Date: Thu, 27 Mar 2003 10:58:52 -0500 From: Tom Cup Subject: Of Our Teenaged Years - Chapter 1 - Gay Y/F (corrections) Copyright 2000, 2001, 2002 by the Paratwa Partnership: A Colorado Corporation. All rights reserved. No part of this work may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means electronic or mechanical, except in the case of reviews, without written permission from the Paratwa Partnership, Inc, 354 Plateau Drive, Florissant, CO 80816 This is a fictional story involving alternative sexual relationships. If this type of material offends you, please do not read any further. This material is intended for mature adult audiences. Names, characters, locations and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. ************************************************************************ Of Our Teenage Years By Tom Cup Chapter 1 Long Lost Friends When I was ten-years-old, a boy moved into my neighborhood that would become my very best friend. I didn't know what that meant at the time, or what affect my new neighbor would have on the rest of my life. All I knew -- as I sat on the stoop in front of my house, watching the moving van drive down the street, followed by the station wagon with the boy peering out of the rear window -- was that finally there would be someone for me to play with. I started down the street toward where the moving van stopped, moving cautiously, my eyes focused sometimes on my sauntering feet, and sometimes bashfully looking in the direction of my hope. I was emboldened when I saw the boy's mother pull him out of the car, wave and point into my direction. Sam was a bashful child, nearly as bashful as myself; so, it wasn't amazing that we became fast friends. It was the `70's and the world was a wonderful mix of reality and fantasy. The Beatles sang "Let It Be;" the Apollo 13 mission kept us glued to our television sets; Charles Manson became a household name; 8 tracks, black lights, lava lamps and Disco became the rage; and Sam and I played cowboys and Indians, astronauts, or Tarzan meets King Kong after school -- after chores and homework were done, we roamed the neighborhood on our bikes. We built a treehouse, with the help of Sam's Dad, in Sam's backyard. We rode the bus to school together, always sitting next to each other, and we were in the same class together. We created secret passwords, and made oaths to each other that we would be friends and blood brothers forever. Life is simpler when you're ten-years-old. The end of childhood comes unexpectedly; it's not heralded, and rarely noticed, but as an afterthought. One day Sam and I were the closest of friends -- arguing whether the Brady Bunch was cooler than the Partridge Family, the Mod Squad or Hawaii Five-O, Gunsmoke or Bonanza -- and the next we hardly saw each other. The world was speeding up; we hadn't noticed it, not really; we were simply swept along in the current, whether we liked it or not. The views and opinions of the world, and within families, changed quickly. Some families were quick to adjust to the rapid-fire information that was coming at them everyday, faster and faster, demanding that it be integrate immediately; some families were not. We were amazed by what was happening in the world around us; we could believe in a Six Million Dollar man and a Bionic Woman. Iit all made sense, and seemed to matter, until you viewed it as the past. The summer of our fifteenth year I rediscovered Sam. That summer Sam's parents divorced. It was a neighborhood event, because no one else in our neighborhood had divorced parents. I remember my parents discussing how sad it was, especially for Sam. Sam and I still acknowledged each other, we still said hello to one another when we passed in the halls at school, or when our separate groups of friends intermingled at some social event. But Sam was more or less a loner most of the time. Watching Rich Cunningham and the Fonz on Happy Days, for some reason, made me think of Sam, the loner whose parents were divorcing, and me: the member of a family that was intact and loving. I wanted to do something for my old friend; and maybe, I wanted to find out why we had drifted apart. I looked for Sam, hoping to catch him at the local hangouts, but no one had seen him during the first three weeks of summer. I guessed it was too embarrassing to join the crowd when everyone was talking about you and your family. No one wants to be asked the same questions over and over again. So I decided to go over to his house. "My, Gerald, it has been a long time," Mrs. Swanson said. "Yes ma'am. I was wondering if Sam was at home." "I think he's in the back." She answered, opening the door wider to allow me to enter. "Thank you." I took the old familiar path through the house, and out the kitchen back door. The lights in the old treehouse were on. I climbed the ladder and knocked on the latched door. I heard shuffling above me. I called out, "Sam, it's me Gerald. Can I come in?" "Hold on a minute." There was more shuffling, and finally, the latch slid and the door opened. I climbed in and found that the treehouse was in better condition than I remembered. Sam had cut the legs off the old sofa that once was in his family's living room and managed to get it inside the treehouse. He told me that he and his Dad had rebuilt portions of the treehouse the summer before. "I guess it was a way for Dad to stay out of the house," he said with a touch of remorseful reminisce, "At least we got to spend some time together before he left." I wanted to know what happened, when things went bad between his parents, but I didn't ask. We sat for most of the evening in silence, staring at the walls of the treehouse. I was thinking