In the United States the army was a separate culture. This separation was even more pronounced in Germany and, I imagine, Korea and elsewhere around the world where the United States had army bases, since we were a distinct military culture within a foreign culture. Not only were we military, we were foreign military. As a result we were even more insular than any post in the States. This is why my leaving the post alone to go to Frankfurt was such a big deal. Not only was it a red flag to those on post, but being the lone American among Germans made me stick out even more.
So this was definitely one of those times when I wanted to break through the bubble of army life. I was basically just going through the motions that night at Kyalami’s, nursing my Weizen beer, nodding my head occasionally at whoever was talking to let him know I was listening. I knew what they were saying, after all. I’d heard it all before. To pass the time I looked at the other people in the bar, watched the door as people came and went, wondered about their varied civilian lives outside the bubble.
At one point a group of four walked in, two men and two women, two Americans and two Europeans, it looked like. I’d quickly developed an eye for this—distinguishing the Americans from the Europeans. It had to do with dress and manner, mostly, and it wasn’t a science, but after you spent enough time in Europe it became almost second nature. The last person in the group was an American guy, and when I saw him, I literally almost dropped my drink.
I’d seen good-looking men before, of course, and just like anyone else I’d been impressed by the especially good-looking guys, but this was completely different, something I’d never experienced before. It was as if the room had narrowed to just this one person, this one face, this one body, as if the restroom had suddenly gone black and a spotlight had been turned on this one stunning individual. I saw him immediately with such clarity that even to this day I can remember the smallest details of the features of his face, his body, his bearing.
He was about my height (six feet three inches), with thick blond hair parted on the left and fairly short, two inches long, tops. He had a high, high forehead, and a very straight nose with a small indentation at the top that traveled effortlessly down the center, creating a perfect symmetry with a full set of moist, pink, sensual lips. His cheekbones were high and firm and set just above them were a pair of deep blue eyes from which an unusual warmth emanated, not the usual iciness that often comes with such clarity of color. He wore a red button-down shirt and a pair of very dark blue jeans with a nice pair of loafers. His face gave the impression of a vague cruelty that was somehow pardoned, or perhaps enhanced, by his beauty and his youth.
I was finding it a little hard to breathe, looking over at him. My mind was racing. When I could finally form a clear thought, I instinctively recoiled from him (a defensive move, no doubt), telling myself that he wasn’t really my type, that he was probably totally self-absorbed, a shallow pretty boy. But this struck me as hollow right away, the defensive reaction of one who had just been literally struck dumb by another man’s beauty. And I never looked away. I kept staring at him, as if the room had remained dark and he was now doing a solo performance in the spotlight. There was nowhere else to look.
“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Roger, a tall (six feet five inches) officer, newly arrived in the battalion, asked me, nudging me hard with his shoulder and causing me to spill much of my beer down the front of my jeans.
“Nothing, dickhead!” I snapped, too loudly. “Damn—fuck—look at this fuckface—you made me spill my brew! I gotta go to the head now and dry this shit off!”
The front of my jeans were covered so that it looked like I’d pissed myself.
Normally this wouldn’t have been such a big deal, and everyone knew it. That’s why they all looked at me as if I’d lost a nut or something.
“Whoa, chill, dude,” Roger said, as I pushed him out of the way.
It felt as if he’d caught me with my pants down or something, the way his voice had popped into my fantasy, and then the beer all over my pants, and the newly arrived pretty boy going out of my view. I felt so raw all of a sudden. Normally I would’ve just laughed it off and probably popped Roger on the shoulder or something, but this wasn’t normal, and the bathroom break was a much-needed respite. I felt a little dizzy when I walked in. I splashed some water on my face, tried to get my bearings, then wet a paper towel and wiped the beer off the front of my pants. I knew this would only make the stain worse, but I wanted to get the smell out. I tried to figure out what had just happened to me, but nothing made sense in light of what I’d just experienced. All sense had been trumped for a moment by something far greater, and I was still vaguely in the throes of it.
I took a few deep breaths, and things began returning to normal. I reminded myself that I would not give in to this, that I couldn’t give in to it. It simply wouldn’t do to be so obvious about it. Don’t fuck things up, I told myself. You want to get married, right? You want to be an officer, right? I looked at my face in the bathroom mirror, searching for any remaining signs of the awe I’d just felt. Had they all seen it? Did they all know? And then I saw the guy’s face again, that perfect nose and those perfect cheekbones, those deep blue eyes. He couldn’t possibly be a fag, I told myself. I mean, he’s perfect, he’s probably got a girlfriend, probably had a 4.0 at school, probably captain of the baseball team, right? Probably an asshole anyway, right? But Christ, why are you acting like a love-struck cheerleader? Geez, get a hold of yourself, stop being an idiot and go out there and order yourself another beer and get yourself hammered good.
With my composure somewhat regained, I walked out of the bathroom and rejoined the group.
“Didums Jeffy change his diaper okay?” Lostrapo said in his level-best imitation of a concerned, doting mother.
“Shut—your—fucking—head—you!” I replied, hoping I could just cut the whole thing off right away.
