A Gay Polyester High School Romance

by S. W. Ballenger

  The rest of the meal, Matt and I chatted, but I ignored Brad completely. At one point, I glanced over at him and he seemed not to be fazed one bit that I was completely pissed at him. He stared off in the distance as if he were a million miles away.

  Thursday, October 25, 1973

  Dear Journal,

  I am so pissed at Brad right now. He’s obviously jealous of me having a foxy girl like Tabitha for a date and it’s turned him into a complete ass. As a best friend, he should be excited for me to lose my virginity, not jealous. What gets me the most is that he obviously knew that calling Tabitha a slut would make me angry, yet he chose to do it anyway? I don’t get it. He owes me a big-time apology.

  Well, if he wants to be a complete ass, I can be one as well!

  ~ Shawn

  • • •

  Stomping into my house, I slammed my book down on the kitchen cabinet before making a beeline to the refrigerator. Throwing open the door, I grabbed the milk carton and chugged down its contents.

  Polishing off the last of the milk and wiping my mouth on my sleeve, I reflected on my day of not speaking to Brad. I had managed to avoid him at the lockers by standing around the hallway corner and waiting for him to get his books and leave before getting mine. At lunch we sat at our usual table, but I ignored him for the most part and spoke only to Matt. Obviously, he didn’t take the hint that I was upset because between sixth and seventh period, he caught me in the hall and invited me to go down to Durham’s Records after school to check out the new 45 record releases. Of course, I told him I needed to go straight home and practice for next week’s swim meet. He then had the nerve to tell me that I was overreacting to his comment from the day before. I just walked away before I said something I would regret.

  Closing the refrigerator door, I spotted the homemade chocolate chip cookies lying on a plate near the oven. I walked over, grabbed myself one and stuffed it in my mouth. A note written on a piece of flowery stationary sat next to the plate.

  I picked up the note and read it. Hope you had a great day at school, honey. Don’t eat too many of these. I’m making chicken Kiev for dinner tonight. Love, Mom.

  I shook my head, wondering how Mom found the time to bake cookies before going into her office.

  After changing into my swimsuit, I strolled into the pool room with a towel slung over my shoulder. I peered out the large glass windows running the entire length of the two adjoining walls overlooking the crevasse on the west side of our house. The view was pretty all year round, but when snow covered the trees, it was absolutely beautiful. I shivered slightly at the thought of the forty-degree air outside, while inside I basked in the eighty-degree warmth. Hoping the repairman had fixed the pool, I cautiously dipped my toe into the water. It felt perfect.

  Heading to the diving board, I fixed my Speedo that had ridden up between my legs before performing a dive into the pool.

  The stress of the day slowly began to ease as I made my first lap.

  As I began my fourth lap, I heard the front doorbell ring.

  I stopped. “Damnit!”

  Frustrated, I sighed and climbed out to answer the door.

  Shivering slightly, I dried off and wrapped my towel around me.

  Scrambling from the pool room into the main house, my feet slapped quickly against the kitchen floor before hitting the shag carpet in the living room, which was a welcome relief from the cold tile.

  Squinting one eye, I peered through the peep hole.

  “Brad.” I mumbled and felt heat rising to my head.

  Flipping the latch on the door, I pulled it open and gave him a dirty look.

  Before I could get one word out, Brad started.

  “Can we talk?” He stared at me worriedly, as the cold autumn air slicing against my bare skin made me shiver. While I wanted to tell him to get lost, I couldn’t make myself do it. Those puppy-dog eyes of his always got to me.

  I motioned for him to come in and I scurried back to the warm pool room with him following leisurely behind me. Taking the seat at the patio table that faced the picturesque windows, I waited for Brad to do the same.

  Taking the metal chair adjacent to me, he hung his head a few moments in silence before gazing up into my eyes.

  I waited impatiently for him to say what he had to say.

  “Look, dude. I’m sorry I’ve been an ass. It’s just…I’ve just been going through a lot of shit lately and I haven’t felt like talking to anyone about it.” He hung his head again. “I took it out on you and I shouldn’t have. I’m sorry.”

