A Gay Polyester High School Romance

by S. W. Ballenger

  My mouth gaped open, not exactly sure how to respond before finally settling on. “Um, I’m Shawn.”

  I shook her hand.

  “You look like a Clark.” She looked me up and down.

  “Why?” I cocked my eye, knowing what was coming next.

  “Clark Kent.” She said as she flipped her hair over her shoulders and pointed at Brad. “Dude, your hair is longer than mine. Groovy.” She chuckled. “I bet your name is David.”

  “David?” Brad replied as the corners of his mouth lifted slightly; obviously finding her behavior much more amusing that I did.

  “I’m getting this whole Williams Twins vibe from you.” She lifted her right eyebrow.

  “Oh, hell no,” Brad said, not pleased with her comparison to the teen idols. “It’s Brad.”

  “Hey, Brad,” she stated cheerfully, then neatly placed her paper napkin on her lap and arranged her fork and butter knife as if she was about to dine with the Queen.

  “So boys, what are we talking about?” She then carefully placed her milk at the ten o’clock position next to her tray.

  “Our friend, Matt,” Brad replied uncertainly.

  “Interesting,” she said as she picked up her fork. “Is he also cute?”

  “Eh,” Brad shrugged.

  “Groovy.” She laid her fork back down and opened her milk carton.

  I looked at her stunned. Who the hell was this girl and who did she think she was sitting down with us and butting into our private conversation? She reminded me of a magpie on steroids.

  As I stared, she turned her head to me and grinned. “Like what you see?” She winked.

  With that, I lost my cool. “So just who do you think you are?”

  “Tara. Gone with the Wind. Remember?” She took a giant bite of her roll that almost put Matt’s messy eating to shame.

  “Well…Tara. You interrupted a private conversation.” I glared at her as she swallowed hard.

  “Oh. If that’s the case, just pretend I’m not here,” she said as she returned her focus to her tray and stabbed at her meatloaf with her fork as if it were some sort of living creature that needed to die.

  Is she on something, or just plain weird? I asked myself.

  Deciding to ignore her, I returned my attention to Brad.

  Brad grinned at me, glancing at Tara before returning to me. I could see he was enjoying himself.

  “So, you staying at my house this weekend?” I asked Brad.

  “If it will get me away from John for the weekend, I’ll be there.”

  “Ooh! Can I stay, too?” the strange hippy girl asked as she quickly shoveled meatloaf into her mouth.

  “Um…” Brad stuttered.

  “I’m yanking your chain.” Tara laughed obnoxiously.

  I finally had enough of her rudeness. “Look. No one invited you to join us.” It came out harsher than I meant it to, but it was out there now. “If you’re going to be rude, maybe you should move to another table.”

  Brad gave me a questioning look. I knew he thought I was too hard on her.

  Tara completely stopped eating. The sad look on her face made me feel guilty and I started backtracking.

  I sighed. “Look, we don’t mind having people join us at our table, but you swept in here like a hurricane and—”

  She interrupted. “Look, I’m sorry if I came across as rude. I’m new here and I know absolutely no one. You guys looked friendly, so I thought I’d come say ‘Hi’. My mother says I need to work on my table manners.” She shrugged. “This coming from a woman that once ate from a pig trough, but that’s not the point. Anyway, I’m sorry I was rude. Can we please start again?”

  A moment of silence passed before I let out a snicker. I couldn’t help myself. It had to be one of the funniest apologies I’d ever heard. Brad burst out laughing causing Tara to start.

  “I suppose this,” Brad pointed to his tray, “could be considered pig slop.”

  “Oink. Oink?” Tara looked at us unsure if she said the right thing.

  With those two words, I started letting down my defenses.

  “Okay.” She straightened up in her chair. “Let me start over. Can I join you guys at your table?”

  I looked at her with a slight grin. “I suppose me and Brad could broaden our social circle a little. Couldn’t we, Brad?”

  “Yeah. Sure.” Brad leaned back in his chair in that casual way that always made me feel more relaxed.

  “Groovy!” Tara beamed.

