On the morning I turned twelve, I stood naked looking critically at myself in the full-length bathroom mirror. While I had begun to fill out some, I still thought I was scrawny. I was about average size for my age. I had floppy, dirty-blonde hair, blue eyes, and my smile seemed to charm my teachers. Girls thought my smile was cute and were smitten with me, but I had no interest in them. Sometimes I wondered why I got an erection when I looked at certain boys. When I masturbated at night or in the morning I often fantasized about one of them and doing it with him. The boy who’d been a fixture in my fantasies for some time, Dexter, was still a frequent participant in them. Although I’d known him as long as we’d been in school, we seldom talked with each other so I couldn’t really figure out why he seemed special.
Over that summer, I developed a new anxiety — my impending transition to middle school. I was a good student and knew that I’d probably be academically successful. What worried me was that in middle school boys changed clothes for gym and took showers afterwards. That meant I’d have to be naked in front of the other boys. Actually, I found myself looking forward to seeing naked boys much more than I would have seeing naked girls, but I was still a pretty private person when it came to other people seeing me.
Continuing to be puzzled about God, I tried to think through my problem. After all, God didn’t create people with clothes; He created them naked. So why, I wondered, is being naked wrong? I suppose I had internalized Mom’s not-so-subtle messages about keeping certain parts of myself private, but I wondered how in the world I could do that in a shower.
Something else happened over that summer. One day I was masturbating in my bed as usual. As my willy throbbed, a bit of liquid came shooting out. Looking down at it, I knew that it wasn’t pee, but I wasn’t sure what it was. I went back to Mom’s book, reading again the parts about masturbation and then ejaculation. Suddenly, like a flash of light, I realized what was going on. Oh my God! It’s really happening, I thought in amazement! I still wasn’t sure even then whether what was happening was a good thing or not, but the book seemed to say it was a part of growing up, so I decided it must be OK in spite of what Mom said. After that, I masturbated even more frequently because I loved the new feelings I was having.
In the fall, on the first day I had gym, I stood facing my locker, scooting as close to it as I could while I undressed and donned my gym clothes. Mom had bought me something called an “athletic supporter,” which the kids referred to as a “jock strap.” At first I wasn’t sure what it was supposed to do, but looking carefully around, I saw how other boys put theirs on and I did the same.
After gym came the dreaded shower. I carefully removed all my clothes and covered myself with my towel. I went to the showers before realizing I couldn’t go into the water with my towel wrapped around me. So I went back and put the towel in my locker, returning to the shower with my hands cupped strategically in front of my crotch.
Seeing me, one of the other boys called out, “Look at this! Gayle thinks he’s got something to hide.” Another called, “Hey, Girlie, the girls’ showers are on the other side of the gym.” The other boys all laughed as I blushed furiously, my face hot with embarrassment. Moving to an empty shower I stood facing the wall and as close to it as I could get. The result was that I succeeded in getting my back wet but not much of my front. Nevertheless, after a few moments under the shower, I again cupped my hands strategically and hastened back to my locker, quickly drying myself and putting on my underwear before most of the other boys emerged from the showers.
Thinking about it later, I realized that the other boys didn’t hide themselves. They felt perfectly comfortable walking around with their cocks flapping or, occasionally, sticking straight out. Why don’t they worry about being naked, I wondered. Why aren’t they embarrassed? I sure would be. Do their mothers have different views about nakedness? Don’t they know about God? But I had no way to get answers to my questions. I certainly couldn’t ask the other boys at school. I would be mortally embarrassed to ask Mom such things and Dad would probably just snarl at me. By this point in my life, Mom had made me just too private and anxious to talk with anybody, even Adam.
For the next two weeks I remained confused, hiding myself as much as possible in the showers while the other boys laughed at me and I burned with shame and embarrassment.
One day, Dexter, who had the locker next to me, asked me point blank why I hid myself. Growing very red I said, “Well, Mom and God think nakedness is bad and shameful so I’m really embarrassed by it.”
“Jesus!” exclaimed Dexter. “What century is your mother from? You don’t need to be embarrassed. We all have cocks and balls, after all. As for God, that’s how he made us, so why be embarrassed? Sure, we shouldn’t be showing them around in public or to girls or anything, but when it’s all boys being naked is fine and really,” he added with an impish smile, “it’s kind of fun!”
Ignoring the comment about the century Mom was from I asked, “How do you know it’s fine?”
