The day before Christmas, Peter called to invite me to his house on Christmas Day so we could exchange presents. I was a little nervous about that, since I had never been to his house and I didn’t know how much his parents knew about me. Did they know about the color of my skin? I decided there was only one way to find out, so I asked, “Do they know I’m a Negro?”
“Yes, and they’re fine with that. They said you would be very welcome here.” So I agreed to go there the next afternoon.
Peter had also invited us to his church for the Christmas Eve service. We left home at 10:00, arriving at the Cathedral about half an hour later. When we walked in, warmth seemed to flow through me. The church was decorated everywhere with greens and the smell of balsam was delicious, I mean, you could almost taste it. At the end of each pew a black iron stand was attached with candles on it. The ushers had also given us candles which they said would be lit during the procession. Although there were already many people in the church, we found some good seats fairly near the front.
Following the prelude, the service began with the introduction to “O Come All Ye Faithful.” As the singing began, the choir came in from a side door, processed down a side aisle to the back, and up the center aisle. In front of them was a man carrying a large cross, and behind him were two young boys carrying huge candles. Then there were four boys who each had smaller candles, and who lit the first person’s candle in each row. Each of those people then lit the next person’s candle and so on down the row so that, by the time the procession reached the front of the church, all of the candles were lit. Behind the candle lighters walked the choir, first the little ones then increasing in age until the basses and tenors came. Peter was singing heartily and looking straight ahead. I have to say that those little boys looked like angels in their purple cassocks and white cottas, but from what Peter had told me about some of the tricks they had played during rehearsals, I knew they were anything but. In addition he had told me that sometimes they smuggled comic books and paper and pencils into the church so they could play games and read during the sermon. I rather liked that idea, but I didn’t think my parents would let me get away with it at Calvary Baptist.
The service was a combination of lessons from the Bible, beginning with Genesis and going up to the familiar Christmas story and music. When the choir sang by themselves, I nearly cried, because the sound those little “angels” were making was as close to heaven, I think, as you could get. This was the first time in my life that I heard a boychoir; no wonder Peter loved it so much.
There was a brief sermon after all the lessons and carols, given by the Dean of the Cathedral. For a sermon it was really quite interesting, and much shorter than I was used to! Following the sermon there was communion before the final hymn and postlude.
After the service we went back into the choir room and found Peter. The ride home was rather quiet because it was now after midnight and we were both pretty tired. My parents and I all told him how much we enjoyed the service, and my father suggested that we should make it an annual event. I heartily agreed. We dropped Peter off at his house, where his father was waiting up, and then went on to our house and a good sleep.
I had passed the age when I awoke early on Christmas morning, and, in fact, my parents had to awaken me about 8:30. The tradition in our family was that we would go downstairs in our pajamas and open our stockings first. Then Dad and I made breakfast, which was always special on Christmas morning: pancakes, sausages, bacon, eggs any way you wanted them, toast, and orange juice.
Following breakfast, Dad and I cleaned up the kitchen while Mom prepared the turkey. When the turkey was safely in the oven, we went upstairs to get dressed. Only then was it finally time to open our presents. I got several great presents but I think I enjoyed more giving presents to my parents, who ooohed and aaahed over each one.
We had a delicious, leisurely dinner about 12:30 after which I biked to Peter’s house. I’m sure after that dinner I probably needed the exercise. Following his directions to his house I rode up the driveway to his back door. He must have been watching for me because he opened the door even before I got to it.
Remarking that I was right on time, he took me through the kitchen to the front hall, where I hung up my coat and then into his living room.
“Mom, Dad, this is Christian.” I went to each of them and shook their hands while they said how happy they were to meet me at last. And they really did seem happy.
I handed the package I had to Peter, and he got his for me from under the tree. We sat down and started to unwrap them. When I had the wrapping off mine I looked up at Peter and he looked back at me. Then we burst out laughing. We had given each other identical, very nice editions of Melville’s Moby Dick. Neither of us had read it but we knew it was supposed to be the ultimate book about whaling.
