In the third week of April, Dexter returned once again. I raced to his house and hugged him hard, telling him again how much I missed him before we enjoyed a long, slow kiss.
Dexter replied, “I’ve missed you too. A lot…Gayle, do you remember me telling you about my friend in Florida?”
I nodded, fearful of what was coming.
“Well, we broke up.”
I nodded again and silently heaved a huge sigh of relief.
“My friend decided that he wasn’t gay after all. I was really sad at first, but then I figured it was better to find out now than two or three years down the road.”
I was ecstatic and my heart was racing excitedly. Cautiously I asked, “What about you? Do you still think you’re gay?”
“Oh, I’m sure of it. I spent a lot of time thinking and dreaming about you during the winter, and I really want to pick up where we left off in November.”
With that, we went to our loft and happily traded slow, passionate oral sex. When we finished, we talked about our winter and then about the books we had read while Dexter was away.
Finally Dexter asked, “Do you remember my email saying that a lot had happened?” I nodded. “Well, breaking up was part of it. The other part was that my parents spent all winter fighting with each other. I got very mad sometimes. Other times I felt really sad and I cried a lot. Now I don’t feel as if I can talk with either one of them about things that matter to me.”
“Do you mean like being gay?”
Dexter nodded sadly. “I really need you right now, Gayle,” he said and tears flooded his eyes. I comforted him as best I could, assuring him that I was there for him any time. I realized that this was a new role for me, one where maybe I would sometimes have to be the leader.
At the end of the afternoon I returned home, contented but also worried about Dexter.
The following day, I took the model buildings to the loft where we set them in place while discussing landscaping and further models we would build. We wanted at least one, probably two more engines, more cars, and a bridge which would mean grading some of the track.
Adam, who was a couple of grades ahead of his class, graduated from college in June and all my family traveled to Maine for the graduation. He was going to work as an intern in a large Boston law firm over the summer before he started at Harvard Law in the fall. Donald, meanwhile, would be starting his freshman year at a college in Connecticut in September.
Throughout the summer, Dexter and I continued to enjoy exploring each others’ bodies and minds. We talked often about Dexter’s parents and how he was coping. We also talked about my parents. We concluded that our two fathers were very much alike, although Dexter’s mother seemed able to stand up to his father whereas my mother couldn’t. At one point Dexter said that he wished he could live with his aunt in Fort Lauderdale. That scared me because I thought that if that happened I might never see him again. It was a new fear, added to my old ones, and it didn’t go away for a long time.
My fourteenth birthday came that summer and once again we had a lunch celebration with Mom, my brothers, and Dexter. Because my birthday was on a Saturday, Adam was able to be home, while Dad was doing some extra work at his office. That year Donald gave me a hunting knife, while I received books from Mom and Adam. When I opened my package from Dexter, I couldn’t believe what I saw! In it was an entire figure skating costume modeled on a tuxedo, black but with silver at the neck and cuffs and glitter all over. I loved it! Adam admired it openly and Donald snorted and looked askance. Mom said to Dexter that he shouldn’t have spent so much money.
Dexter explained to her, “I really wanted to do this for Gayle and I saved the money for it all year.”
Again we raced up the stairs to my bedroom where I stripped down to my undershorts and put the costume on. It fit perfectly. I gave Dexter a joyous kiss which he returned before we went back downstairs.
We were all still sitting in the dining room talking when Dad came home. He took one look at me and yelled, “Where in hell did you get that stupid costume?”
“Dexter gave it to me.”
“Well take it off and don’t let me ever see you in it again!”
“You won’t, I promise!” I retorted angrily. “At least he gave me a birthday present, which is more than I can say for you!” I stormed out of the room and upstairs, where I changed into my street clothes, leaving poor Dexter to sit uncomfortably in the dining room.
When I returned we fled the house and biked to Dexter’s house. I said sorrowfully, “I’m so sorry that happened. My dad’s a total fuckwad!”
Dexter laughed but comforted me saying, “Don’t be sorry. I really understand. Remember, my dad’s an idiot too!” We looked at each other and burst out laughing.
That summer, we often went swimming at a local pool. Sometimes we compared notes on the other boys at the pool, most of whom we knew from school. While we rated a few of the boys highly, we agreed that none of them could compete with the two of us.
Meanwhile, in the loft we discovered sixty-nining and engaged in it often and ecstatically. We talked about trying what we called “butt sex,” but neither of us knew enough about it to proceed.
In early August, we were naked on the day bed in the loft and happily enjoying each others’ bodies when we suddenly heard footsteps on the stairs. We had forgotten to worry about being caught because nobody had ever come up to the loft in the past. Before we could react, Dexter’s father appeared. A shock of fear ran through me. We both leaped up off the bed with bright red faces and turned toward him, hands cupped in front of our hard erections. Cold chills raced up my spine as I looked at his father’s angry face.
