Our parents gave Christian and me a magical trip to Tanglewood for our birthdays in July. The orchestra under Munch was superb and Arthur Rubinstein, the featured soloist, was brilliant. All the way back from the concert, Christian and I sat in the back seat of his car holding hands and discussing what we’d heard.
One of the wonderful things that had happened in the last year was my parents talking about Tommy. They told me stories about him, words which he mispronounced, like ‘biscetti,’ little games he used to play. They showed me pictures of him and some of the two of us together. They even had movies they had taken when he was little. Hearing them talk and seeing the pictures and the movies was like getting my brother back. Of course we all missed him, but now his memory was a living part of our family.
Throughout the summer, Christian and I spent a great deal of time with each other, playing the piano and sitting on his patio or my porch talking often about the coming year. I had decided to begin taking organ lessons with a fine organist at a Congregational church in Westbridge. I loved the sound of the organ and dreamt of becoming an outstanding church musician. This did mean that I would have to give up my job at the library, but I was ready. Christian, meanwhile, had become interested in accompanying and chamber music. He hoped to find two or three like-minded musicians to form a chamber music ensemble.
Ever since Christian had told me to look up ‘sodomy,’ I wondered what that would be like. Sometimes, when I was jerking off, I would try to stick a finger up there just to see, but I discovered that a finger wasn’t too satisfactory, because it was hard to get in and it didn’t go in far enough. So I started looking around for something else I could use. I tried a number of implements without much success until one day, when I was poking around in my father’s basement shop, I found a glass tube about a foot long. It looked like an overgrown test tube, rounded at one end and open at the other. When I experimented with it, I felt that I needed some kind of lubrication. I tried lotions before I found a jar of petroleum jelly which worked beautifully.
All went well until one Saturday morning in August. I was relaxing in bed having my morning jerk-off and using the tube. I must have been a little more passionate than usual because I felt the tube break inside me. I knew immediately that this was trouble. Desperately, I tried to work the tube out of my rear, but there was nothing to get hold of, and, in addition, I was bleeding a little.
Dressing very carefully, I went downstairs into the kitchen where my parents were lingering over cups of coffee.
“I need to go to the ER,” I announced, trying to keep the panic and embarrassment out of my voice.
My mother of course asked, “Why? Are you sick?”
“No, I’m not. Never mind why. I just need to go.”
“We’re not going anywhere until we know why,” my father said.
I took a deep breath. “OK. I have some broken glass up my ass! Is that clear enough?”
My father started to laugh but stopped in mid-chuckle. “You’re serious, aren’t you?”
“Yes!”
They looked shocked, but didn’t ask right then how it happened. We went out and got into the car. I lay face down on the back seat. The hospital was on the far side of Westbridge, so it took us almost 45 minutes to get there. During the ride, my father asked again what had happened. I told him about Christian’s note and about experimenting with various implements, including the glass tube. There was a long silence before my father finally said, “That was probably not the wisest thing to do, Peter.”
“I think I know that now,” I said sarcastically. He let the sarcasm pass.
At the hospital, my mother helped me in to the ER while my father parked the car. Mom went to the nurse’s window and told her what had happened, while I leaned against the wall not daring to sit down. Fortunately, the ER wasn’t very busy, so we didn’t have a long wait.
I was taken into a cubicle and told to remove my trousers and underpants and to put on one of those horrible hospital gowns that don’t cover anything. Having done that, I lay face down on the gurney. In a few minutes a short, round, smiling doctor came in and introduced himself as Dr. Curtis.
“So,” he said, “I understand we have a little problem with some glass in your rectum. You probably don’t want to tell me how it happened, but I’m pretty sure I can guess.”
With that, he told me to get up on my knees, with my face down on the gurney. Lubricating his hand, he gently spread my butt cheeks and began feeling inside me. Then he got some kind of tool, reached in, and very slowly and gently pulled out the rest of the tube.
“I think we got most of it,” he said, “but I need to look around in there and be sure there aren’t pieces left inside.” With that, he began poking and feeling inside me again.
“OK,” I thought, “does this feel good or does it hurt too much?” I wasn’t really sure.