  I could hear the genuine remorse in his voice, but I still felt slighted. “It was an asshole thing to say, calling Tabitha a slut. You know how much I’m looking forward to going to the dance with her.”

  “I know, man, and I’m sorry. It’s just…there’s a lot going on.” He frowned and I noticed his right leg beginning to twitch.

  My anger began to subside as his nervousness raised my concern. Is he finally going to tell me what is bothering him? I asked myself.

  Deciding to not push him, but yet be encouraging, I placed my hand on his knee. “Dude, you know you can talk to me about anything. We’re best friends.”

  He hesitated a moment before he stopped bouncing his leg and pulled himself together.

  “Man, I don’t know. I can’t explain it. John’s been on my case constantly the last several weeks, picking at everything I do. Mom is just sitting back and not doing anything. He wants me to start learning his trade. Damn, dude, I don’t want to be an air conditioning repairman, but he thinks that’s all I’ll ever be. He says ‘real men know how to use their hands and fix things’.” He mocked his stepfather’s voice.

  “Come on, buddy. You’re a smart guy, you make decent grades. You can be whatever you want to be. Don’t listen to that ignorant asshole.”

  “It’s easy for you; your parents are all cool and supportive and mine, well…” He shrugged his shoulders.

  “Your mom is cool,” I jumped in.

  “Oh, I know. She tries, but it’s that fucking John,” he spat. “He’s such a bastard. I don’t know what the hell my mother ever saw in that loser.”

  “I know, man.” I rubbed his knee. Obviously, he was upset about the situation with John, but my gut feeling told me this wasn’t why he’d been acting so strange the past several weeks.

  Feeling as though he was close to telling me the real truth, I decided to push. With a gentleness in my voice, I tilted my head slightly and locked my eyes with his.

  “Is there anything else on your mind, buddy?” I tried to convey the genuine concern I felt for him.

  Suddenly, his eyes began welling up with tears and both his legs began to twitch. I’d never seen my best friend so tortured. Brad may have looked tough on the outside, but inside he was a very sensitive guy. I’d often catch him getting emotional during sad scenes in the movies we watched together. Old Yeller always made him bawl.

  I reached over and put my hand on Brad’s forearm which always seemed to calm him down when he was upset. “It’s okay, buddy,” I rubbed up and down as his tears began flowing freely from his eyes.

  “I’m sick, man,” he cried.

  “Sick?” I yelped. “What do you mean sick?” My mind automatically thought he had some terminal disease. “Like cancer sick?”

  My stomach sank as my mind jumped to the worst possible conclusion. The thought of losing my best friend sent me into a tailspin of overwhelming sadness. My eyes went wide and Brad knew exactly where my mind had gone.

  “I’m…not…physically…sick. It’s mental.” He struggled to speak between sobs.

  “Mental?” I breathed a sigh of relief. At least a mental condition didn’t mean death, but it still scared me enough that I felt my own eyes becoming wet. “What do you mean?”

  Suddenly, he pulled his legs onto the chair and wrapped his arms around his knees and began rocking back and forth like a small child scared of a thunderstorm. I grabbed my chair and pulled it as close to
him as possible and put my arm around him as he hung his head and began hyperventilating. Fear rushed over me; I’d never seen him do this before.

  “Look at me, buddy. What’s wrong?” I tried the best I could to get him to talk. “You know you can tell me anything. Whatever it is, we will figure it out.” I tried to remain calm in the situation even though my heart was beating so hard against my ribs.

  “It’s bad, man.” He shook his head continuously as if what he had to say was the worst possible thing on earth.

  “Please tell me.” I rubbed his shoulder. I resisted the temptation to run and call my mother. I’d heard of a nervous breakdown, but never seen one. Was this what Brad was having? I feared.

  He kept rocking back and forth until finally he stopped and looked up at me slowly; his crying temporarily paused as he stared me in the face.

  “I think I’m gay.” His body shook with fear.

  I quickly pulled my arm away and jumped up saying the first thing that popped in my head: “No you’re not.”