“What the hell is going on!” roared Dexter’s father. “Are you two really having sex with each other?” Hanging our heads we nodded yes. “I can’t believe it. Dexter, you should be ashamed of yourself. I’ll deal with you later. And you,” he turned to me, “get out of here right now and never, ever come back! Do you understand me?”
“Yes, sir,” I nodded miserably. I was in such haste to put my clothes on I had trouble getting my feet into the legs of my shorts. Finally dressed, I raced down the stairs, tears coursing down my face. I was totally panicked. Where could I go? What should I do? I was very reluctant to go home, because I was sure Dexter’s father would call my parents. At last I stopped in a park to try to figure out what to do.
Although it was a beautiful day, cloudless and comfortably warm, I barely noticed. I sat for a long time on a bench in the sun, fear and shame nearly overwhelming me. I knew there would be terrible trouble when I got home, and I thought about not going home at all.
Reaching down, I felt the knife Donald had given me and thought about killing myself right there and then. I took the knife out of the sheath on my belt and looked at it carefully, feeling the blade, which was very sharp. As silent tears streamed down my face, I wondered whether I should slit my wrists or cut my throat.
This’ll teach them! I thought as I tentatively held the blade to my neck. But then I pulled it back. I sat for a few minutes thinking. At first I had thought that if I killed myself it would be revenge on Dad and Dexter’s father and maybe even on Donald. But now I realized that if I did that, the fathers and Donald would have won and they wouldn’t care whether I was alive or dead. I’m damned if I’m going to let that happen, I thought angrily! Finally, as it began to grow dark, I sheathed my knife and decided that my first step had to be to go home and face the music.
When I entered our house I encountered Donald, who chortled gleefully, “Man, are you in deep shit!”
“Fuck you!” I replied angrily.
I was trembling when I went into the living room, where my parents were arguing. Seeing me, my father stood up, walked over to me, and slapped my face hard. I went suddenly cold with anger. “You bastard!” I said angrily under my breath.
“Oh, Walter,” Mom cried. “Is that necessary?”
My father looked at Mom and said, “Shut up. I’ll deal with this.” Turning to me he slapped me again and demanded, “Well, I’m waiting for some sort of reasonable explanation.” I stood silent, barely controlling the rage welling up inside me. “Were you having sex with Dexter?” I nodded. “What kind of a faggot have I raised?” my father asked.
Suddenly something inside me snapped. All the anger and the fear and the humiliation of the past fourteen years burst out of me. Looking at my father, I yelled furiously, “That’s your favorite word isn’t it? You call skaters faggots and now you call me one. You need to increase your vocabulary, you fucking, overgrown bully. Yes, I’m a faggot; I’m gay; I’m a homo; I’m a pansy; I’m a queer; I’m a fairy; I’m a pervert! So what are you going to do about it?” As I spoke my voice grew increasingly loud and high until I was screaming.
Stunned, my father stared back at me. Then he said, slowly and very quietly, “You have fifteen minutes to pack a bag and get out of this house. I will not have a queer in my house.”
“Walter,” Mom interposed, “you can’t do that!”
“I told you to shut up. Don’t interfere. I can do what I want. And what I want is to throw this filth out and never see him again.”
“Where do you want me to go?” I asked, suddenly afraid.
“I don’t give a shit where you go. Just don’t ever come back.”
I turned and went up to my room to pack, passing Donald, who said, “Fuck. I never imagined he’d do that!”
While confronting my father, I had refused to cry. But now, once again, tears poured from my eyes. I went into my room, took out a duffle bag and filled it with spare clothes, a jacket, a blanket, and my toothpaste and toothbrush, checking to be sure that my hunting knife was still on my belt. I looked at the skating shirts and costume Dexter had given me, knowing I would never wear them again. Then I sighed disconsolately, checked to be sure I had my wallet although I knew it only contained seven dollars and my Social Security card, and zipped the bag closed. As I left my room, I met Adam, who handed me some money, saying, “Here. It’s not much but it’s all I have.” Then he reached out and hugged me. “Where will you go?”
“I really don’t have any idea. Dexter’s the only friend I have and I sure can’t go there. I guess I’ll just have to wander for awhile until I figure something out.”
“Please, please, let me know where you are and what you’re doing.”
I nodded and ran down the stairs. I heard Mom call to me but I hurried out of the house without another word.