of all the great times we once had. I wasn't sure what Sam was thinking. I assumed he was thinking of his Dad. "You know what?" Sam said, breaking me from my reverie, "You were the best friend I ever had." "You too," I said, "How come we stopped hanging out?" "You remember. It was that summer Dad put me in baseball. We almost never saw each other, then ..." I did remember that summer. I found new friends. None were as close as Sam and I had been, but my new friends and I had hung out for most of the summer. We had memories to discuss in the fall, memories that Sam didn't share. Sam seemed despondent when he came back to school. Slowly he and I drifted apart. "Yeah," I said, "Sorry." "It's OK. You're here now." There was such sadness in his voice. I remembered times in the treehouse when I was sad, or upset with my parents, for one thing or another, and Sam would wrap his arms around me and hold me. He would whisper his comfort to me. I wanted to do the same for him. Had it been any other boy, I don't think I would have had the courage to slide next to him and put my arms around him, but with Sam I did. Sam immediately melted in my arms and began to cry. I tried to quiet him. I shushed him, and told him it was OK. I told him everything was going to be all right. "No it isn't," he said, "It's my fault." "What's your fault?" Sam sat up, wiped the tears from his eyes. "You want to know why my parents started fighting, why they got a divorce? I'll tell you. It's because of me." The summer that Sam played baseball he met another boy. He never told me his name; I never asked. They became friends. He stayed over at Sam's house and Sam stayed over at his. One night, while staying over at Sam's, while sleeping in the treehouse, they began playing with one another. It became a ritual with them whenever they stayed over the other's house. During one of their play sessions they forgot to lock the treehouse door. Sam's Dad caught them. "He wanted me to go to therapy. Mom said that there was nothing wrong with me -- that all boys experimented. They argued about it constantly. I would hear them at night when I was in bed. Dad tried to pretend it didn't bother him. He tried to spend time with me, and all, but I could tell that he didn't trust me." Sam told me the whole story staring down at his feet. He was too ashamed to look me in the eye. I was feeling confused. I thought that Sam stayed away from me because I had made new friends. He stayed away because his father found him with another boy, and he didn't want his Dad thinking he was doing the same things with me. "How come you did it?" I asked. Sam turned red, but looked me in the eyes. "Don't you get it? I'm queer. Thanks for coming Gerald." Sam thought that I would be disgusted that he liked guys. I wasn't. As I thought about it, I came to realize that I was the only one in my crowd that hadn't gone out with some girl or another. I didn't have the desire. I talked to my Mom about it once, briefly. She smiled, ruffled my hair, and told me that some boys develop slower than others. She said I didn't have to be in a rush. She said I'd know when I was ready. I put my hand on top of Sam's hand. "Do you want me to go?" I asked. His eyes watered as he shook his head. "Friends forever," I said, reminding him of our childhood oath. We lay back on the sofa and I held him. "Friends forever," Sam whispered. ***** Undressing in my room that night, I reflected on what Sam told me. Sam was queer. I didn't really know what that meant. I'd heard people called "homo," "cocksucker," "queerbait" or "fag" but those were terms used to describe people for whom no one cared. I cared for Sam. It didn't matter that we had drifted apart. He was still my friend. The derogatory terms that were used to describe homosexuality just didn't seem to fit Sam. Sam was kind and loving. Sam was handsome. Sam was cool. Sam... Sam... Sam liked boys. I stood staring at my face in the mirror. I found myself repeating the word "homo" over and over again: as though, if I said it enough, I would truly come to understand what the word meant. I wondered if Sam liked me; a cord of heated thrill twanged my inner being. I thought of how my eyes moved to the lips of my male friends as they spoke. I reflected on how my eyes watched their eyes as they gawked at some girl in our class. I pondered the warm smell and feel of Sam's body as he lay against me. I was as comforted by him as he was by me. I felt I was where I belonged when I held Sam. Just as when we were younger, and Sam held and comforted me. The night closed in on me and darkness invaded my senses. I remembered my conversation with Mom. I had suspected that something was wrong with me. How could I admit that I could be queer when I had seen what being queer was doing to Sam's family? Sam's Dad had left. He left because he didn't want to deal with a queer son. I would die if my Dad left because of me. I covered my face with my hands and cried. I cried for Sam. I cried for myself. I cried because I loved my Mom and Dad, and didn't want to hurt them. In my heart, I had known why my eyes focused on the lips and eyes of the boys around me. They were far lovelier to me than any girl. I gave myself to the weeping darkness, comforted only by the light of renewed friendship. I wasn't alone. Sam was queer too. ***** "Gerald? What are you doing?" Mrs. Swanson's voice startled me. I had been pacing in front of Sam's house since before sun up. I couldn't sleep. I had tossed and turned all night. I could think of nothing else but Sam. Writing the note that would make my parents proud of my eagerness to help my childhood friend, I paused before laying it on my bed. The note spoke only