“Fine,” he said, “I think we got all of it, but we’ll give you an enema just to be sure.”
“Oh wonderful!” I thought. “Enemas are surely my favorite way to spend a Saturday morning!”
He came back with the necessary equipment, and while he was giving me the enema, he said, “You would be surprised at the things I have removed from young and not so young men’s rectums. Most of them, like pens for example, are just too short and get all the way in so the patients can’t get them out again. I’ve had pens, pencils, hot dogs and sausages, carrots, and even a light bulb.”
“A light bulb! How did he ever get it in?” By now I was intrigued rather than embarrassed.
“I have no idea, but I can tell you I had the devil of a time getting it out again without breaking it. If you think you’re going to keep doing this, and I suppose you probably are, stay away from glass.”
“I think I’ve learned that lesson, but what might I use?”
“I really don’t know, but I suppose you might try one of the hard plastics like acrylic. Don’t tell your parents I suggested that though, because I will deny the whole conversation,” he added with a little smile.
By then he had finished the enema and told me to get dressed. I did and a few minutes later he came back with my parents. “I don’t think there’s any real harm done,” he said. “There’s a bit of bleeding, but it should heal on its own.” He turned to me. “If you’re still experiencing bleeding in a week, you should come back.” Then he gave me a prescription for penicillin and we went on our way.
I was still sore, so when we got to the car I lay down again on the back seat. As we left the parking lot my father began to chortle. My mother looked at him and giggled. Soon they were both laughing aloud.
“It’s not funny!” I grumbled, both embarrassed and angry.
“Well,” my father said between laughs, “It wouldn’t be if you’d been hurt, but since you weren’t, it really is kind of funny.”
My mother added, “You know, when you were born and I held you for the first time, all sorts of thoughts about our future together went through my mind, but I must admit, I never thought of taking you on a Saturday morning to the ER to have glass removed from your rectum,” and she burst out laughing again.
I thought about that. I wasn’t hurt, just embarrassed, and I decided it was rather funny after all, so I joined in the laughter.
When we got home, I called Christian and asked him if he could come over.
“Is something wrong?” he asked.
“Not really, but I did go to the ER this morning.” I knew that would get him to my house in a hurry.
“Are you OK?” He sounded worried. I assured him that I was and that I would explain all when he got here.
Half an hour later I heard him enter the kitchen. I don’t think my parents told him anything except that I was upstairs on my bed. He came running up two steps at a time, burst into the room, looked at me, and asked, “Are you really OK?”
I said, “Yes,” and then told him what I had done and what the doctor had done and said. When I finished, we had a good laugh together.
So then I had a mission—to find an acrylic rod which was long enough to not get lost inside.
My parents had both read much of the Kinsey report, but they had not let me read it, even though I argued that, since it was my future we were discussing, I should be able to. They did say they would think about it, but they returned the book to the library.
Before school began, Christian and I let Dr. C. read what we had written about our first year together. Returning our papers he thanked us, saying he had never read about a growing homosexual romance before and he thought what he had read might help him with future patients. He encouraged us to keep writing, which we have.
School began as usual the Wednesday after Labor Day. Since both our fathers worked in the city, Christian and I rode in separately with them but we met on the steps of the school before going in and agreed to get together at lunch.
Washington High School is a large, ugly, three-story, yellow-brick building which was already old when our parents went to school there. The three main floors were mostly classrooms. In the basement, as was common at that time, were the cafeteria, the gyms, and the restrooms, hence the euphemism ‘Going to the basement,’ when one needed to relieve himself.
The morning didn’t seem very different from junior high. It was spent getting our schedules, finding our classrooms, and listening to the teachers describe what they expected.
At lunch time, we found a table in the corner where we hoped we could be alone. Christian was sitting with his back to the end of the cafeteria line while I was facing him, idly watching students emerge with their food. There were a few kids there that we knew from junior high, and Christian said that he also had seen a few kids from his old neighborhood.
While eating, I happened to glance up. Without thinking I exclaimed, “Oh, my!”
“What?” asked Christian.