“Well,” said Dexter, “I’ve been to overnight camp the last two summers, and we were always naked when we dressed or undressed or when we were in the showers. Nobody thought anything of it.”
I thought a lot about what Dexter had said. He was, after all, nearly ten months older than me. I was one of the youngest in the grade while he was one of the oldest. Finally, I decided I had to try going naked after the next gym class. After all, I really didn’t like all the boys laughing at me, and it was true that they seemed to be comfortable with their nakedness.
The next day, steeling myself for the ordeal, I timidly walked into the showers. One of the boys called out, “Look, Gayle’s not hiding anymore and he’s not a girl after all!” and all the boys cheered.
By the next week I was facing out in the showers, hiding nothing, and I was much happier. I remembered how I had wondered about other boys’ willies when I was little. Now I could see for myself. Looking around the room I was intrigued by the differences and similarities in the other boys’ equipment. Some willies were quite small; others were considerably larger. Some were circumcised, although at the time I didn’t know what that meant; others were not. Some were erect; some were not. Some boys like me had the beginnings of hair in their crotches; others did not. But what I also began to realize was that the more I looked the more excited I became and the faster and harder my own willy grew. I took some good-natured ribbing about this, but since other boys were in the same state, I wasn’t overly embarrassed. However, I continued to be anxious about why I got erections when I was thinking of boys but never of girls. As always, I had no idea.
Dad had wanted me to join a football team. I had shuddered at the thought. I hated the idea of all that hitting and tackling and the smell of dirty, sweaty boys.
So I had refused and Dad had grown very angry, calling me a wimp and a pansy. When he had raised his hand to strike me I had cringed in fear, but then he had thought better of it and had just walked away shaking his head.
A few days later, when I was in the boys’ restroom, I heard two boys discussing “jerking off.” One asked the other how long he had been doing it but I couldn’t hear the reply. Then the first boy said he bet the other did it five times a day, which the second boy hotly denied.
Later, walking with Dexter, I asked him, “What does ‘jerking off’ mean?”
Dexter looked at me in disbelief. “You really don’t know?”
“No.”
“Well, do you know what ‘masturbating’ means?”
Thanks to Mom’s book I was able to nod.
“OK. Well, jerking off is just a slang term for masturbating.”
Taking a deep breath, I cautiously asked, fearing the answer, “Does everybody do it?”
“I’m pretty sure that every living male does it. For all I know, the angels do it too.” We both giggled, imagining angels flying around heaven with their robes pulled up and jerking off, and I felt much better knowing I wasn’t the only one who did it.
Another time, when I was in the locker room getting dressed after gym, I overheard two boys carrying on a friendly argument. One of the boys finally said, “Well, fuck you!”
“Want to try it?” asked the other.
“Not really. You’re not my type,” the first boy responded.
In the halls with Dexter afterwards, I asked, “Dexter, what does ‘fuck’ mean?”
Dexter, looking startled, turned to be sure that nobody else had heard the word. “You really shouldn’t be saying that kind of thing in the hallways,” he said. “Meet me after school by the bicycle shed and I’ll tell you.”
When we met at the bike shed, Dexter asked, “You really don’t know what ‘fuck’ means?”
“No,” I replied. “I’ve seen it written on restroom walls and I’ve heard people say it but I don’t know what it means.”
“OK, here goes. ‘Fuck’ means to have intercourse with somebody. It means to stick your dick into somebody else until you come.”
“Oh…What does ‘come’ mean?”
“Shit. You really don’t know anything. ‘Come’ means when your dick throbs and liquid shoots out. You do know about that, don’t you?”
“Yes,” I answered, blushing hotly. After a pause I said, “I’m sorry I’m so stupid, Dexter. You know, I don’t spend much time with other boys outside of school and even though I have two older brothers we never talk about things like this. I think a whole part of my education’s been neglected. Like, how can two boys fuck? Where do they stick their willies?”
“Up each other’s ass.”
“Oh.” I thought a moment. “Doesn’t that hurt?”
“I don’t know. I’ve never done it, and I don’t plan to any time soon. Look, I think I need to tell you something. There are certain words, ‘fuck’ being one of them, that you don’t say when you’re out in public. Words like, ‘jerk off,’ ‘cock,’ ‘dick,’ ‘shit,’ and any others that deal with body stuff and sex.”
