But no.
There was a burst of enthusiastic applause—the real deal, not feigned or forced. These preppy princesses—who openly dislike me; find me repellent, in fact; and think I should be burning in hell—genuinely liked it! Tiff Tarbell smiled! Baba Deschler mouthed: “Wow!” Lynnette Franz was not scowling! Even Holy Roller Dottie Babcock looked impressed!
The teacher was equally blown away. In all her twenty-seven years of teaching, she said, THAT was the most surprising and thrilling book report she HAD EVER HEARD!
I picked my burned and battered little body off the floor.
“You are all TOO KIND!” I said, and gave a deep bow of thanks.
I excused myself to the restroom to scrape the Grape-Nuts and goop from my face. I must have scrubbed for fifteen minutes. I changed into my gym clothes and went to meet Flip and tell him of my theatrical triumph.
I must say, it felt pretty damn good. I could get used to this.
XXXII
But. From the highs and the lows, to the ... um . . . ups and downs of daily life ...
THURSDAY
I need to tell you about a particularly humiliating episode. I’ll try to be delicate, but if you don’t care for lurid stories about inappropriate yet entirely natural body functions involving hormonal boys and Speedos, read no further.
You have been warned.
Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays, I have gym class.
Tuesdays and Thursdays, health class.
Gym class, as you might imagine, is not one of my best subjects. I have a profound lack of hand-eye coordination that makes me unusually girly and spastic. Yes, MORE SO. I haven’t mentioned it because I’ve been humiliated in gym for as long as I can remember, so it’s no big deal.
However.
I always have a few moments of GAY TERROR in the locker room. Well, of course.
I know that one lingering glance at the wrong behind, one too many quick checks of my neighbors’ vitals, or GOD FORBID, any sort of accidental physical contact would spell instant death for me.
My strategy?
Avoid all temptation.
For me it’s IN, OUT, eyes down, think about tumors and tongue cancer.
(Tumors and tongue cancer, tumors and tongue cancer . . .)
And then get the hell out of Dodge.
But remember:
It’s always there. A bit of gay terror. Bubbling under the surface. Threatening to pop up and expose you. I mean, you can’t un-gay yourself whenever it’s inconvenient for you. Despite what Republicans seem to think.
So this month we’re swimming. And on this particular day it’s diving practice. My doctor says that the exercise will be good for me, so I’m forced to participate. GRRRR.
We were all in line, taking turns on the diving board.
In an endless loop.
Dive. Swim. Back in line.
Dive. Swim. Back in line.
In front of me was my new best friend, Bib Oberman.
You know Bib. But do you have a good mental image handy?
Let’s recap, just for the sake of the slower kids.
He’s a big boy. Big enough to choke a cow. Captain of the football team. Looks like, well, Superman.
Broad chest.
Muscles on his muscles.
Granite jaw.
Wavy blue-black hair.
In a nutshell: a perfect specimen of blossoming manhood. A classically handsome young man. No one can deny that Bib is easy on the eyes, no sir.
So there he was, standing in front of me in his WET, WET, WET school-issued black Speedo—so Kleenex-thin that you could see every dimple, crack, and bulge—and it was impossible not to notice that, well, everything was perfectly visible. EVERYTHING. WAS. PERFECTLY VISIBLE.
Now we were standing in line.
Going up the ladder.
And Bib’s big old bubble butt was poking me in the face.
Over and over again.
Step after step.
And there was no place else to look. It was THAT big and bubbly.
Frankly, it was hypnotizing. Can you blame me for closing my eyes for just one second? Not even. Half a second. I just closed my eyes and WENT THERE. You know what I mean. SNAP! Just a micro-mini-fantasy. SNAP! Then eyes back open.
And then it was my turn to dive.
And, um . . .
How can I say this without being too graphic? Let’s just say that my President Johnson was saluting the troops. If you know what I’m saying . . .
Yes, yes, I introduced the entire gym class to my good friend Buster McThunderstick.
