts on Sunday morning, after our family attended a service at the local Unitarian Universalist church, trying to make sense of my words.
“Thanks, Dad. Well, the service doesn’t seem as real as a Catholic Mass.”
My Dad leans over with a napkin to wipe the chocolate frosting from her donut off of Lulu’s lips. “It’s just different, Tony. But we’re searching for a religious community that feels right to us, where we can worship in our own way. We have to keep an open mind.”
I sigh.
“Eat your bagel, Anthony,” Mom interjects with authority. “Starving yourself isn’t going to solve our little problem.”
“Little” problem? What planet is my mother living on?
I lift my bagel to my mouth. Worrying my mom isn’t going to fix anything either.
“The reason I started our search at the Unitarian Universalist Church is because I’ve talked on the phone with Gabby Gandy and she told me this is where the local PFLAG meetings are held. I’m going to a PFLAG meeting with Gabby tomorrow night, as a matter of fact.” Mom seems, if possible, too happy about this prospect.
“What does PFLAG stand for?” I think I know, but it’s always good to check.
“Parents, Families, and Friends of Lesbians and Gays. The group was formed so that we can love and support you and better understand you. And of course, we want the best for you, and for that reason, PFLAG educates the public, and I will welcome the information they give me so I can help you in any way possible.”
She sounds like a walking brochure for gay rights, but I smile because this is her way of supporting me, and supporting herself, too, I guess. Still, the whole thing is pretty awkward.
“I think I’d like to go to that meeting, too, Gina.” These days Dad is nothing, if not enthusiastic, about all things gay, and I admit I’m nothing, if not lucky, to have parents like these.
“Maybe you could keep an eye on the girls tomorrow night, Anthony?” Mom winks at Dad coyly. “It’ll be date night.”
“Talk about taking a pile of lemons and making lemonade.” My words come out sounding bitter, like I’d been sucking on those very lemons before the sugar was added.
But seriously, a PFLAG meeting for date night?
“No, Anthony. We’re going out tomorrow night strictly to enjoy the lemonade. And don’t you forget it.” Mom glances at the girls. “Resa—drink your cocoa before it gets cold. And Frannie, you insisted on having two Wake-up Wraps and Hash Browns. I’d like to see you finish them.”
Mary swats me with her book, Boy Meets Boy by David Levithan. She, too, is getting up-to-date on the whole gay subject. “You’re getting awful skinny, Tony. If I sit on you, you won’t get back up.” She slides me a couple of her chocolate glazed Munchkins. “Eat these.”
This whole support-our-gay-brother/son effort is touching, but I still feel uncomfortable, like I’m asking my family to make a huge sacrifice for something I’m not yet certain of. I mean, I’m certain I’m gay; I’m not certain if acting on it is sinful or not. I admit to myself, as I scarf down a couple of Mary’s Munchkins, that I’m not feeling nearly as panicked as I was a few weeks ago, and I have David Gandy to thank for that. But the next bite of my bagel requires a big gulp of chocolate milk to wash down, as a lump has planted itself in my throat and seems to have no intention of leaving.
Date Night At PFLAG
One step forward…two steps back. Two steps forward…one step back.
It’s very slow going, but I think I’m inching forward in my effort to understand what God wants from me.
And now, so many thoughts are rushing around in my mind that I lie on top of my bed, sweating and breathing a bit too heavily. I have a lot to think about. Thankfully, the Christian music I’ve loved for years is again able to strengthen and focus me, instead of torture me, as it had been doing for a while there. I whisper a tiny thanks to God for that blessing.
Tonight Mom and Dad went on their date night at the PLFAG meeting with Mrs. Gandy. And they loved the experience, which is possibly the understatement of the year. I think they would have loved the PFLAG meeting even if I hadn’t recently come out as gay. They introduced themselves to the other attendees, were warmly welcomed and then enlightened at a question and answer period, and after that, they engaged in lively discussions over brownies and coffee at break time. Overall, Mom and Dad felt welcomed, embraced, and understood, even if there was no lemonade.
What’s not to like about that?
They seem to feel empowered by the honest discussion and the companionship, and they appreciate the importance that the PFLAG members place on family. It works for them and I’m glad.
And then there’s David, who lately is never too far from my mind. After my parents get home, I go downstairs, lie on my bed and conjure an image of him. As soon as I adjust to the simultaneous comfort and thrill of my image—not exactly compatible sentiments, but there it is—my cell phone rings.