  “So, where’re you from, Tara?” Brad asked.

  “I grew up in San Francisco. My parents are divorced and I live with my mom. She moved us back here to take care of my grandparents. My dad lives in London.”

  “Cool! London.” Brad picked at his peas. “Shawn and I have been there. San Francisco too for that matter.”

  I recalled Brad getting sick on the flight to London when we were ten and his sitting with his head between his knees most of the flight. He was definitely not a good flyer, although he loved going; getting there always seemed to be the problem for him. I was always grateful to my parents for letting him come with us on most of our family vacations. He made the trips so much more fun. I suppose in a way, he was like my brother; which really made me feel weird knowing these other feelings I was having for him.

  “Are you two brothers?” she asked, obviously thinking the same thing.

  “No,” I jumped in. “Best friends since we were three.”

  “Groovy,” Tara said.

  I cut my eyes to my right and gave her a closer look. I had to admit, she was a very pretty girl with her green eyes and button nose. I could see her as a potential girlfriend. She had a very nice set of boobs, too. The thought of touching them made me feel stirrings below again. God, this doesn’t make sense! I screamed at myself.

  “Earth to Shawn.” Tara waved her hands in front of my face interrupting my internal struggle.

  “Oh. Sorry.” I smiled at her. “Thinking about my swim meet this afternoon,” I lied.

  “I love swimming.” She took a bite of mac and cheese.

  “Cool,” I replied.

  It didn’t take long for Tara to capture both mine and Brad’s attention as she began telling us about her friends back in San Francisco and her life growing up in a hippy commune. She told us about meeting Jimmy Hendrix when she was ten and getting to touch the guitar he played at Woodstock. By the time lunch ended, I actually liked her. Sure, she was different, but that’s what made her interesting.

  Thursday, November 15, 1973

  Dear Journal,

  I’m completely bummed out again. I screwed up so badly at swim practice today. I got excited again in the locker room, which completely threw my concentration off for the entire practice. George, eight-pack abs guy, and I were talking about the new horror movie The Exorcist that releases next month when it happened. I hadn’t started pulling my clothes off yet, but George had already stripped down to his briefs. Then, as if it were nothing, he pulled off his briefs and stood facing me completely naked while continuing his thoughts on demons. He made no attempt to cover himself! Of course, my eyes couldn’t help but wander into forbidden territory.

  Anyway, practice just got worse from there. I don’t know why I let Carl Parsons intimidate me like he does. He struts around the pool like he’s Poseidon—God of Water—and orders the rest of us around like we’re his peons.

  He’s hated me ever since that incident at the beginning of the school year with Gretchen Smalley, when he would hang out close to the girl’s locker room waiting for her to exit where he could talk to her. She’d always brush him off, and who could blame her? Carl Parsons has a nice body, but his face! His face is so ugly that the doctor didn’t just slap his momma when he was born, he punched her out. That day, Gretchen came over and started flirting with me, right under Carl’s nose. I wasn’t interested in her, but Carl thought I was. Ever since then, he’s had it in for me. Between him glaring at me the entire practice and my “impure” tho
ughts of George and Brad, it’s no wonder my swim times were in the toilet. I pray coach doesn’t kick me off the team.

  ~ Shawn

  • • •

  The next day, I had just pulled myself out of the gym pool after an exhausting practice. The water dripped in puddles around my feet as I made my way to the bench and grabbed my towel.

  Toweling off my hair, I heard the voice of Coach Roundtree.

  “Shawn, I need to see you in my office after you get dressed,” he said as he cleaned the lens of his glasses on his shirt tail.

  I dropped the towel to my side. “Um…is everything okay, Coach?” I asked worriedly.

  Coach Roundtree never called anyone into his office unless they were in trouble. Thoughts raced around as to what I might have done. Maybe he’d been listening to Carl that I was the weakest team member and had decided to cut me. I wasn’t the strongest swimmer, but I was nowhere near the bottom of the pack.

  “Just see me in my office,” he repeated, his face not relaying his emotions.