of my desire to comfort Sam, to be a friend to him, to show him that he was not alone. Was I deceiving my parents? Yes. I was. Mom said that telling a half-truth was the same as telling a lie. I didn't want to lie to my parents, but I couldn't tell them the truth. I didn't fully understand the truth. All I really understood was that I needed Sam, and he needed me. "Hi Mrs. Swanson. I was just waiting for Sam." "Gerald, how long have you been out here? Do you know what time it is?" I shrugged. There was really no need to answer. Mrs. Swanson was already motioning me into the house. She fussed over me saying that I would catch my death of cold in the cool morning air. I hadn't noticed that I was slightly chilled until she mentioned that I might die. She ushered me into the kitchen and made hot chocolate for me. Mrs. Swanson seemed anxious. I figured it was because she didn't want to talk about why her husband had left. We couldn't even talk about Sam. So our conversation kept close to my plans for the summer, and how the past school year went -- things you can talk about, and ask questions about, when you don't want to talk or hear the answers to the questions you ask. Finally I asked if I could go up to Sam's room and wait for him to wake up. Mrs. Swanson first gave her quick approval. She was as relieved as I was that we wouldn't have to continue making small talk. As I started up the stairs though, I heard her wrestling with herself: "No, wait... um... maybe.... um...." How could she explain why she didn't want me in Sam's bedroom? I had spent many nights in his room. I pretended not to hear and continued on. ***** Sam's sleeping habits had been a source of untold childhood giggles. No matter how a bed was made, Sam could find a way to end up with his covers crumpled on the floor. If it got cold at night, he would then climb in bed with me. I am a cocooner. I love being wrapped snuggly in blankets. So rather than picking his blankets up off the floor, and trying to rearrange them, Sam would climb in bed with me, stealing half my blankets as I grumbled and complained. I smiled at the remembrance, standing and staring at Sam's brief covered body sprawled across the bed with the bedding crumpled on the floor. I always fell into a deeper sleep on the nights that Sam slept with me. We would be a tangled mass of arms, legs, and blankets when we woke. I always asked, in a somewhat annoyed tone, why he couldn't keep his covers on his bed. He always shrugged, and we would fall into laughter over this idiosyncrasy. I found myself sitting on his bed, and running my hand over the smooth flesh of Sam's back before I knew what I was doing. Sam inhaled deeply and rolled over. He rubbed the sleep out of his eyes and looked, questioningly, at me. "Hi," I said. "Hi," Sam answered, and then realizing that he was almost naked reached for his blankets, "What are you doing here?" "I came to see you." "What time is it?" "I don't know." Sam wrapped the blanket around his midsection, leaving his chest bare. I wanted so much to touch him again. His eyes embraced me, and caused me to blush. He smiled, and I smiled back. "So what are you doing here?" he asked again. "I wanted to ask you something." "OK." "Well, we're friends right? I mean still, right?" "Yeah, sure." "I mean, like we used to be. Like you can tell me stuff, and I can tell you stuff, and nobody else will know." "What's going on Gerald?" "Do you like me?" "You're the only person I know I can call... `friend,'" Sam answered, looking away. "No, I mean do... you ...like... me?" "Look, just because I'm queer doesn't mean I have the hots for every guy I see. OK? I won't do anything to embarrass you." "Jesus Sam, can you just answer the question. Yes or no?" "Yes," Sam sighed, "You satisfied now?" It's strange how we can rehearse a moment over and over again in our minds, and when it occurs still be stunned to silence. When Sam admitted that he liked me, I was supposed to immediately confess what I had discovered about myself. Then we would hold each other, followed by a kiss. It was the kiss that excited me the most. I hadn't kissed anyone in an erotic manner. Sam would be my first. I was so overwhelmed by Sam's admission that I said nothing. Sam sighed deeply and got out of bed. I had waited too long. He was hurt. "Wait," I said. "Why?" Sam asked his back turned to me, "So you can tell me what an asshole I am for perving over the only friend I've had?" "No, so I can tell you what an asshole I am for perving over you." Sam turned slowly to look at me. I shrugged. Sam laughed. I smiled slyly, watching him. I didn't know what to do next. Sam came to me and hugged me; I held onto him, trembling, afraid that if I let go, I would collapse from the shear weight of my confession. Sam kissed me on the cheek. It wasn't the kiss that I had expected, or desired, but it had the same effect. I was made welcome by the lips of my long lost friend. I was whole again. ************************************************************************ Send comments to: comments@tomcup.com To support this and other writings by Tom Cup, become a member of http://www.tomcup.com Recent updates to TomCup.com: Blair Manor - Added 10/10 Stepbrother - Added 10/10 In Memory of Steve - Chapter 8 Added 10/06 David's Destiny - Chapter 8 Added 10/3 Lion of Bolognia - House Bolognia Chapter 8 Added 9/30 Worth a Shot - Added 9/27 Fair Tales Come True - Added 9/23 Coming soon to TomCup.com The writings of Dr. Chuk Private Lessons - Chapter 3 Of Our Teenaged Years - Chapter 4 Check out the complete list of stories, articles and commentaries at http://www.tomcup.com ************************************************************************