The old Zipper Ripper . . .
Kaptain Kielbasa . . .
My Little Pony . . .
The Big Dripper. . . .
And I’m not going to lie to you: it was enormous. I know, I know. Too much information. But what the hell, you’ve come this far.
So everybody saw what I was thinking when I closed my eyes.
And everybody broke into peals of laughter.
“Holy shit!” “Check it out!” and “Hey, Bib, Billy’s got a present for you!”
Bib looked physically ill when he saw what I thought of him. “Ahhhh, MAN!” he said.
Well, I wanted to JUST DIE, of course. I MEAN, MY GOD, if ever there was a good time to be hit by a meteor shower, this was it. And the more I tried to focus on, ahem, MINIMIZING the situation, the HARDER it became. Um . . . Yes.
The teacher had to even acknowledge the situation and put an end to it before it got out of control. The whole staff was on high alert, remember, where I was concerned. Nothing could happen to me.
“Okay, Bloom, you’re excused for the day,” he said quickly. “Hit the showers. The rest of you chuckleheads, quiet down! Now back in line! I don’t have to tell you that these things happen to everybody.”
And as I was standing at the end of the diving board and the line had already resumed, I couldn’t go back the way I came and climb down. CAN YOU IMAGINE? Banging each guy on the head as I went? So I had no choice but to dive in, swim over to the ladder, and get out AT THE END OF THE LINE, then walk the entire length of the building back to the shower-room door.
It was the ULTIMATE walk of shame. I was made to parade my float, as it were, in front of, and close up to, each and every one of them, ONE AT A TIME.
Instead of a “perp walk,” it was my “perv walk.”
There was a deafening silence as I made my way to the locker-room door. As I closed the door to the showers I heard them all exhale and mutter amongst themselves: “Groooosss” and “FAGGOT” and “Dude, what is wrong with him?” and laugh about my chances with Bib.
I finally made it to the showers, where I was alone, humiliated, and still turned on.
Probably one of the most horrible, confusing days of my life.
I didn’t go back to the gym class. I just couldn’t face it.
And for the next couple of weeks, the teacher didn’t look too closely at the notes from my “mother” excusing me from swimming due to “swollen glands.”
THE REPERCUSSIONS
NOW, DON’T FORGET: I still had my veto power to expel people—
And because Bib Oberman was involved and would share in any ritual humiliation by association, the incident wasn’t shouted down the halls or screamed across the classrooms. I wasn’t really teased about it. Not openly, at least. Besides, every guy there had probably experienced something similar at some time or another, and I’m sure most of them were just relieved that it hadn’t happened to THEM.
So it was quietly dropped.
Except.
There was one repercussion, one life-changing bit of kickback—so wicked, so unexpected that no one could have ever foreseen.
XXXIII
LATER THAT AFTERNOON
THWAP!
Flip materialized, in that way that he has, as I shut my locker door. I jumped and let out a little girl scream: “Oh!”
He smiled THAT smile and looked at me with an arched brow. “So. Bib, hu
h? I was right all along,” and then he playfully (but NOT so playfully) punched me in the arm. (OWW!) “HEY, if you want, I can maybe put in a good word for you.”
“Don’t you dare! I mean, it’s not what you think. Please, just leave me alone.”
“Relax, I’m kidding.” And he gave me the old puppy-eyes.
“Well, don’t. It’s really embarrassing.”
“No, it’s all cool. I won’t talk about it ever again.” He paused for a moment, then started talking about it again. “So, Bib, huh? I don’t get it, personally.”
“No, not Bib, really. Let it go. It was just an unlucky coincidence. A total accident.”
“Sure, sure. Accident. Whatever. But you DO know that Bib hates you, Billy? I mean, that’s sort of sick on your part. Do you like being treated like that? ’Cause if you do, hey, that’s your deal. . . .”
“I DO NOT LIKE BIB OBERMAN, MR. KELLY! NOW WILL YOU PLEASE!”
