The House of Water - 2. Under the Bridge

I had “come out” in 2006. (Does your generation still use this phrase? Does it mean anything anymore to “come out”?) It was an accident. My prom date, Emily, hosted a house party while her parents were away. The more popular kids with connections were able to bring alcohol. I drank too much on an empty stomach, having spent all day working out at the dojo I attended. Before the night was out, I sat sobbing on the bathroom tile with another girl, Abby, telling her I was a homosexual, telling her how hard it was, telling her I feared I would live out my life alone. I never vomited more in my life.

My recovery was swift. What had seemed like a death sentence at a suburban public high school where no one else was “out,” turned out to be no great news. Some students claimed they already knew; others said they didn’t care. My friend Bronson made light of it: “This is excellent for our friend group. We have a black. We have a Jew. Now we have a gay. No one can accuse us of anything.” If anyone had a problem with me, I never heard anything about it.

And soon enough I began to take steps to engage my sexuality. In my mind, back then, I had first to come out, and only then could I conduct any sort of affair. It did not occur to me that I could have done so all along with other boys from other school districts. At a distance of only fifty miles, I could have safely assumed that no one I met up with would know anyone from my high school. But no matter, after I came out, I quickly made up for lost time.

*

I was eighteen, but a young eighteen. Sure, other young men my age were applying for military service, but I was still in awe of my body, its secrets, its changes. It was a grey Sunday, the Sunday after Easter at the end of spring break. Tomorrow I would have to face calculus and psychology and government and all those advanced classes that meant so much to me at the time, but that Sunday I had to myself: finished homework and a full tank of gas.

I logged into MySpace, a website young people used to use for reasons that are no longer clear. Vanity, perhaps, or more likely boredom. I responded to comments friends had posted on my profile. I saw that I had been added to two of my friends’ “top eight” lists, but removed from another in favor of a girl, Lauren, who had become very popular amongst my friends.

I shifted in my computer chair. My friends Brandy and Eric were dating, as were my friends Steve and Nicki, as were my friends Kaylee and Ryan, as were my friends Bronson and Nicole, as were my friends Dustin and Ashlie. I felt I was missing out. (I said I would not censor myself. Very well--.) Above all I was aroused, bored and aroused on a Sunday with nothing to do.

There has to be some way I can find others, I told myself. If I can go from profile to profile until I come across another like myself, then I might find a lover, or at least someone to pass the time. Before long I noticed the “Search” button at the top. I clicked it and it led me to another button: “Advanced Search.” Under the latter, I found I was able to search by region, ethnicity, age, and—most importantly—sexual orientation.

Before I could conduct my search, however, I had to close my bedroom door, and stealthily, so as not to raise any suspicions from my parents, both of whom, for once, were home. It would not do simply to stand up from my computer chair and close my computer door. No, that would be too direct. A passing parent might think I was looking at pornography, or psychically divine my sexual orientation and know exactly what I was doing, even though I had only ever been a well-behaved, high-achieving student.

I shut down the computer completely. I stood up from my desk—but not too quickly! Mother had bought me a cologne sampler pack for Christmas. I touched all of the bottles, then patted my clothes. After that I went to the bathroom. Because I didn’t actually have to urinate, I stood in the center of the room and counted to thirty before washing my hands. I walked to the kitchen, ate some lunch meat directly out of the refrigerator, and could hear Mother watching television in the next room.

Walking back to my bedroom, I noticed Father watching television in his room. I knew, then, where both parents were. I stepped back into my room and, even though no one was watching, shut my door with the most natural movements I could. I then faced the problem of music: if I played music loudly, it might seem like a good reason for me to have my door shut, but I would also be less able to hear if anyone was coming. I decided to be bold. Once my computer booted up again, I played The Postal Service loudly enough for anyone just outside my bedroom to hear.

