Date: Thu, 4 Jun 2020 20:34:00 -0400 From: MC VT Subject: The War We Won Gay-High School The War We Won ©MCVT2017 May 11, 2020 Tale of the 60s, tale of honey, love and victory. Love your Nifty: http://donate.nifty.org/donate.html Adult Content: 100% fiction, gay, tt, coming of age, first, hist, rom, change. ===================================================================== "For some reason the sea was smooth as glass, quite unusual. I recall the water there was very, very clear when the surface was that smooth. You could see down through it quite a way. Now picture this--you suddenly have to enter autorotation...." ... Not enough, have to, can't. By and by... Poverty's lexicon, the language of my childhood except for one word: Honey. Honey was a luxury, seldom tasted in families with seven children in the deep and deeply religious South during the 1960s. We had cane syrup from tins, a familiar sweetener consumed among staunch defenders of conservative values. Couldn't be seen acting high and mighty among the other fundamentalists church members of our area--so, no honey. Stark changes lurked around cane syrup tins and long-held traditions; leaders had no time to readjust rights or address inequality in their staid lives and no amount of sweetener could soften their rigidity. Issues of racial integration were at the fore; Southerners dumped the issue in the schools. Children couldn't do anything about it. Easier to beat a kid at home than jail adults when things got out of line, right? Southerners' conventions caused incalculable losses which I couldn't begin to fathom until I was able to afford honey for myself. ... Being the middle child in a mess o' kids, I held an invisible place, only called to watch my younger sisters, put them to bed--otherwise ignored. Being in the middle placed me in a subservient position to my older brothers. I accepted that position invisibly as well, else I'd be put back in my place by their fists. Brothers souped-up cars in a garage behind the house. The leaky old shack leaned to the side; partial concrete floor, cracked and stained. Got the old `48 Ford running, traded it for a `55 Chevy then moved into a classy '57 Chevy--candy apple red. Major sport was drag racing on the streets. I stayed in the shadows of the garage while brothers talked carburetors and white walls with their crew of equally greasy, smelly friends. They were a scruffy collection of bonhommies who sneaked my brothers booze and Luckies. Among them was a guy, about sixteen, Steve. Short, wiry, quiet, Steve was the ace mechanic of the gang. Between stealing and dealing, they rebuilt and repaired the symbols of their manhood -- their "wheels." Most of the guys had girlfriends, and were always shootin' the shit about girls while they cleaned parts, sanded putty. Hanging out with them seemed like the right thing to do in the man's world I was readying to enter. Steve drove a pristine `59 El Camino. Sometimes he'd take me with him when he'd go on a part run. "The kid's gotta learn how to deal with Peddigroos." Local parts store was notorious for selling the wrong parts. Instead of the auto shop, one afternoon, we drove beyond the city limit. He turned off alongside a bayou, pulled the emergency brake and looked over at me. "You're kinda cute." Didn't know what to say. He stared at me, flicked my earlobe. I looked away, skin burning scarlet. ... "For some reason the sea was smooth as glass, quite unusual. I recall the water there was very, very clear when the surface was that smooth. You could see down through it at least a hundred feet." ... My family lived in cheap-rent areas, noisy places, beside a highway, always on the outskirts of town. Often had to deal with local wildlife which tumped over trash cans in the alley. As I went to toss the trash, I saw rustling in the chickweed and stopped, waited. Cottonmouth came to dine on mice. I was fourteen, snakes were nothing new to me. Pulling an empty can away from the row, rolled it slowly and turned it upside-down on the snake, yelled for my brothers to bring the shovel. Brothers had to make a big deal out of killing the snake. It was steaming-hot out and four of the guys all gathered `round laying their plan into action. From under the shade of a mulberry nearby, I watched. Steve came and stood beside me. "Found yourself a snake, honey?" Almost couldn't hear him he spoke so softly. "Don't call me that." Was he saying I'm sissy? He grinned, glancing from the side of his eyes at me. "Why you callin' me honey?" "Just curious to see what you'd say." He turned away from the group, still beside me, "Got a boyfriend?" Fingers with grimy fingernails touched my hand, his eyes caught mine, then he walked away. I stopped breathing for a few moments. ... That night, I lay in bed considering that "honey" business. Steve wasn't being rough or teasing me, but asking about a boyfriend. Was he asking me to be his boyfriend? Did I want him for a boyfriend? Uneasy topics to consider. The more I thought about it, the surer I was Steve answered a lot more questions than he asked. Questions that didn't have words; questions that made clear all the unspoken, avoided matters inside me. Matters so evil, so dark they were never mentioned by god-fearing, righteous folk. Those very matters had lived in me since I was small; figured it was my "original sin" in some way. Now, my fall from grace, sure damnation. Sodomite? Sodom and Gomorrah were blasted away due to their evil. Yet the thought of a boyfriend intrigued me, stirred my blurry feelings. A man with a boyfriend was abnormal, guaranteed hell-bound, and my urges were now bolder for being named. I'd ignore it. Hide it. I had to. A dead fag wasn't of any concern. Watched Steve around my brothers, how he faked his way around the loud rednecks and Feron Young wanna-bees. Chuckled at pussy jokes, tit and ass comments, made stupid gestures and wolf whistles like they did. Started copying him; learned how to "pass." Smart the ways he did that and my conscience tore my guts to pieces every time I did it. My urges put them back together quickly. ... "I watched them take off to the north, turn out over the water and head south along the beach. They leveled off at about 800' and seemed to be in the standard move." ... When a bottle of rum showed up in the garage, Steve and I left to get cola. He'd run