But by now everyone had turned toward me and was laughing about the stain on my jeans. And for the next ten minutes or so they all felt the need to pile on in classic army/frat-boy fashion. Finally, somebody put a fresh beer in my hand and the razzing subsided, and I had a chance to look around the bar again. I found him immediately, standing on the opposite side of the bar. I kept him in my vision as I started talking and laughing with the guys again, and then slowly, as the night moved forward, I felt a deep melancholy creep over me like a thick fog. I wanted so desperately to go over and talk to the guy, but I just couldn’t bring myself to do it. And so, in order to dispel the fog of sadness, I opted instead to concentrate on getting seriously hammered.
A bit later on I was listening to Lostrapo, who was a platoon leader over in Charlie Battery, tell me about a new shotgun he’d just bought. Then, as he joked about buying a pistol grip to pimp out, one of the women from the group of four walked over and broke into our conversation. She was a lieutenant from a support battalion in Hanau, and she and Lostrapo knew each other. We talked to her for a while. She was cool, had a wicked sense of humor, and I liked her right away. For the first time since the group of four had entered, I was able to put her friend out of my mind and focus entirely on something else. But not for long. A few minutes later he appeared directly in front of me, seemingly out of nowhere, with a huge smile on his face and his hand extended. The look on my face must have been priceless. I blinked like an owl, switched my beer to my left hand, and put my right hand in his.
“Hi, I’m Paul,” he said simply.
It felt as if my hand had disappeared. I worried about the wetness of my palms, which had turned clammy the moment he’d appeared before me.
“Jeff, uh—my name’s Jeff,” I stammered, realizing immediately that I’d not heard his name. It was as if I’d gone deaf; I could only see his face, watch his lips move, but I couldn’t hear the words coming out of them. “I—I didn’t catch your name?”
“Paul,” he said again, still smiling, then “Paul,” again, as if I were a slow schoolchild learning something for th
e first time, but smiling, still, as if he understood perfectly why I was having trouble hearing him, the language of flirtation being universal, gay or straight, and instantly recognizable by those engaged in it.
“Paul? Okay man, sorry, it’s kind of loud. It’s loud in here. I couldn’t hear you.” I felt like a supreme idiot.
There was a brief moment when we didn’t speak, and he looked at me steadily without blinking until finally his friend, the female lieutenant from Hanau, asked him a question and he answered her, still keeping his eyes on me until Lostrapo said something in response and he blinked again and looked away. I tried to focus on Lostrapo and the girl from Hanau, tried to follow the conversation the three of them were having, but I found myself unable to concentrate for very long, distracted by his face and the sound of his voice, and suddenly so intensely self-conscious about the way my own voice sounded and the way I looked, the way my hands moved when I spoke, the way I was standing, and intensely aware again of the stain, just about dry, though still slightly visible, on the crotch of my jeans.
At one point I gave up trying to talk and just stood silently and listened, occasionally sneaking a covert glance at him. My feelings were all over the map. Not only was he perfect, he was also in the army. And not only was he in the army, he was an officer as well. I couldn’t believe it. I had to keep reassuring myself that I had on a kind of poker face; my feelings were so strong that it seemed impossible they weren’t showing all over my face. I considered leaving, going out to get some air, going to the bathroom, anything to extricate myself from this uncomfortable situation, but I couldn’t, my attraction to him was so severe that I could barely move. The desire I felt seemed appropriate for a cheesy romance novel; it wasn’t the kind of thing I imagined I’d ever feel myself. I mean like huge waves of desire crashing against the White Cliffs of Dover, that kind of thing. I felt helpless in his presence; all prior restraints had suddenly been cast off, and my entire life had suddenly been recalculated as a new equation, one that had been inconceivable until the moment this new variable was introduced.
At the same time I felt an inchoate sadness building up that soon began to make me feel as if I were being smothered.
“Dude, what’s wrong?” I heard Lostrapo’s voice coming at me suddenly. “You look like shit. Need another diaper change, Jeffy boy?”
“Nah,” I said, “I’m just beat. You want to call it a night?” I tried to keep my eyes focused on Lostrapo and not look at Paul.
“Yeah, sure,” he said. He shook Paul’s hand and said good-bye to the female lieutenant from Hanau.
After saying good-bye to the female lieutenant I put my hand out to Paul, and he took it with a big smile, and like clockwork, I swear, fireworks went off in my head—Fourth of July fireworks, and New York fireworks, too, high up over the East River, not some little hick-town excuse for a fireworks show.
“Nice meeting you,” he said.
“Yeah,” trying to sound cool, “same here. Maybe . . .” Suddenly I realized that I might never see him again. “Maybe we’ll see each other—you know, around—have a couple of beers, or something.”
“That’d be cool,” he said.
I turned my body to leave, though my head stayed in place as he held my gaze for a split second longer than normal, adding fuel to my suspicion that the attraction might not be entirely one-sided. This really didn’t seem possible, though. I was blinded by his good looks, that’s all, I told myself. For a few days afterward I pined privately but ferociously over him, and soon, when it seemed clear I wasn’t going to see him again, I began to let the image of him slip from my mind.