I logged back onto my MySpace profile. Using “Advanced Search,” I looked for someone by ticking boxes:

Male

White

Within 100 miles of 44077

Gay

Bisexual

I also clicked the box that said only to give me search results of people with profile pictures as a sort of precaution. I had heard about the Internet. Although I didn’t buy half of what Fox News said, I knew there were men out there who, behind their computers, constructed profiles of young men in order to lure out young gays like myself, to steal us into dark places, and to force themselves upon us.

The initial results were disappointing. Were there only ugly gays on MySpace? Were unattractive gays more likely to post their sexual orientation because, socially, they had nothing else to lose? I clicked through pages of results from Mentor and Painesville and Chardon and Willoughby and Geneva. All of them, I thought, looked either ugly or “too gay” for me, whatever I meant by that in those days. Like many recently self-identified gays, I shunned the more flamboyant ones. The clever thing to say was: I like guys, not guys who think they’re girls, nevermind that for most people, the principle determinant of male behavior is a liking for girls.

At long last, I found the profile of a boy, sixteen, who lived in Clinton, Ohio, slightly over an hour from where I lived. I found some of his photographs attractive, though in others he had slicked back his hair and put on dramatic make-up, which repulsed me. I read over his profile. He was not what I wanted, I knew, but he was something. I could go on a date with him. I could talk to him about his experience being gay, how he came out, how his friends reacted, whether or not he had been with another guy yet.

But first I had to send him a message. I had to break the ice. “Hello there,” I typed. “I just came out recently (got too drunk, heh) and I’ve been hoping to meet some other gay guys. I’m the only one in my high school! Three hundred other students in my class, and not a single other guy has come out yet. My name is Michael, by the way, just like yours.”

*

After I got onto I-90 West, I took the MapQuest directions out of my jeans pocket and kept them open on my lap. Several miles down the highway, I veered off onto I-271 South, kept on it for nearly an hour, merged onto I-77 South, and finally took State Route 21 South into Clinton. The area in general seemed run-down, the suburb of a suburb, if such a thing exists. The highway was lined on one side by a trailer park, on the other by a gas station and a bar. I could tell already that I would not want to grow up gay there, that the loneliness I felt in my neighborhood would hardly seem a problem compared to the bullying I would have faced in a town like this.

I drove along Other Michael’s street until I passed his house, turned around, and pulled into his driveway. He emerged quickly from the house.

“Park on the street,” he said, pointing. “Right up over there.”

I identified the way he pointed as markedly effeminate, but in a way that pleased instead of offended me. The curve of his wrist was, in a way, what made real to me that I was about to meet, for the first time, another homosexual.

I parked where he said and walked up the gravel driveway to meet him.

“My mom’s home, but she’ll be leaving soon,” he said.

“I don’t mind moms,” I said. “Moms like me.”

“Mine’s just so nosy,” said Other Michael. “She doesn’t quite trust me with other guys. We won’t be able to go into my room until she leaves.”

He led me to the back of the house, into the kitchen. His mother looked at me sternly. “I’m Mrs. Rosenberg, Michael’s mom,” she said.

“Nice to meet you,” I said. I lowered my voice. “I’m also Michael.”

“Well isn’t that something.” She turned to her son. “I’m going up to the store. Stay out of your room.”

She left the house, and Other Michael watched her car pull out of the driveway. His little brother appeared just then, a chubby, obnoxious-seeming child. He seemed too young to say, “What are you doing, faggot?”

“Fuck off, Danny, leave us alone,” said Other Michael.

“Is this kid a faggot too?” said Danny.

“Shut up and get out of here!” said Other Michael.

“No, and don’t use that word unless you want people to get the idea you’ve got something to hide,” I said, again lowering my voice. I even puffed out my chest.

“Whatever,” said Danny.

“Let’s go up to my room.” Michael led me up the stairs.

“You can’t do that! Mom says you can’t have guys in your room. I’ll tell her right when she gets home and you’ll get grounded all over again,” said Danny.

“I’ll tell her you’ve been looking at porn!”

“I deleted the browser history. She won’t believe you.”