  Immediately, I went into a panic and changed into my street clothes as quickly as possible. I hurried down the hallway to his office, my mind jumping to the worst possible conclusion.

  I nervously rapped on the door and peered through the glass windowpane as Coach looked up from behind his desk, motioning for me to come in.

  I twisted the doorknob and entered, gently shutting the door behind me.

  “Have a seat, Shawn,” Coach said, indicating the chair in front of his desk. Sitting down, I watched as he leaned back in his chair, the springs popping under the weight of his large frame. His graying hair and pudgy cheeks always made me think of The Skipper from Gilligan’s Island. He sighed, leaned forward again, formed a steeple with his index fingers, and began tapping them together, deep in thought.

  Sweat formed on my forehead and I could feel my armpits dampen. This could not be good.

  “Coach, am I in trouble?” I asked, my voice quivering slightly.

  He waved his hand dismissively. “No, no, Shawn. It’s nothing like that.”

  I began to ramble, which tends to be a habit of mine with I’m nervous. “I know my performance hasn’t been the best lately, but I have been going through some things personally, but I promise—”

  “It’s nothing like that, Shawn. Your swimming performance is fine,” he interrupted.

  I nodded, then cocked my head to the side, confused. “If it’s not my performance, then what’s wrong?”

  Obviously, it wasn’t the worst news, but from the look on his face, it still wasn’t good news either.

  “Well, Shawn, I don’t quite know how to handle this situation.” He folded his arms on his desk. “I’ve never had anything rise…excuse me, come up…occur, occur,” he changed his words again, “like this in my coaching career.”

  “Yeah, Coach?” I leaned in.

  “It’s a rather delicate matter,” he said, lowering his voice.

  “Delicate?”

  “It’s a small problem…I guess maybe not small in your case.” He chuckled.

  I chuckled slightly, although I had no idea what in the hell he was talking about.

  “I’ll just say it. It’s your swimsuits.”

  “My swimsuits?” I asked, my voice rising in pitch. I tilted my head slightly and narrowed my eyes unable to understand what could be wrong with my swimsuits. Maybe some of them were the wrong color. I knew our school colors were royal blue and gold, but my mother had complained to me several times she had difficulty in finding that particular shade of blue in most stores.

  “We’ve had a complaint from one of the parents that they’re indecent.” He blurted out before I could respond with my explanation on why some of my suits were too light in color.

  “What?” I yelled, my eyes bulging as I tried to wrap my head around his statement. Never in a million years did I expect to be hit with something like that, especially from my coach. In an instant, I went on the defensive as the blood rushed to my face. “My swimsuits are standard competition swimsuits that my mother buys at Woolworths, sir.”

  “I know, Shawn. But the parent claims that things protrude too much, if you catch my drift. Are you stuffing anything inside your swimsuit? Rolled up socks maybe?” He shrugged his shoulders. “I know you teenage boys do things like that trying to impress—”

  “Excuse me, sir,” I interrupted, my anger consuming me. “I promise you, I do not stuff my swimsuits.”

  “I see.” He nodded.

  “Pardon my language, sir, but this is bullshit.” I jerked back, slamming my back against the chair. “God, this is embarrassing,” I said aloud, not meaning to.

  I couldn’t believe a parent or parents had been checking out my crotch. How in the hell would I ever be able to concentrate on swimming ever again knowing that people in the stands were looking at me in that area?

  “Look, Shawn,” Coach said, in a more sympathetic voice, “it’s just you’re one of the more ‘blessed’ students in that area.” His face became serious. “I told Superintendent Bowers—”

  “Superintendent Bowers?” I interrupted. “How’s he involved?”

  “The complaint came through him.”

  “What?” My jaw dropped and I leapt from the chair.

  “Calm down, Son. We’re trying to handle this as discretely as possible.”

  “Oh great, Coach.” I began pacing around the office. “Now it’s going to be all over school that I’m some sort of…sort of…exhibitionist.” I flopped back down in the chair, barely able to put my words together.