“Don’t turn around,” I said, “but the most beautiful boy I’ve ever seen just came through the line. Now he’s looking around trying to decide where to sit. Should I wave him over?” Christian grunted, and I stood up waving. The boy saw me and started towards our table. He was wearing tight-fitting, very expensive looking black slacks and a blue silk shirt open in the front as far, or farther, than was permitted. He had blond, wavy hair, and the face and body of a Greek god. He moved through the tables towards us, his hips swaying gently.
“Hello, boys,” he said in a soft, gentle, almost feminine voice. “Thanks for inviting me over. I’m Owen Crawford. I just moved to Meadowbrook, so I don’t know anybody here.”
We introduced ourselves, told him where we lived and discovered that he had moved only a block away from me. We talked about unimportant things, like the teachers and what we were taking. He told us he had moved from Fort Lauderdale, Florida, and didn’t know anything much about Massachusetts. His father was an interior designer. He never mentioned his mother. All the time he talked, I couldn’t take my eyes off him, while Christian barely made eye contact.
“So,” he finally said, “are you two an item?”
Christian and I looked at each other, questions silently flashing between us. Were we that obvious? How did he know?
Christian glowered and said, “I don’t think that’s really any of your business.” He got up and took his tray to be dumped, leaving me and Owen together.
“Oh,” said Owen, “I didn’t mean to offend him. Is he always this touchy?”
“He can be,” I replied, “especially around people he doesn’t know.” With that, we left for our afternoon classes.
My last period class that day was gym, and I was dreading it. However, I was much happier when I walked in and there was Christian in the same class. He looked at me for a moment, and then turned away. Gym was as boring as gym classes usually are. I had no desire to play games and I wasn’t good at them anyway. At the end of the period, I looked over at Christian in the showers. I knew he had grown a good deal over the summer and was now almost six feet tall, while I was still a shrimpy five foot five. His body had filled out a good deal and was beginning to look more like a man’s body than a boy’s. But what startled me was the equipment between his legs. He had grown much hairier than I remembered, and his cock must have been over six inches long, while his balls seemed huge. Christian looked up, caught me gazing at him and gave me an enigmatic smile. I wasn’t sure whether it was saying, “Ha, puny one, now I’m a man,” or maybe, “Enjoying the sight?”
We left the gym together, got our books for homework, and walked down the street. Christian seemed to be feeling more cheerful, but when we got to the bus stop, Owen was there waiting.
“Hi, boys. Have a good afternoon?”
I said, “Hi,” but Christian just grunted again.
The bus ride to Meadowbrook was torture. Nobody spoke. Christian stared out the window, not looking at either of us. I glanced at Owen and shrugged; looking back he did the same.
When we got to our stop, Owen and I got off the bus. I said goodbye to Christian but got no answer, which really hurt me.
As we walked towards our houses, Owen asked, “So what’s his problem anyway?”
I told him I wasn’t sure. I filled him in a little on how Christian had been the only Negro in our eighth grade and had been very angry at first, how he had finally come around and how we had been best friends for two years.
“I suppose it’s never easy being a minority,” Owen observed.
“Have you ever been one?”
“Yes. As you can probably guess, I’m queer, and there aren’t many boys around who will admit to that. I suppose that’s why I asked if you two were an item. I know it was none of my business, and I apologize, but being queer can get very lonely and scary sometimes.”
I didn’t feel it was right to tell Owen about Christian and me, so I just commiserated with him, saying I was sure it was difficult and I had no problem with queers but I knew a lot of people did.
At his house we parted and I went on to mine. Of course, Mom wanted to know all about my first day of high school, so I filled her in, telling her that the French teacher was a terror, but the others seemed OK.
“Did you see Christian?”
“Yes. We had lunch together but there were other people there so we really didn’t get a chance to talk. Mom, I’m a little worried about that. We don’t ride to school together in the morning, and starting tomorrow I’ll be taking organ lessons right after school and usually practicing on other afternoons at that time. I don’t see how we’re going to be able to spend time together like we did last year.”
“You know, Peter, that might be a good thing for awhile. It would give you a chance to branch out and make friends with some other kids. Did you meet anybody new today?”
“A few,” I temporized, “but nobody I was really interested in yet.” I certainly wasn’t going to tell her about Owen. If she objected to Christian and me being queers, what in heaven’s name would she think of Owen?