“Tony?”
Already recognizing the number, I crack a one-liner. “Who else would it be?”
“You got me there.” I listen for the sound of his breathing and am rewarded. “Tony, I can’t… Shit, Tony, I can’t stop thinking about you.”
Goose bumps—I get them everywhere. “Yeah?”
“Yeah, dude. Wish we were together right now.”
This is a lot of honesty even for at-home-David. And I’m out of my comfort zone, but liking it there. So freaking much. Maybe too freaking much.
“Anyways, I was wondering if your family would come to our family’s worship center this Sunday. You know, come over to Journeys Worship Center. And then maybe our families could go out to breakfast after—like all of us.”
“Uh…sure. I’ll mention it to my mom.”
“I think Ma’s already taken care of that part.” It’s his turn to chuckle, and when he does, I get goose bumps all over again—the sound is that good.
“Don’t wig out, but I need to tell you that I sing in the choir. It isn’t much of a choir to speak of. We have like six dudes all together; three singers, one of ‘em plays the piano, a guy on flute, a guy on guitar, and a guy who turns pages and shit. And then we have Sarah, and let me tell ya, she has a set of lungs on her.”
“You and Sarah sing in the plays at school, too, don’t you?” Shamefully, I’ve never attended one.
“Well, in the fall I tried to sing in the musical, but, yeah, Sarah sings in all the musicals and in the school chorus, too. Journeys puts a lot of emphasis on musical worship—it’s pretty awesome. Plus Beth’ll be there and Cam, too.” David’s talking fast, almost like he’s nervous, which surprises me because he’s usually the picture of cool. “I kinda recruited Cam. He’d never done the whole church thing before, but I think he likes it.”
“Well, sure. We’ll come. All the girls will be tagging along, though. My parents are into family worship.”
“That’s how it should be, man. I’m glad you’re gonna check it out.”
It’s quiet and I admit to myself I haven’t contributed nearly as much to this conversation—or to this relationship, if I’m going to be real—as David has. In my defense, I’m working through a bunch of very tough things. “Thanks for calling, David.”
“I couldn’t stop myself, truth be told. I’m kinda addicted to you.”
I’m glad to hear that, but it still ties up my tongue. “So…um, night.”
“Dream about me, Del Vecchio.”
I hear him laughing as I end the call.
And then I feel something creeping up—um, no, I have to say it’s standing at full attention. It’s just that I really like David Gandy, maybe too much to be healthy for my soul. I guess I’m not sure yet.
Turn The Other Cheek
As I walk to my car after tennis practice on Friday afternoon—no, I should probably phrase it this way: As I limp to my car, my groin burning from Lazarus’s latest attempt to gain my attention using any means possible, my us
ual protective shadow is nowhere to be found. And I won’t lie, I fervently wish Rinaldo would appear, as if by magic, two rows of cars over, like he has after practice all week. The guy has basically stalked me in his effort to make sure one of my “friends” or teammates doesn’t finish the job he started in the church parking lot several weeks back.
As I walk, I recap the week’s major events—and for the record, these events require me to make an enormous effort to turn the other cheek. Matthew 5:39 But I tell you, do not resist an evil person. If anyone slaps you on the right cheek, turn to them the other cheek also.
I’m also doing my best not to judge. Luke 6:37 Do not judge, and you will not be judged. Do not condemn, and you will not be condemned. Forgive, and you will be forgiven.
But God forgive me for even thinking this—Laz is being such an asshole. And both of my cheeks have been well-slapped by his hands. I’ve had about enough.
At first I tried to convince myself that the little incident in the locker room after tennis with Laz last week was a one-shot deal—my former best friend making his unhappiness known to me. Unfortunately, that hasn’t been the case. The verbal put-downs in the locker room have turned into daily occurrences, and from there, they’ve escalated to physical bullying.
In one sense I’m impressed—Laz seems to have put a great deal of thought into the torture techniques he employs each afternoon in the locker room. I swear that he spends a great deal more time and effort on his bullying tactics than he ever has on homework assignments. And so I get a taste of “a variety pack of locker room bullying, courtesy of Lazarus Sinclair” over the course of the week.
On Monday—my clothes go MIA after my shower. It’s embarrassing to search the locker room wearing nothing but a towel while Laz howls with laughter, and it’s a low moment when I find that my clothes have been stuffed into the trashcan. The fact that nobody offers to help me find my clothes—well, ouch. Enough said.