  “I assure you that is not the case. It’s nothing you’ve done wrong. Listen. You’re a model student and a great athlete. All of us teachers know that. I told him I would discuss it with you just to confirm you weren’t adding to the problem, so to speak, but now that we’ve spoken, I assure you there is no problem.”

  I paused for a moment, my mind still trying to process this information. “So, what happens now?”

  “Your father, being on the school board, may hear something about it and I thought you should know before he does. This parent is rather insistent that I cut you from the swim team.”

  “That’s ridiculous!” I yelled, my blood boiling.

  I could see that Coach was on my side as his anger relayed through his voice. “I agree. I told Superintendent Bowers that I’ll resign as coach before I let some middle-aged housewife who gets off staring at teenage boys’ crotches force me into doing something so asinine.”

  For some reason what he said struck me as funny. The mental image of some Betty Crocker in a housecoat and curlers, sitting in the stands all wide-eyed as she examined one boy after another, made me start laughing.

  My laughter spread to Coach. It was all so ridiculous. I know I’m blessed down below, I’ve known it for years, but no one has ever made it into a bad thing. Sure, some of the guys in the locker room make jokes about it sometimes, calling me Anaconda and stuff, but I’ve learned to just laugh about it rather than get all bent out of shape like I did in seventh grade.

  “Listen, Shawn,” he said, his laughter retreating. “Don’t worry about any of this. I guarantee I’ll take care of it. You just carry on as normal.”

  I questioned how I was supposed to carry on as normal after I had just been informed that adults were staring at me in such a way. Someone obviously had it in for me; why else would they complain about me specifically? There were a couple of other guys on the team that were “blessed”, maybe not as much as me, but why weren’t they called out? If they were, I figured Coach would have told me that, to make me feel like I wasn’t alone in this situation. From what he had said about middle-aged housewives, it obviously had to be a mother that complained.

  I wanted to question him more, but he said he would take care of it, so I took him at his word.

  • • •

  The next day at lunch, I picked up my fork ready to dig into the usual slop, when Brad came around the table. My thoughts were still preoccu
pied with the conversation with Coach, and for the life of me I could not figure out whose mother complained.

  “What’s up?” he asked as he sat down across from me. “You look like you’re thinking hard about something.”

  I had not told Brad of the conversation with Coach. Honestly, I’d just as soon nobody found out about it, including him.

  I waved my hand dismissively. “Oh. It’s nothing. It’s Carl Parsons. He’s such a douchebag.”

  “Do you need me to kick his ass?” Brad gave me a slight grin as he repositioned his hair over his chair.

  “Would you?” I chirped. “Hell, if you could just hold him while I punched his face in that would be enough.”

  “Consider it done.” He grinned before looking down at his tray of chili mac and baked beans.

  I chuckled knowing that if I seriously asked Brad to take care of Carl, he would do it in a heartbeat. I knew Brad could easily take Carl. One time in seventh grade, I saw Brad kick the shit out of an eighth-grader who had at least fifty pounds and three inches in height on him. The guy liked to tease Brad over his worn-out shoes, and every day at lunch he’d walk by our table and make some mean comment. One day, Brad had enough and stuck his foot out, tripping him and causing him to fall flat on his face. The dude then jumped up and ran at Brad who punched him straight in the gut. The guy doubled over before recovering and coming at him again. Brad then sucker-punched him in the nose and blood flew everywhere. Although Brad got three licks from the principal’s paddle, nobody in Junior High messed with Brad De Vries ever again.

  My thoughts were interrupted by a sudden breeze flowing across my face, and my eyes shot up.

  “Hey, guys,” Tara greeted as I checked out her hip-hugger bell-bottom jeans and loose-fitting red blouse.

  “Hey, Tara,” Brad and I greeted in unison as she sat down beside me, her boobs capturing my attention.

  While she made herself comfortable, I glanced at Brad just in time to catch the disapproving scowl on his face over my staring at them. Over the past few days, I had come to the realization that Brad wasn’t jealous of girls looking at me and not him; he was jealous of girls looking at me period. I suppose it should have upset me, but honestly I got a warm feeling all over knowing he felt that protective of me.