I practiced piano for awhile, then went upstairs to begin homework, but I couldn’t concentrate. Finally, I went into my parents’ bedroom and called Christian. He answered.
“Christian,” I said, “we need to talk.”
“Why”
“Well, pretty clearly you were angry this afternoon, and you sure didn’t like Owen.”
“So what is there to talk about? Owen’s a fairy, and obviously you’re attracted to him.”
“What’s wrong with that? We’re queer too.”
“To me, the difference is that a fairy acts like a girl. Look at the way he moves and the way he talks. He might as well be wearing skirts. I think maybe we’d better just cool our friendship for awhile.”
“Christian, there’s no way I want to do that. Yes, Owen is intriguing, but it’s you I love and I always will.”
“I don’t think you know what you’re talking about. If you love me, why are you so attracted to Owen? Let’s just drop it,” and he hung up on me.
I tried to call him back, but he wouldn’t answer. Later in the evening I called again. His mother answered. “Christian’s upstairs working on homework, Peter. He said he didn’t want to be disturbed.”
“Oh.”
“Peter, did something happen today? Christian seemed very down when he got home from school. He didn’t even play the piano. He just went up to his room and closed the door. Then at dinner he hardly spoke a word.” Mrs. Walker was a wonderful woman. I loved her nearly as much as my own mother. I knew I could talk with her, so I told her some of what had happened.
“Christian thinks I’ve suddenly become interested in another homosexual boy,” I said. He’s totally wrong but he won’t talk to me. He wouldn’t speak on the bus and he hung up on me this afternoon. I don’t know what to do.”
“Maybe we just need to give him a little time to get over it. Keep trying. I’ll see what I can do on this end.”
That night, I was so depressed I didn’t even jerk off.
The next day, at school, Christian wouldn’t even look my way. At lunch time, he ate with some of his friends from the city while Owen and I ate together.
After school I walked over to the Congregational church for my first organ lesson. I was fascinated by all the different combinations of sounds one could get from an organ. My teacher, Mr. Partridge, started me off in a organ method book with exercises for both the hands and the feet. The hand exercises were because organ technique is somewhat different from that of the piano, and you have to do a lot of thumb-sliding and substituting fingers to keep a legato sound. The feet exercises were difficult at first, but, even before the end of my first week, they were becoming easier. There were also a couple of one-line pieces for me to work on. Following the lesson, I rode home with Dad.
The only school singing group I could be in that year was the Boys Chorus, made up of about thirty boys divided into four parts. Some of the boys could read music, but others had to learn by rote, so it was pretty slow. I did like the music teacher, Mr. Atkinson, and already I was aiming to be in the Classical Singers the next year.
I barely saw Christian through the next week. He avoided me, making sure I didn’t sit with him at lunch and taking a later bus so he wouldn’t meet either me or Owen. I tried to call him almost every day, but he wouldn’t talk to me, and his mother didn’t really know what to do. By that Saturday, I had had enough. I biked over to his house. As I went into the kitchen I heard his door slam upstairs.
“Hello, Peter,” his mother said. “I’m afraid Christian still doesn’t want to talk to you.”
“Well, I want to talk to him. Is there a lock on his bedroom door?”
“No,” she replied, “we removed it after he was in the hospital.”
“OK. He may not want to talk to me, but he darned well has to listen to what I have to say.”
“Are you sure that’s wise?” she called after me as I went into the hall.
“I don’t know what else I can do!” I called back, storming up the stairs.
I knocked on the door. “Go away,” yelled Christian.
Opening the door, I walked in. “I won’t go away until we talk this out.”
“I don’t have anything to say.”
“What is your problem?” I asked. “Is it Owen and if it is, why should he affect our relationship?”
“Yes, it’s Owen,” he grumbled. “I don’t want to be anywhere near that creep.”
“Look, Christian. Yes, Owen’s what you call ‘a fairy’ and I perhaps you’re uncomfortable with that, but he’s very lonely. He doesn’t know anybody else at school, and I think he’s afraid too. Do you know what he said to me when I told him about you being the only Negro in our school? He said that, as a queer, he was in a minority too, and being in a minority can be really lonely and scary.”