About three weeks later I was sent to the Unit Nuclear, Biological, and Chemical officer course in Hanau, the purpose of which, as the name suggested, was to teach army personnel about the various chemical and biological munitions we might face and to explain how to plot the direction of fallout from nuclear weapons. Since all mechanized Artillery units at the time were nuclear capable, it was very important to have a few people in every unit trained regarding such matters. Despite the serious nature of this particular course, the experience felt—as did most of the classes we were periodically compelled to take—kind of like a little vacation. And rather than commute back and forth I was allowed to stay in the BOQ in Fliegerhorst Kaserne.
I reported for class on the first day at seven forty-five A.M. and took a seat in the back of the classroom. I was tired and wished I could remain invisible. The other students, mostly NCOs and lieutenants, filed in during the next fifteen minutes. A lot of them seemed to be from the same nearby unit, so they were all talking to one another. Occasionally one of them would nod or say hello to me, and I’d return the nod and then go back to doodling in my notebook. I wasn’t interested in talking to anyone that morning. Finally, the instructor walked in with a large white binder and was just about to begin when Paul walked briskly through the door and headed right toward me. We made eye contact, and he smiled and sat down next to me.
“What’s up?” he said quietly, leaning over and extending his hand.
“How’s it going?” I whispered, bursting, though trying my best once again to remain visibly cool. We shook hands, and I got goose flesh instantly.
The instructor cleared his throat. “We’ll just wait until these two gentlemen have gotten to know one another sufficiently,” he said.
The rest of the class laughed a little bit, Paul and I faced front, and the class began. Instead of a nice little vacation, I thought to myself, sitting next to Paul, smelling him (yes, there was a scent that drove me crazy), this week away from the battalion was going to be a week’s worth of exquisite torture.
The portly sergeant first class with the Coke-bottle glasses droned on and on about VX and sarin gas, and I kept thinking that an ice pick jammed deep into my eye would have been more fun. But Paul was there. And every hour or so the portly sergeant first class gave us a ten-minute break. I tried to appear aloof and indifferent, but during every one of these breaks Paul sought me out and struck up a conversation.
That night he called me and asked if I wanted to go out to grab a bite to eat. I said yes immediately. We drove into Frankfurt to eat at a Turkish place he’d discovered several months before. I got to know him pretty well that first day. He was a really nice guy. I could tell that right away—on our first break during class—down to earth, easygoing, with a sharp sense of humor, sometimes cutting and sarcastic but never in a mean way. We were very different. He grew up in Washington State with his parents and several brothers and sisters, the very epitome of bourgeois respectability. He had a girlfriend back home, and they’d been together since high school. He was really into sports, including hunting and fishing. The only thing I’d ever fished for was a subway token at the bottom of my jeans pocket.
And so for the next five days we spent pretty much every available minute together. The time took on a magical quality. I’d never experienced anything like it before, never having known the sheer pleasure of being in the company of another person whom I liked so much.
It was a kind of relief when the week was finally over and we had to separate. That kind of intensity is exhausting. And besides, he’d said he had a girlfriend, so the relationship was never going to go in the direction I wanted it to.
As time went by and I gained some perspective on that magical first week, I was a little stunned by just how pure and right my passion for Paul seemed to be. It had caught me completely off guard, and I was overwhelmed by the suddenness with which it came on and by its sheer intensity and unqualified authenticity. I’m not sure I’d ever in my life been more certain of an emotion than I was about my feeling for Paul. This alone was cause, I assumed, for private celebration, but also, I was sure, for alarm.
Indeed, once my passion for Paul became clear to me, I found myself getting extremely paranoid. The thrill I had when contemplating a relationship with him was more than counterbalanced by a terrible sense of dread, knowing exactly what the consequences of tha
t relationship might be. I knew with absolute certainty that should the relationship ever be discovered, my career would be over in a heartbeat. No excuses, no apologies, no benefit of the doubt, no understanding or turning a blind eye, nothing but pure, cold dismissal and professional ruin. With a stroke of a pen it could happen instantly. All the hard work and dedication, all the mental stress and physical strain, would instantly mean nothing. It would all be null and void. I would have broken the rules, and the punishment would be swift and sure.
The saddest thing about this was just how much I’d accepted it, and how perfectly incapable I was of seeing it any other way. What a failure of imagination! What a victim of a kind of cultural tyranny I was! So much so that I couldn’t even see it. I was a slave to the word normal, as defined by the UCMJ. And I was still convinced that I belonged in the culture of the military, that it was my home, which meant making the personal sacrifice and denying myself what any heterosexual would never, in a million years, even dream of giving up.
After I got back to the unit I decided I was going to keep it light and not let myself get into a situation like that again. In my heart I knew that there was something very special about my attraction to Paul and that I probably would not fall that hard again for anybody anytime soon. I reasoned that it made no sense to put pressure on myself and focus on something that I had a snowball’s chance in hell of changing. It boiled down to an old West Point maxim, “Go along and get along.” That’s what I’d have to do. Very few of the lieutenants in the battalion had steady girlfriends or were married, so it would be easy for me to blend in, which is what I wanted to do.
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