“But why? If they’re real words, what’s wrong with them?”
“I guess most words you can say anywhere, but there are a few like those that are kind of private and only get used among boys you know well. Never with a girl or a parent. If you used them in the wrong place, people would think you were filthy-minded. They’d be shocked.”
“I’m not sure I’ll ever get this all straight,” I admitted ruefully, “but thanks for being willing to help me.”
“Isn’t that what friends are for?”
“Are we friends?” I asked, surprised.
“Aren’t we?”
“I don’t know. I don’t think I’ve ever had a real friend before. Could we maybe get together after school sometime?”
“Sure. What about tomorrow?”
“I’ll have to ask Mom.”
Taking out a piece of paper, Dexter wrote his name and phone number on it and suggested that I have my mom call his mom to be sure it was OK.
As I biked home that afternoon, happier than I had been in a long time, I eagerly anticipated the next afternoon.
Having received Mom’s permission, I met Dexter as planned after school the following day and we rode our bikes to Dexter’s house, which was only a few blocks from mine. In the kitchen, we fixed ourselves a snack of milk and cookies and went into the living room. The living room was two stories high. At the second story, a balcony with entrances to the bedrooms ran around three sides of the room.
Looking at Dexter as we ate, I remembered that, when he was little, he had long, flowing golden curls which his mother had refused to cut. Mom had not approved. She believed that Dexter’s mother would turn her son into a sissy. It wasn’t until Dexter was in fourth grade that his mother finally allowed the curls to be cut. Now, his blonde hair was wavy, with a lock falling over one eye. It came to the top of his collar in the back and over his ears on the sides. He was taller than me and a bit more filled out. His haunting green eyes shone out of his fair complexion which was much darker when he had been in Florida, as he was for a time every winter.
As we were sitting and chatting, an orange cat suddenly flew through the air and landed in my lap, startling me and upsetting my plate of cookies. The cat looked at me, yelled, and raced out of the room.
Surprised, I asked, “Where did that come from?”
Dexter laughed. “That’s Tucker,” he said. “Tucker likes to race up the stairs and launch himself off the balcony. We think he’s trying to catch the ceiling fan.”
“Doesn’t he ever hurt himself?”
“Nope. Cats are built so they can land softly, without hurting themselves.”
We sat in silence for a few moments before I got up the courage to ask, “Dexter, do you know what a faggot is?”
“Sure. ‘Faggot’ is a slang term for a homosexual.”
“Oh…So what’s a homosexual?”
“A guy who’s attracted to other guys instead of girls.”
Oh, God. Is that what I am? Am I really a faggot? I wondered, going cold. Then, hesitantly, I asked, “What about a queer or a fairy or a pansy?”
“All names for the same thing,” Dexter responded. “They’re all terms for a gay guy —a homosexual. Where did you hear them?”
“My brother’s friends call me those names, and I remember once Dad called a figure skater a faggot. He calls me a pansy sometimes, and last night when I said I was going to spend the afternoon with you, he asked, ‘Why do you want to spend time with a fairy?’ Dexter, are you a fairy?”
Dexter paled noticeably. “Whoa! You’re asking more than I want to talk about. What makes your dad think I am?”
“I don’t know,” I answered, “but I’m beginning to think I might be one. I’ve never had any interest in girls, but I find that boys, especially naked ones, really get my willy excited.”
“Oh, boy,” said Dexter. “I don’t quite know what to do with that information. You shouldn’t be telling people that, you know. Even though a lot of people accept homosexuals now, admitting to being one can be dangerous. Sometimes men get beaten up or even killed because people think they’re gay.”
A shudder ran through my body. I never thought I could actually be in danger. “So what should I do?” I asked fearfully.
“Well, you certainly shouldn’t go around telling people you’re a queer. You never know who you can trust and who you can’t.”
“But I can trust you, can’t I?”
“I suppose so, but I’m not sure I want to be known as the friend of a queer.”
Thinking I might already be losing my friend, I felt suddenly very sad. Dexter must have noticed, because he continued, “Look, as long as people don’t know you’re gay, I have no problem with it.”
“But what do I do that makes my brother’s friends think I’m gay?”
“I’ve no idea.”
At that point, Dexter’s mother entered the room and the discussion immediately shifted gears into talking about school, our families, and what we liked to do outside of school. We discovered that we both enjoyed reading and learning about history.