a bluff with my brothers to get some time with me. Sneaking in the alleyways, through the woods we found secluded places to hide while we kissed. Sweaty, salted kisses the way men kissed women at the drive-in. Learned mutual hand jobs. Kissing and pulling each other off felt like a space launch from my chest. But it was the touches, affection--something I never had before. Steve was as keen for my skin as I was for his. Couldn't get enough of each other and couldn't slip up and give away our secret either. Had to switch on and off quickly, like changing stations on the radio. My secret prompted me to start showering, combing my hair, wearing clean clothes with new enthusiasm. Brothers noticed, asked me who was the impetus for all the grooming. "Cheryl?" I only smiled and shook my head, passing. Passing as straight and through my passing, I became more visible. Steve was my loadstar toward an oblique manhood. Adult female of the house complained that I wasn't watching my sisters or attending church often enough. "You need to be re-consecrated." My confidence had grown. Told her my sisters weren't my children, not my responsibility. Sisters were on their own as I became more visible by my absence. Took part-time work in the afternoons. Wanted some power though hard to amass much installing eight-track players for minimum wage. ... My brothers were notorious for cruising the Montrose area, mugging queers to get a few bucks for their Saturday nights. Steve and I avoided Montrose. We found a wooded place in Memorial Park, glanced through some old porn magazines while we waited for dark. Hard to keep from shooting off as soon I unzipped; we were young, no problem. Shy at first, I wanted all of him, "Are we gonna, you know..." Arms and legs all seemed to be in the wrong places until we found what we needed, and didn't slow down. Slippery with sweat, slippery with our own lube and smelling like sex, we did it. Hurt at first. Pain propelled, fueled our thrusts, excited us for more until we found satisfaction and that sweet union of spirits. Between work, school and running that old bluff, I learned a good fingering, along with a BJ was plenty for at least one day apart. Kept an old shop rag under the seat for quick wiping. I came to associate the rough, red square of cotton with intense pleasure. Center of my life, I loved, admired and looked to him for the first and only real comfort I'd ever known. But tell him I loved him? I couldn't; my early indoctrination was hard to shake. ... "During the third attack of the night we launched again. The flare ship took off first and began an easterly ascent over the South China Sea." ... "Kill all the damn gooks." My brother repeated the reports he heard on the radio, adding his commentary. Steve always nodded and looked away quietly. At seventeen, he might be drafted soon. I began to understand why he was afraid. Wasn't about the war, it was winding down. It was about the military--the service wasn't for fags. Soldiers were armed and played rougher games than the nickel-and-dimers in our garage. Steve wasn't drafted. He volunteered, glad to get out of his part-time job stocking vending machines. Advised by his father and motivated by poverty, he'd get formal training in the service. Took the easy path, signed up to be a helicopter mechanic, move into aircraft maintenance. Young and ignorant, I thought he'd be stateside after basic training. We'd find a way to be together, we had to. Began studying the newspapers for small, third- and fourth-page articles about the homosexual protests on the West Coast. Maybe Los Angeles.... ... The night he before he left, we went to his house. First time I'd been there. An ancient shotgun house butted up to the railroad tracks, little more than an unpainted shack. Inside only a couch and a few tables, chairs, worn and ragged. "Where's your mom?" "Gone." We waited till his father came through the kitchen door and shook hands. Couldn't help but notice him smelling like grease, beer and cigs. "This is the kid? Good to meetcha." "Dad, if he comes over while I'm gone, help him out." He nodded, turned, went into the only other room and shut the door. "Been drinking since Mom left." Steve explained, grabbing his father's car keys. "How do you get by?" Steve's home felt empty. "Dad gives me food money, not much here to clean..." ... Hot-footed it down to Galveston that night. All the while I thought about Steve's mother. In my mind, I knew she wanted her son to feel loved and knowing how long I'd have to wait to see Steve again, this awkward sixteen-year-old acted the best lover he could imagine. Doled out all my affection and kisses, gazes, touches between my gasps and tears. Sad night, quiet but for our breaths and the ocean's waves. More silent tears in the dark before we left at dawn for the bus station. ... "The descent appeared normal and I watched them all the way down, waiting for them to flare. The flare never occurred." ... Brothers left after high school. Garage was empty. I left shortly after them, barely finishing high school, no graduation ceremony. Kept working as an installer, lived in a rented room for a while. When I got a letter from Steve during his basic training, I'd take it to show his father, read it with him. Our letters didn't mention love. Each referenced honey; dirty oil, thick as honey, honey of a deal.... Got a letter in October, I went to find Steve's old shotgun house vacated. My brother showed up where I worked, "Steve's dead." ... "...loud thump. They hit at full force. The impact probably rendered them all unconscious and initiated the breakup of the Huey. Their bodies were located on beach the next day." Final Mission of U.S. Army helicopter VH-LL tail number 65-04453. ... Dirt hit casket holding a body once warm. The body that excited me, the heart that wanted me; arms that held me. Dirt hit casket abruptly announcing that at eighteen, I was entirely alone. "I love you. I love you." Between sobs on the long drive home from the piney East Texas graveyard. "I love you." Words too late. ... So young, so vulnerable, we emerged from privations with unforeseen courage and stealth. Our tender, camouflaged hearts dared to love. Held the ground we gained for our short time together to claim ourselves as victors in an unrecognized conflict. The war we won. End. The War We Won