(Is he jealous? Is this flirting? Are we flirting? There seems to be an underlying joke . . . something funny we’re dancing around. Yes, I do believe this is flirting. Oh my God!—this is so Degrassi High!)
“Good. I just don’t want you to get hurt,” he said. His leg brushed against mine—accident? He leaned over and whispered in my ear: “I take care of you, bro. Lookin’ out for my buddy.”
He smiled and winked, and then he was gone.
OH, THAT BOY!
He always left me hot and shivering. Dead calm and quivering. On the floor and on the ceiling. I could still feel his hot breath in my ear. “I take care of you,” he whispered, and my ear has never known such spasms of pleasure. I swear, it moaned. It grew a mouth and moaned. True story.
It is suddenly ten years in the future. We are a man-and-wife trapeze act in a small traveling circus that tours through Romania and the Balkans. We call ourselves the Flying Kellikoffs. He has changed his name to Vladimir, and I am now Natalia. By day he leads the caravan across the countryside, while I sew new spangles onto the spandex hot shorts that we each wear onstage.
By night, we swing through the air, soaring from bar to bar and into the safety of each other’s arms.
Every time he catches me, the audience applauds loudly.
Every time he catches me, our love is confirmed again. He loved me enough to catch me tonight, I tell myself.
“I take care of you,” he whispers. “You are mine.”
XXXIV
LATER THAT NIGHT
BANG! BANG! BANG!
“Billy! Open up! We need to talk.” It was Flip.
“What’s up?”
A lot, apparently. He hit the stairs full gallop, full speed, talking a blue streak, forgetting to even take a breath, so that he just kept going and going and going until he ran out of air and wound down like a tin woodsman. Then, BIG GULP, and he was off and running again. He didn’t even notice my pretty new dress or the enormous conehead I was wearing.
He seemed genuinely upset. And this time, there was no good-natured undercurrent. No possibility of flirting.
“I’m sorry, Billy, I can’t just sit back and do nothing. I know you like Bib. Don’t bother to deny it. It’s obvious. People have been talking about it since the beginning of the year.”
THIS WAS MADDENING! HE WAS LIKE A BROKEN RECORD!
“Flip, Flip. Whoa. What is this? Calm down. Look in my eyes. I PROMISE YOU, I DO NOT LIKE BIB. Why does this upset you so much? Why can you not accept that?”
“Come on. It’s so obvious. You sneak stares at him all through biology. I see you. We all do.”
Now THIS was the very definition of irony. Because when I look at Bib, I’m looking to see if HE caught me staring at FLIP! I spend the whole hour trying NOT to make puppy eyes at Flip, but when I do, I get paranoid that Bib’s noticed, so I have to quickly check HIM out!
There was more: “You were hanging ALL OVER HIM at lunch this week. It was disgusting. I was embarrassed for you. You HUGGED him the other day. What was THAT about?”
“I want Bib to like me because he’s YOUR FRIEND! I didn’t want your friendship with ME to be a strain on your friendship with HIM!”
And I shook my head at how RETARDED this was.
It’s all just weird, plain and simple. There was absolutely no RATIONAL way to explain Flip’s behavior. He was acting like he was jealous of Bib! Like he felt threatened by him!
By God, it felt like we were having a lovers’ spat!
So, hey, you know what? I decided I was just going to treat it as such.
What the hell, right? When nothing makes sense, acting sensibly isn’t going to get you anywhere. So: DEEP BREATH.
“It’s not Bib,” I said firmly. “And you need to calm down.”
“Not until we work this out,” he said.
“Work WHAT out, Flip? What don’t you get? It’s you! I’m always looking at YOU in biology! Not Bib.”
His eyes opened wide as he absorbed what he must have known all along. “But . . . but . . . in gym class . . .”