  Brad didn’t take his eyes from me. “I think I am.”

  I opened my mouth to speak, closed it, and opened it again. “You…you can’t be. Gay guys act like girls. You don’t act like a girl.”

  Everyone at school knew about Roger Coltrane. He acted all prissy and everyone knew he was a homosexual. In Home Economics, he would make purses to give to all the female teachers as gifts. He walked with a swish in his step and flipped his wrist whenever one of his many girl friends told a funny joke. The poor guy was teased relentlessly. I knew for a fact there was not an effeminate bone in Bradley Philippe De Vries’ body.

  “I know, Shawn,” he said with anguish in his voice. “I’m so confused.” He squeezed his knees tighter against his body.

  “Why do you think you’re gay?” I asked, completely stunned.

  “It’s just…I don’t find girls…attractive like you do,” he swallowed, “and I’ve been having these dreams…and, well…they aren’t about girls.” He shook his head.

  “Dude, they’re dreams. It doesn’t mean you’re gay.” I tried to say something, anything, to convince him that just because he had a few dreams about guys didn’t mean he was gay. Hell, I’ve dreamed more than once that Carl Grimes and I jerked each other off in the swim team locker room, but I knew it didn’t mean I was gay. Every guy has dreams about other guys. They’re dreams, they make no sense. We can’t control what our subconscious minds come up with.

  Brad interrupted my deductive reasoning. “I know, Shawn, but they’re sick dreams.”

  “Dude,” I sat back down in my chair, “did I ever tell you about my first wet dream?”

  “No.” Brad put his feet back on the floor, although his hands were still shaking.

  “Dude, it was disgusting. I was in this old run-down trailer park. It was like that trailer park down off Third Street. You know, trash in the yards and cars up on blocks. I knocked on this lady’s door and she opened it. This woman was hideous. She was like forty years old, four-hundred pounds with rollers in her hair, wearing a torn blouse and a mini-skirt. She invited me in, and for some stupid reason I entered. She then led me by the hand to this small kitchen table that had roaches crawling across it. She took off her top. Dude, her boobs hung down to her knees.” I paused and gestured with my hands. “She then lay back on the table and then, almost as if I were possessed, I did it with her.”

  Brad twisted his face. “Gross.”

  “Yeah, man. Honestly, when I woke up I ran to the toilet and heaved.”

  He wiped his eyes on his shirt sleeve. “You never look at guys, though?”

  “Well, yeah…mainly muscular guys, just to compare to myself, you know?” I shrugged.

  “I do that, too.” Brad nodded and nervously began playing with his watch band. “Do you think that’s…normal?”

  “I’ve never talked to another guy about it, but obviously both you and I do it and we’re normal. Hell, man, I’ll admit I’ve gotten turned on in the swim team locker room from checking out the other guys, but it doesn’t mean I’m gay. Hell, dude, same thing happens to me all the time with chicks. It’s just puberty, you know, the stuff we learned from health class?”

  Brad nodded sadly. “Yeah, I guess so.”

  I leaned forward and placed my hand on Brad’s knee again. “Look, you and I have never had any sexual experiences with girls. We have no idea what it’s like. All you need is a foxy girl to give you some and you’ll forget all about this gay shit.”

  “You think so?” Brad glanced down at my hand and looked up at me; his eyes filled with hope.

  “Yeah, dude. If we play our cards right, maybe we’ll both get lucky Saturday night,” I stated cheerfully and sat back, removing my hand.

  “I don’t know if I could get turned on for Poison Penny.” Brad wrinkled his nose.

  “Just picture her as Marsha Brady or Raquel Welch, some foxy girl like that,” I suggested.

  He nodded. “I’ll try.”

  “Good. We’re going to fix this. I promise,” I said encouragingly.

  Friday, October 26, 1973

  Dear Journal,

  Brad finally admitted what had been bothering him. He’s actually convinced he likes guys. The very idea is absolutely nuts. Just because he looks at guys doesn’t mean he’s gay. If that were the case then every guy in the world would be gay. He just needs some experience with a girl and I promised him I was going to make that happen. The first part of my plan will be to send a dozen red roses to both Tabitha and Penny. I didn’t ask Brad’s permission, but I know he’ll thank me after Saturday Night.