“I don’t give a damn. Go ahead and be his friend. Just stay away from me.”
We were quiet for a few moments, and then the light suddenly flashed on. “Christian, you’re jealous!”
“No I’m not!”
“Yes, you are! You’re afraid that Owen will steal me away from you.” I went over and sat on the bed next to him. He turned away but didn’t leave. “Listen, Christian. Nobody is ever going to steal me away from you. I love you more every day, and I will for the rest of my life. Sure, Owen is a beautiful boy, but it’s not beauty that I’m in love with, although, I must admit, you do seem to constantly be getting better and better looking. I love you because we are soul mates. We think alike, we enjoy the same things, we understand each other. That will never happen between me and Owen, or with anybody else. I truly believe that, if we’re lucky, we get one soul mate for life, and you’re mine.”
Dead silence. Finally, Christian turned toward me, tears in his eyes. “Are you absolutely sure?”
“Absolutely. I want to stay friends with Owen, especially because I think he needs friends, but I’ll never love him the way I do you.”
Tears began to flow. He put his arms around me and gave me a hug. “I’ve been such an ass,” he said. “Can you ever forgive me?”
“Absolutely,” I repeated, “but there’s something we need to agree on so this doesn’t ever happen again. I love you and you love me, but that doesn’t mean we own each other. I must be allowed to have other friends and so must you. If they’re friends that we share, that’s fine, but they don’t have to be. I can have my own friends and you can have yours. Love is more about caring and sharing and holding than it is about possessing.”
“Maybe that’s true. My God, what must Owen think of me?”
“Mostly, he’s confused. I did tell him that you were often short with people whom you didn’t know, and I told him that I was queer, but I didn’t say anything about you. If you want him to know, you’ll have to tell him yourself. “
“Thank you Peter, for telling me off again. I needed that.”
We hugged and enjoyed a long, deep kiss. I immediately felt myself go hard, and I knew he was too. “We’d better go downstairs before we get into trouble. Let’s go play the piano.”
We walked downstairs hand in hand and went into the music room, where we played for nearly two hours. At one point his mother came in, smiled, listened a bit, made a couple of suggestions, and, still smiling, left the room. Later she returned again and asked if we would like a snack, to which we hastily agreed.
In the kitchen she gave us homemade cookies. I had milk and Christian had Coke. “Well,” she said, “it sounds as though you two are back together.”
“Oh, Mom, do you have to point out what a jerk I was? Fortunately, Peter wouldn’t give up and he finally talked some sense into my thick head.”
“So Peter has come to the rescue. Thank you, Peter. Once again this boy was getting a little hard to live with.”
We grinned at each other, finished our snacks, and went out to my bike, Christian holding my hand. Before I left, he gave me another big hug and said, “Thanks again, Peter. You are a prince!”
“More of a jester,” I replied. “You know, jesters often spoke the truth too, mostly disguised so people would listen.” He laughed and I rode off.
That night I jerked off three times, fantasizing as I always did about a naked Christian (no pun intended) in my bed, and I wondered again how I was ever going to make it until we were eighteen.
On Monday Christian and I greeted each other on the steps of the school. Owen came up and I waited to hear what would be said. Christian smiled at Owen, and said, “Hi Owen. I’m so sorry I’ve been such a boor, but, thanks to Peter, I’m over that now. Will you join us for lunch?”
Owen said he would be glad to, and we headed into the building, where Christian went off to the left and Owen and I went up the stairs. “What happened?” he asked.
“That,” I said, “is between Christian and me and not something that either one of us wants to talk about. But it’s over now and we have clear sailing ahead.”
During lunch, we all sat together, talking, laughing, and enjoying each other’s company. At one point Christian quietly told Owen that he was queer and that, yes, we were ‘an item.’
On Thursday, Christian and I had our appointments with Dr. Cushing. One of our mothers still drove us to the hospital first thing in the morning, because the hospital was quite far away from the school. Christian went first while I did some reading for history class. He took quite awhile, but eventually emerged smiling. As usual, we kissed before I went in.