I read out what Peter had written in the front of my copy, “To Christian, my best friend and fellow researcher. Love, Peter.”
Then Peter read out what I had written in his. “To Peter, with many thanks for being my good friend. Love, Christian.”
We sat and talked for a few minutes before Mrs. Bradley said, “I know you two have been playing duets together. Could you play one for us now?”
Peter looked at me and I nodded. We went over to the piano, which was a lovely Mason and Hamlin parlor grand. I sat down and tried it a little first, and it was beautiful—a wonderful, mellow sound which just fitted the sized room we were in.
Peter got his backpack and took out a book of Dvorak duets we had been playing. We hadn’t played together in at least a couple of weeks so it was a lot of fun being back playing together.
Finally I had to leave in order to get home before dark. Peter’s parents thanked us for playing and asked me to come often. I got my coat from the hall closet and we went back through the kitchen and onto the back porch where Peter gave me a big hug and said, “Merry Christmas, Christian.” I looked at him hard, realizing how beautiful he really was. Then, hugging him back, I wished him a Merry Christmas, got on my bike and rode home after the best Christmas I had ever had.
Following Christmas vacation, we received back the rough draft of our report from Mr. Lincoln. He certainly had read it very carefully, and he made a number of suggestions and many positive comments. We had four weeks to finish it, so for those four weeks we worked very hard, passing it in on the first of February. Then came the wait.
Three weeks later, after the February vacation, we got our report back. Mr. Lincoln gave us an A+ and wrote a long, detailed, thoughtful comment. That afternoon we biked first to Peter’s house. We put very serious expressions and went into the kitchen, where Peter’s mother was working.
“Mrs. Bradley,” I said, “we have some very serious news.”
“Oh, no, what’s happened?”
“I think you’d better read this,” I said, handing her the report.
She looked at the cover page and gave a squeal of delight. “That’s wonderful!” she said.
We laughed with her and took the report to my house, where we did the same thing, with Peter talking this time, getting very much the same reaction.
Somehow, winter passed quite quickly. Toward the end of April, Peter and I were sitting on my patio on the first day that was really nice enough to do so. We were quiet for some time, just enjoying the companionship, when Peter said, “Christian, can I ask you a question I have been wondering about for quite awhile?”
“Of course,” I responded.
“It’s kind of embarrassing, so if you don’t want to answer it, that’s OK.”
“Try me.”
“OK. So, (big sigh) what’s a homosexual, really? I’ve heard the word but I’m not sure what it means.”
I was a little surprised by the question, I suppose, because I assumed that all boys knew by the time they were our age. It was a sign of just what a sheltered life Peter led. “Well,” I said, stalling for a little time, “it’s a man who isn’t interested in girls or women but loves other men.”
Silence. Peter was clearly thinking hard about this.
Finally, he asked, “OK, so what’s a queer?”
“The same thing,” I answered. “And there are at least two other names that I know of. One is ‘fairy,’ and the other is ‘faggot.’ That’s kind of an interesting one because a faggot is really a bundle of sticks. Did you know that in Italian the bassoon is called a ‘faggotto?’ If you think of your dick as a stick, the faggot makes some sense. As for ‘fairy,’ I think of a fairy as being more girly-girly.”
Silence again. More thinking. “OK. Here’s a harder one. How do you know if you are one or not?”
Goodness! He was getting a little close to the bone. “Well, I guess if you find that you get a hard-on when you see or think of certain boys and don’t get one when you see girls, that should be a pretty big clue.”
Finally he said thoughtfully, “Thanks.” Then abruptly changing the subject he asked, “Do you want to go in and play the Dvorak duets we’ve been working on?”
“Sure,” I said, and in we went. That night, when I was jerking off, I fantasized once again about Peter, as I had been since our first bus ride together. I’m not sure why, but it was especially wonderful that night.
Mrs. Perkins, the music teacher, had happened to hear each of us play at one time or another and had asked if either or both of us wanted to play something for the school graduation. We had thought about it some and had suggested that we do some of the Brahms “Hungarian Dances” duets. She thought that would be wonderful. They were somewhat harder than what we had been doing, so it took a lot of work, but Mom helped us sometimes and they were beginning to come together. We spent the rest of the afternoon practicing until Peter had to go.
