Date: Thu, 06 Dec 2001 22:13:44 -0500 From: Mustapha Mond Subject: Blues of Summer - Part 1 Blues of Summer - A Parody Mustapha Mond Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction involving love of a homosexual nature. Well, actually, it doesn't really have much in terms of love yet, and there sure isn't any sex or anything (at this point), but, who knows, it may some time. This is basically just me having fun, so enjoy. I) I'm not the sort who hangs out with a lot of girls. The whole "Fag Hag" notion strikes me as mildly comical, but never as a situation in which I could see myself. Since I can remember, my friends have always been guys, and most of the best memories of my life involve the boys I was hanging with at the time. Except for the fact that, around the age of eleven, I discovered a profound romantic interest in that same gender, I guess I'm pretty normal. I've always believed that non-conformity expressed externally is essentially self-defeating, so my clothes are cheap; three white t-shirts in a package for under ten bucks, good quality cargo pants, cheap sneakers, hair buzzed in the bathroom (same length all over, mind you). I've never felt like a truly unique individual, in the sense that no single thing about me taken by itself leaves one stunned, but my combination of habits and hobbies, not to mention bipartisan and often ambiguous political views, have been known to intrigue. Sorry for the segue. Self-characterization always leaves a lump in my throat, and as quick and blunt as I can make it, the better for my sense of narrative. As I was saying, I have always had mostly guy friends. (A note on epistemology: I use "guy" quite frequently, because "boy" seems to young and "man" seems much, much too old. How debasing - and ironically appropriate - that the craftsmen of our language held teens in such contempt that they couldn't even find a way to differentiate vocally between the two genders). At this particular point in time, summer, before junior year of high school, there are eight guys who I consider to be my "close friends;" and although Cliff is arguably my best friend, we've mutually decided to avoid that particular association. All my friends are equally valuable to me, and thanks largely to my presence, quite a few of them have in turn become friendly with each other. To augment mildly my earlier statement, perhaps I do have one notable feature: I am rather charismatic. I'm not manipulative, nor prideful, so I don't use my talents for evil (i.e. social climbing), and I get an honest pleasure from being nice to people I don't know. At parties, for instance, I mix well, have a lot of enjoyable conversations, make a shy someone feel a little more welcome, and all around have a good time. I don't really drink; it's not like I need to loosen up. I must be the happiest boy in the world then, huh? Try again. I know how banal the frustrations of a gay teenager in a mildly oppressive high school must sound these days, but dammit, they're still my feelings. It's not even the sexual frustration so much that gets to me - we have ways of dealing with that - but I just want someone to...how to put it best...share my life with? I need somebody to share my life with. In the words of a true American hero: I just want to be loved, is that so wrong? And a little nookie on the side wouldn't hurt. I am closeted, basically. Not to myself, and I think that weekend when I rented "A Beautiful Thing," "Get Real," and "Another Country" probably tipped my parents and brother off. I don't mind anyone knowing, really. Hell, if any of my friends just came up to me, anywhere, and just asked point blank: Dude, are you queer? I would be happy to use that as my boost. Unfortunately, waiting for those portentous signs gets me nowhere fast, and I guess I'm just not...quite...ready to work on my own initiative. But I feel something in the air. Something's coming up - every doorknob I touch zaps me. Hell, look at all this; my inner monologue is working overtime. "Derrick!" My mom calls. "Cliff is here." Oh. Shoot. Too much time spent thinking can get you nowhere. He's peering around my doorjamb even now, vaguely feline features, jet black hair. That smile tells me that something is cooking. "G'day," he says. Immediately, I know he's been doing nothing but watching the Animal Planet all day. Boy needs a job. "Howdy back at ya. Did I invite you over, or were you just strolling around, neighborhood and such, in the area and all that jazz?" He squints his eyes, sits down on the bed. The cat is even more distinct on his face. "You going daffy on me, homie? You called. There was definitely a call. And now, viola. Puff of smoke, so forth. Poof." "I remember now." "What have you been eating? Retard-o's? Paint chips? Small pretty shiny bags of glowy plutonium?" "That stuff's bad for you," I reply. "Heard it from the Surgeon General and everything. No, I remember. Just forgot for a sec. Must be all that stress." "Remember. Stress. What are you, a businessman? You would be a lifeguard, if you liked water." "It's my kryptonite. That, and all other standard forms of death." "Seriously, you ok?" He means it. Cliff is one of those wonderful people who has two modes, and can jump between them like at the flick of a switch. His eyes, green today, in this light, flecked with brown, curvy like a cat; they communicate such empathy that for a moment I feel my breath catch. His brow, furrowed, could have sheep grazing it betwixt grapes and olives. "I..." His head tilts at an odd angle, forty-five degrees or so, and if not for the bottomless concern etched across his features I would almost compare him to the parody of a quizzical owl. He should have glasses, I decide. "Listen, Derrick," he begins. "We're best friends, right? I know we don't go hyping it up, or wear matching bracelets, or exchange blood or anything, but that doesn't change the fact that you're the one I would want to share myself with, if I had something on my mind. Think of all we've been through. Remember the lake house? Me and you and Tad and Shark? Or that time with Dalton, and those crickets?" I can't believe it. Could Cliff...I mean, could he? I feel my eyes redden; they'll blur in a second. Two more steps and I'll have tears running down my face. His words hit me like nothing I can remember. "I just want to know you," he says. "And it's not just today, it's been as long as we've been friends. You've been hiding something back, I feel in my heart, and I just wish you would let it out.' "I" "Derrick! Cliff! You boys want food here?" Mother. "Sure ma," I say, but the words come out a croak. "Yes, Ms. Lumen," Cliff yells, his eyes beginning to sparkly again. The worn look on his face is replaced by the Cliff I know, cheerful, boyish, sharp catty teeth. "I don't know about your poor, melancholy son here, but I've sure worked up an appetite." "Dammit Cliff, it's Liza. None of this Ms. nonsense. And you know you're always eagerly awaited at my dinner table; at least you've never openly complained about my cooking." I shake my head, letting ten years' dust waft to the ground, and stand up. Only now do I realize Cliff has been holding my hand all along. I've got a few more chapters already written, which I'll be posting as I get to them. I really, really, really want feedback -- such a story is my first endeavor of its sort. Gimme suggestions, comments, flames, whatever, at XfragmentofanangelX@hotmail.com. Oh, and I'm a decent looking 19 year old Manhattanite...propositions are welcome as well.