  ~ Shawn

  Chapter Four

  Saturday morning, I lay in bed staring up at the ceiling, deep in thought. The conversation with Brad had been playing in my mind like a broken record all week. The same questions presented themselves: What if Brad really was a homosexual? Would that change how I feel about him? I mean, obviously he would have to hide it. I mean, no one in their right mind would openly admit to being such a thing unless they wanted to be a social outcast, or worse yet, live in constant fear of being assaulted or even killed. Poor Roger had been beaten up at least twice since the school year began. The last time several “unknown” assailants caught him alone behind the Science building. He ended up having to go to the hospital. Luckily, all he needed were a few stitches, but the thing that shocked me the most was that everyone on campus knew Glen Rodan and his Greaser friends did it, but Roger refused to identify them. I guess he feared the repercussions and if history held true, the school administrators wouldn’t have done anything to them, anyway.

  I decided that it was time to get a psychiatrist’s opinion on homosexuality.

  Popping out of bed, I headed straight downstairs.

  Upon entering the kitchen, I spotted Mom sitting in her usual chair at the table sipping her coffee with a stack of manila folders full of patient files in front of her. She grabbed the one from the top, spread it open, and began reading. The sound of my feet slapping against the tile floor broke her concentration.

  “Oh!” She glanced up. “Good morning, honey.” She gave me her usual warm smile and set the folder aside.

  “Good morning,” I said in return as I walked over and gave her a quick peck on the cheek before reaching for the coffee machine.

  “I was beginning to think you were going to sleep all day.” She looked down at her watch, and I glanced up at the clock hanging just above the sink that read 11:30 a.m.

  “Got to be rested for the dance tonight.” I grabbed my World’s Greatest Dad mug she had laid out for me and filled it with coffee.

  “You hungry?” She grinned and nodded toward the box of donuts sitting in the center of the table.

  My face lit up at the image on the top of the box—the cartoonish puppy smiling through the hole of a donut. “You got Hadley’s?”

  “Three lemon crèmes and three chocolate glazed.” She grinned.

  “My favorite.” I returned her smile. “You’r
e the best, Mom.”

  “I know.” She waved her hand dismissively. “I spoil you too much.” She pulled her reading glasses off and set them on the table.

  “I’m not complaining.” I walked over and took my usual seat at the table grabbing one of the lemon-filled pieces of confectionary heaven. “Mmm…these are sooo good!” I said, rolling my eyes when the perfect blend of sweet and tart hit my tongue.

  “I picked up your suit at the dry cleaners and it’s hanging in the hall closet.”

  “Thanks, Mom.” I swallowed and grabbed my napkin to wipe off the bit of yellow jelly that had oozed out and landed on my chest. “Sticky.” I wrinkled my nose.

  “You excited about tonight?” she asked.

  “Definitely.” I laid my napkin over my lap. “Thanks for renting the limo. Tabitha will be impressed.” At least I hoped she’d be impressed.

  “Again, I spoil you too much.” She laughed.

  I winked as I took another bite. “I know, but I’m worth it.”

  Mom put her glasses back on and reached for the folder again. I contemplated how best to bring up the subject on my mind without her thinking it was me we were going to discuss. I set my half-eaten donut down on my plate and cleared my throat.

  “Mom? Can I talk to you about something?”

  “Sure, honey.” She placed the folder back on the pile, slipped off her glasses, and looked at me again.

  “I know you talk to lots of people with different problems as a psychiatrist.” I hesitated a moment. “Have you ever treated a homosexual?”

  I watched as her face became very serious. I had seen that look many times before, when I had been in her office and observed her interacting with her colleagues. While my mother can be the sweetest, funniest mother on earth, when it came to her job, she took it very seriously. I’ve heard her say that being a woman in a male-dominated profession was difficult, especially one that owned her own clinic and had three male doctors working for her.