At the end of our street, I sighed deeply and headed toward the bus that would take me into town. All night I wandered the city streets, trying to keep out of sight. Twice I quickly ducked into doorways when I saw police cars approaching. I knew I was not in the safest part of town but I kept walking. I passed a noisy bar where men were hanging around outside, drinking and smoking.
“Hey, cutie, want to have some fun?” one asked. I hurried past without answering as the men laughed and called after me.
I decided, eventually, that I had to leave town. I didn’t want to run into anybody I knew, and, if my father ever changed his mind, I didn’t want to be dragged back home. I had left forever. I was on my own now, and I knew I had to grow up fast and figure out for myself how to survive.
I walked to the bus station. Not wanting to raise suspicions by trying to buy a single one-way ticket at my age, I looked around for somebody to buy one for me. Seeing a man entering the station, I asked him where he was headed.
“Grantham, New York. Why?”
Figuring that nobody would ever look for me there, I held out some money and asked him to buy me a one-way ticket to Grantham.
He looked at me suspiciously. “How old are you?” he asked.
“Sixteen,” I lied. “I’m going to stay with my uncle.”
Still suspicious, he asked, “Are you running away?”
“No,” I answered, which was, strictly speaking the truth. I wasn’t running away; I had been thrown out.
The man looked at me uncertainly for a moment before finally agreeing and taking the money.
I was appalled at the price of the ticket, which took a little more than half of what Adam had given me. Although I hated to spend more money, I hadn’t eaten since the morning of the day before, so I bought a sandwich and an orange juice at the refreshment stand in the terminal and then tucked the remainder of my money into my sock.
When our bus was announced, I boarded with the man who had bought my ticket and went to the very back of the bus, which wasn’t full. The man sat across the aisle from me and tried to engage in conversation but I said little in reply. I suppose the man could see that I was very upset, so he shrugged his shoulders and said no more.
As I rode, the reality of what I had done slowly overcame me. I was alone, homeless, friendless, and nearly broke. Where can I go? How can I earn money for food? I came to no conclusions.
When we arrived at the station in Grantham the man asked if I needed help. I nearly said yes, but couldn’t decide to trust him, so I shook my head, thanked him for his help and went into the restroom for much needed relief. Breathing through my mouth so I wouldn’t smell the stale urine and shit, I sat in a stall looking around at the graffiti and wondering if the crude pictures and words were the same all over the world. When I left the stall and went to wash my hands, a man at the next sink looked me up and down carefully, making me very uncomfortable.
“Hey, beautiful, do you do blow jobs?” the man asked, raising his eyebrows.
“No!” I blurted, racing out of the rest room and the station before finally slowing to a walk.
Grantham is a small city in western New York State, on the banks of Lake Erie. I found myself in a seedy, run-down part of town. There were dingy shops along the streets and a church or two. All the people on the street seemed to be wearing old, often dirty and torn clothes. I wondered if there was a homeless shelter around. I had heard of shelters but had never actually seen one.
As I passed a church I noticed a sign that advertised a soup kitchen in the basement where I might get a free supper, so I loitered around the church until the doors opened. A line had formed, and I was amazed to see how many people including a few teens were there waiting for food. I watched the teens, wondering why they were homeless and where they slept. When my turn came I was given a Styrofoam bowl of soup, two pieces of bread, and a cardboard cup of coffee. Seated at one of the tables I ate slowly, trying to make the meager meal last.
Sitting next to me was an older man who smelled as though he hadn’t showered for months. He was missing a number of front teeth, and, as he ate, he talked to himself. Finally, he turned to me, asking, “You homeless?”
I nodded.
“Got any place to spend the night?”
I shook my head.
“Don’t say much, do ya?”
I shook my head again but smiled a little.
“Well, down the street there’s a buildin’ called ‘Pete’s Place.’ It’s a shelter and it ain’t too busy this time o’ year. Ya could find a bed there. If they ask ya, just lie about yer age.”
I thanked the man, took my tray to the drop-off area, and went out on the street. I spent an hour sitting on a bench in a park across from Pete’s Place feeling sad and very worried. Finally I told myself I had to stop feeling sorry for myself. What was done was done. I just had to move forward. After all, I reasoned, I wasn’t the only homeless person or even the only homeless teen in Grantham. I just had to find out how the others survived.
When Pete’s Place opened at 8:00, I once again stood in line, finally being assigned a cot and an old, smelly blanket.
Having been awake for over thirty-six hours I was exhausted, so I climbed into bed and tried to sleep, only to discover that there were bugs making a meal of me. Getting up, I asked the man in charge what I could do about the bugs. “Nothing,” was the reply, so I went back and again became the feast.
I felt as though I tossed and turned all night, my stomach growling and the bugs biting, but I must have eventually slept, because I was awakened by a bell in the morning.