I continued to worry about disappointing Mom and about arousing Dad’s anger, for I was sure that what I was thinking about was unnatural and immoral. On the other hand, I feared God less now, because I had decided that, whatever I was, God must have made me that way, so how could He disapprove? While I was still afraid of Donald, I was less fearful of Donald’s friends whom I rarely saw anymore now that they were in high school.
Mom had arranged for me to take figure skating lessons. This meant I had to get up early in the morning in order to practice before school. I also practiced for two hours after school, so I was seldom able to spend time with Dexter except on the weekends.
One Saturday when I arrived home after visiting Dexter, I heard my father yelling in the living room. Sneaking into the hall I listened, wondering what he was so angry about.
“Figure skating! Why the hell did you sign him up for figure skating of all things? He needs a sport that will toughen him up, not one that’s for queers!”
“But Walter, it’s what he likes to do. Why can’t he do one thing he likes to do?”
“Because you’re spending my hard earned money to turn him into a fairy, that’s why!” Dad yelled, at which point Mom burst into tears and fled from the room, passing right by me without seeing me.
I was furious with my father. As far as I was concerned, it was just another case of him being a bully. Part of me wanted to walk into the living room and tell him off, but another part of me was truly afraid of him. In the end, I dealt with it the way I usually dealt with conflict. I quietly made my way to my bedroom, closed the door, and fell on my bed.
As the weeks passed, even as it was growing stronger, I realized that there was a problem with my friendship with Dexter. Every year, Dexter and his parents left Massachusetts at Thanksgiving time to spend the winter in Fort Lauderdale, Florida, not returning until Easter. I was not looking forward at all to the upcoming Thanksgiving.
Dexter and I had taken over the loft above Dexter’s garage and turned it into a hideout. We had outfitted it with an old daybed, a couple of discarded easy chairs, a bookshelf, and an ancient stained rug. Of course, at that time we never did anything up there that we couldn’t have done just as well someplace else, but we enjoyed having a place that was exclusively ours.
I had told Dexter about my love of steam trains, so we decided that when Dexter returned from Florida we would turn part of the loft into a model railroad.
The day before Dexter left for Florida, we were in the loft looking at and discussing some of my model railroad magazines. When it came time for me to leave, I went over to Dexter, took both his hands, kissed him gently on the cheek, and, with tears in my eyes, said, “Goodbye, Dexter. I’ll miss you.”
Shocked by the kiss, Dexter felt his cheek as though he thought there might be some sort of mark there which would tell the world what had happened. Looking at me, he said, “I’ll miss you, too, but don’t ever do that again!”
Weeping and embarrassed, I went down the ladder into the garage and slowly made my way home. I was totally confused. A kiss is a sign of caring and I do care about Dexter, I thought. So why didn’t Dexter like it? Besides, it felt good to kiss him. What does that mean? Does it mean I’m really gay? Or does it just mean that kissing anybody feels good? I continued to fret about these questions for many days.
Throughout the winter, I once more turned inward, feeling lonely and sad except when I was figure skating or planning the model railroad, both activities I truly enjoyed. I emailed Dexter frequently, but was careful not to say anything about the kiss. My emails simply conveyed ideas for the model railroad as well as news of the school and our classmates. Emails back from Dexter were equally impersonal.
At Christmas I enjoyed the special church service because I loved to sing and the congregation sang lots of carols. When Dad wasn’t around, I watched figure skating on TV and then tried to imitate what I saw the skaters doing.
Although I’d come to terms with being naked in the showers, gym classes were slow torture. I did, in fact, throw like a girl and couldn’t seem to learn to throw like a boy despite kindly attempts by several boys to teach me. In addition, I didn’t like competitive games, especially ones where people ran into each other, either accidentally or intentionally. As a result, I was the butt of a good deal of teasing, and, even though I knew it was meant in good fun, it hurt. Despite the gym classes and my retreat into myself, somehow I managed to struggle through the winter.
By March I had devised a complete plan for the track layout and had emailed it to Dexter, who emailed back saying that he liked it and was looking forward to working on it.
In early April, before Dexter returned, I emailed him that I really missed him and couldn’t wait for him to be home. The return email was noncommittal, Dexter saying only that he would see me at Easter. I still didn’t know just how Dexter felt about me since the kiss. Despondent, I feared that Dexter might leave me for other friends. I desperately needed somebody my own age in whom I could confide and whom I could love, no matter how secretly.