A few days later, we were again on the patio, stretched out in the chaise lounges. Mom was not due home until after 5:00. I said to Peter, “The other day you asked if it was OK to ask me a question. It was of course, but I have been thinking about it and now I have one for you.”
“OK, I guess that’s fair.”
“When you jerk off, do you have fantasies?”
“Whoa! That’s a pretty big jump from my question. What makes you think I even jerk off?”
“Because I’m pretty sure all boys our age do. It’s just that we get these feelings and we have to relieve them, and besides that, you’ve got to admit it feels damned good.”
“True. OK. I do, but I’m not sure I want to answer your question.”
“How about if I tell you my fantasy first and then you tell me yours?”
“You can tell me if you want to, but I’m still not sure I’m ready to tell you mine.”
I took a deep breath. “OK, here goes, for better or worse. Ever since we started to be friends last fall, I have fantasized every time I jerk off, some times two or three or even four times a day, about you. I think about you touching me, and holding my dick, and stroking it until I come. And I love the fantasy as well as the coming.”
Peter sat straight up, turned so that he was facing me, and stared at me with an astonished look on his face. I was afraid that he would be totally freaked out and I would lose him forever. It seemed as though minutes or maybe even hours passed before he finally spoke. “That’s amazing. I’ve been having exactly the same fantasies about you. That’s why I asked those questions the other day. Does this mean that we’re both homosexuals?”
“Well, I’ve known for years that I was, but I never have told anybody else about it, certainly not my parents!”
“And I’ve known for a long time that I was different from most of the boys in school,” said Peter, “but I’ve never known what the difference was. Do you suppose that’s why I’ve never had many friends?”
“Probably,” I said, with a little smirk, “or maybe it’s because you’re such a beastly person.”
“That’s not me. That’s you last fall. Is that why you didn’t try to make friends?”
“I suppose that’s part of the reason, besides my being really angry anyway.” We were silent for a little while, and then I got brave and asked the big question. “So do you want to go up to my room and live out our fantasies?”
“I thought you’d never ask,” he said.
Up the stairs we went. When we got to my room I pulled back the bedspread and blankets on my bed. We were both new at this, so we weren’t quite sure how to go about it. Finally he suggested that it would be easier if we got naked, so we did—with our backs turned to each other.
“OK. On the count of three, we both turn around,” and he started counting. On three we turned around and just gazed at each other. Of course, we had seen each other in the locker room numerous times, but never this close, never alone together, and never with totally erect dicks. I looked at his and he looked at mine. His pointed up towards his chest while mine stuck straight out. Both of us were circumcised. His was a little longer, but mine was a little fatter.
I moved towards him and took his hand. Without saying anything we walked over to the bed and lay down, chest to chest, dick to dick. For a long time we just enjoyed the feeling of each other’s bodies, moving our hands gently up and down each other’s backs and then shoulders and chests, and finally, down towards our throbbing dicks. At last I very gently took hold of his and he took mine. We both groaned a little in sheer ecstasy. Then we each began slowly rubbing. We came very quickly and almost at the same time.
When it was over, I turned on my back, reveling in the glow of my body.
“That,” said Peter, “was astounding!”
“It sure was!”
We lay there quietly with our thoughts until we heard my mother pull into the driveway. I had some tissues next to my bed, so we cleaned ourselves off, got up, hugged, and quickly dressed. Then we bounded down the stairs.
“Hello,” said Mom, “did you two have a good afternoon?”
I couldn’t look at Peter and I’m sure he couldn’t look at me either. We mumbled something and went out the back door to his bike.
“Tomorrow?” I asked.
“Oh, yes. My mother won’t be home tomorrow, so why don’t you come to my house?”
That night, in bed, I felt a little down. I was certain my parents would never approve of what Peter and I had done, and somehow I knew that it was against my religion. I would have to think about it all carefully. Nevertheless, jerking off that night had a whole new dimension to it.