“An accident! Like I told you the first time! I can’t help that it was Bib’s ass in my face. It could have been anybody’s ass. Bernie’s. Mr. Reamer’s. I’m a freakin’ teenage boy! What do I care? Flip, it’s you. It’s you. It’s you. You are the only person I think about day and night. You gotta know that. It can’t be a surprise. It’s you. It’s ALWAYS you.”
He got all golly-eyed, “Wait. Wh-what?” he stammered. “Why are you saying this? You know I’m straight.”
“Then why are you so jealous of Bib?”
“JEALOUS?” he asked. “AM I . . . JEALOUS?”
He was walking back and forth now, shaking his head. “I don’t know,” he said. “This is wrong,” he said. “I’m straight,” he said, but with a little less conviction. He didn’t understand what was happening to him.
He paced around my room, and the words kept coming faster and louder. Over and over again he said he was lost; he was confused; he didn’t know what to do. This wasn’t supposed to happen.
This feeling was wrong.
That’s when I did it.
YES!
I grabbed him.
I grabbed him and pulled him close to me.
I kissed him, quick, just once, then pulled back.
He looked at me. I looked at him.
Both shocked.
But then . . .
Our heads moved slowly back together again. Closer, closer . . . His lips brushed against mine. Softly. Quickly.
My world stopped. I stopped. Our mouths met, two people joined.
As he slowly gave in to his feelings, his tongue did a slow pirouette around mine. He drew me closer, kissing me harder. I turned into Liquid Billy and slid down his throat—happy, happy, finally happy.
I danced in his mouth, dangled from his epiglottis, and did a delirious free fall into his stomach.
I bathed in his gastric juices, nibbled on his semi-digested food, and played tickle games with his intestines. There I was; I was inside him; I was a part of Flip now—small at first—timid, shy, unsure of a rhythm, but with each passing moment, I felt my confidence grow. I became fluid, buoyant, growing larger, like a balloon, filling up inside him, until I was just beneath his skin—and he was my shell. My skin. He was mine.
Mine.
He stopped. The balloon popped.
“Yo, Billy. I don’t know . . .”
No, no, no. I pulled him close again and let my tongue trace the line of his lips—they were soft, juicy.
I kissed him harder, pushing him down, climbing on top of him. I didn’t care who we were anymore. I kissed him harder because I was happy, yes, finally truly happy. Who cares if the whole school hates me? Who cares if the WHOLE FUCKING STATE hates me? Flip Kelly was kissing me! I did it! I’m happy! And I deserve this moment.
I couldn’t help myself. I kissed his eyes, his nose, his cheeks. I opened my eyes and looked at the most gorgeous boy I’d ever seen.
Did I go too far, cross some invisible line? Had I forgotten
myself and become overconfident? Like Oedipus Rex before me (or was it Vanilla Ice?), I was so caught up in my own satisfaction, I ignored the warning signs and various red flags.
“Hubris leads to nemesis,” my history teacher said the other day—whatever that means. It’s probably Latin for “Don’t molest straight boys.”
Because . . .
Just as I got his shirt off and was working on the jeans . . .
And while we were falling against walls and leaning on tables and rolling over couches . . .
Really surrendering to the moment, you know . . .
Yes, just when he finally seemed fully committed, and all his doubts and misgivings were swept away in a great and glorious tide of homo-passion, that—
TOOT! TOOT!
YES!
That’s when two hundred slack-jawed Yankees pointed and gasped and lunged for their cameras.
Within half a second, we were literally blinded by the explosion of flashes as the Jungle Queen sailed past.
Yes! Caught in the act!
Look! There was Flip, shirtless, his jeans around his ankles. And there I was, splayed out on a table, dress hiked up, bodice pushed down, in the unladylike process of licking his armpit.
FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, BOYS—HAVE YOU NO SHAME? COVER YOURSELVES!
Hoping against hope, I said, “Who cares?” and I lunged breathlessly back for more.
But no, no. The spell was broken.
He jumped up and ran for the door.
Freak Show Page 14