“I understand,” said Dr. Cushing after we were seated, “that Christian got quite angry with you. He told me that he was jealous of a new friend of yours. He also told me what you had said to him. You are a good friend, Peter, and I think you said just the right thing. I won’t tell you what Christian and I talked about, but just know that he is still quite fragile and unsure of himself, and he may need a good deal of reassurance from time to time. OK?”
I nodded, and we went on to talk about me for awhile. I did complain to him that my parents wouldn’t let me see the Kinsey Report. He chuckled and said they were probably still processing what they had read. He advised me to give it a little time and then to ask again.
When we were in the car heading to school, holding hands as usual, Christian said, “Since we almost never ride the bus together, can you come over on Saturday? I need to talk.”
I concurred but suggested that he come to my house, since he hadn’t been there for some time and he agreed.
My second organ lesson went well, and Mr. Partridge complimented me on working so hard, of course, giving me more difficult work for the next week.
On Saturday, Christian arrived about 10:00. It was still nice outside, so we sat on my porch, where Christian immediately began to talk.
“I have two things I want to talk about. First is my meeting with Dr. C. (as we had begun to call him between ourselves). I told him all about what had happened and how jealous I felt. I also told him what you had said and how that had made me feel better. Then we talked for quite awhile about why I was so jealous. He told me that this was not an uncommon emotion for homosexual boys and men. He asked me if I still felt like I was bad, and dirty, and unlovable, and I said that sometimes I did and that I was certainly feeling that way when Owen appeared.
“‘Christian,’ he said to me, ‘homosexual people frequently have feelings like that. They often feel unlovable, so they’re always looking for validation, for assurance, that they really aren’t bad. In some ways your assurance has been your parents’ love, but I think you’re still not sure you really deserve their love. True?’
“‘Yes,’ I answered.
“‘Your other validation has come from Peter,’ he went on. ‘Right now you depend so much on him that you’re terribly afraid of losing him. Am I right?’
“‘Yes Sir,’ I answered.
“‘Getting beyond that fear is not going to be easy,’ he went on. ‘One thing you could do to help is to try making a list of things that you do which people approve of. You should add to that list anything that your parents say or do that show they in fact love you. Will you try that and bring me the list next time we meet?’
“I agreed, and that’s what I’m working on, although I’m not at all certain it will work.”
“I hope it will,” I said, “but don’t look for fast results or quick fixes. I’m sure Dr. C. told you this will take some time.”
“Yes, he did. Sometimes I feel like a real mess.”
“Thank you for telling me all that. I think I understand more now what you’re still going through.”
He nodded. “OK, that’s enough of that. The other thing I wanted to talk to about was Owen.”
“Oh, no,” I thought, “are we taking a step back?”
“Don’t worry,” he said, reading my expression. “I’m not jealous any more, but I am worried about him.”
“Why?”
“Because he’s so obviously queer. Look at the way he walks and dresses. And listen to the way he talks. Anybody who sees him or hears him for more than a minute must know the truth. What I’m worried about is that some homophobes will beat the crap out of him someday. Most of the time he’s alone, and that makes him an easy target. I was wondering if there was any way we could walk with him in the school halls just to give him some support.”
“I suppose we could,” I said, “but that’ll be pretty obvious. Won’t people figure out that we’re also queer and won’t that put us in danger?”
“It could, but we can’t just leave him to the wolves.”
“No, I think you’re right. So we need to make a plan.” We came up with one that would only leave Owen alone in the halls twice going from one class to another. Since his locker was quite near mine, I thought I might be able to cover those two times. Of course, we were not going to say anything to Owen about what we were doing.
Between school, music lessons, keeping a protective eye on Owen, and spending parts of the weekends together, we were very busy right up until Christmas. The school had a Christmas Concert. The various choral groups sang, and the school orchestra played. (Ouch!) There was also a special treat. True to his desire to play chamber music, Christian had found a violinist and a cellist, a boy and a girl. They had formed a trio, and the concert was their first public performance. They played the middle movement from Mozart’s piano trio K542 and did extremely well. I was sitting in the audience with both pairs of parents feeling very proud of him.
After that it was the usual, wonderful Christmas Eve candlelight service and then Christmas. We had prepared a terrific surprise for our parents that year. They didn’t know anything about it!