Other Michael hesitated, so I chimed in again: “That doesn’t mean it’s gone. There are still files on your computer. If you know where to look, you can find them easily.”

Danny looked nervous.

“They’re called cookies. If you don’t believe me I can show you.”

When Danny stayed quiet, Other Michael took me into his room. He closed the door, grabbed my hand purposefully and led me to his bed.

“She won’t be gone long, but we have some time.” He pushed me onto my back and began kissing me. He straddled me, so I took the opportunity to explore. I repeated to myself, you’re finally kissing another guy, this is what it’s like, to inspire an excitement that wasn’t there. I put my hands on his buttocks, squeezed. They were mostly lean; there wasn’t much to them. I moved my hands around front and searched for where his organ should be, but couldn’t find it at first.

I stopped kissing him. I looked at his face; he had very feminine features, which his bangs did nothing but accentuate. I wondered if he might be a hermaphrodite.

“Sorry, it’s kind of small.” He said, guiding my hand. “There.”

I touched him for a while until he pulled back and perked up his ears. “She’s back. We’ve got to get back downstairs.”

*

“So what are you boys going to do today?” asked Mrs. Rosenberg.

Other Michael spoke quickly, “We’re going to the park.”

She looked at him. “What’ll you do there?”

“I don’t know. Walk,” he said.

“Don’t be gone too long,” she said. “I’m making dinner. Tacos. You love tacos.”

“We won’t be long, then.” He seemed excited. In particular, he seemed too excited for a sixteen-year-old.

“Let’s go,” he said.

I followed him down his street. We walked into what seemed like the center of the town, crossed a bridge, then climbed under it.

“Here,” he said. “We can be alone here.”

In the distance, across the Ohio Canal, I could see a house with many windows facing us. Anyone paying attention could see, with little obstruction, anything we did.

Other Michael eased me onto my back again, in the dirt, and kissed me for a long time. I told myself to relax instead of forcing my excitement, and soon enough I did begin to enjoy myself, to feel stirrings of pleasure I never felt with the girls I had kissed. After so long, I turned him over onto his back and undressed him.

He looked up at me seductively, lovingly, but above all, knowingly. With spit and patience, I gave him my virginity in the dust under the bridge.

*

“That seemed easy for you,” I said afterward.

“My old boyfriend used to do that to me all the time,” said Other Michael. He stood up. There were some white flowers by the stream. He pulled off their petals in handfuls and tossed them in the water, watching them float along.

“What happened to him?”

“He had been using me the whole time. He had another boyfriend. A lot of the older guys I see do that.”

“How old was he?” I asked.

“Twenty-one.”

“That doesn’t seem right,” I said.

Other Michael shrugged. He threw one last fistful of petals into the rushing water. “We should be getting back.”

As we walked back to his house, past the dull run-down houses of that quiet town, I asked him about his future. “So what do you want to be when you grow up? You seem like you want to get out of this town.”

“I want to be a hair stylist in New York,” he said.

“Are you going to beauty school yet?”

“No, not for a few years yet. I’m just finishing up my freshman year.”

I swallowed hard, but I was not surprised, not really. “That makes you how old?”

“Fourteen. I’ll be fifteen soon.”

“Your profile said you were sixteen.”

He shrugged again.

*

I sat at the dinner table with Other Michael, Danny, and Mrs. Rosenberg. I wanted nothing more than to leave.

“You should eat tacos the way we eat tacos,” said Mrs. Rosenberg. “We put the hard shell inside the soft shell. That way you can have both!”

I followed her example. For some reason, I could not watch Other Michael eat. I could not think of his digestive process and what I had just done to him without feeling disgust.

“So what grade are you in?” Mrs. Rosenberg asked. “You look a little older.”

“I’m a sophomore,” I said, lying.

“Michael says you guys met at a party?” she asked me.

I nodded and smiled.

“Yeah, he was at Amanda’s birthday. He’s her friend Beth’s boyfriend, or ex-boyfriend, right?” said Other Michael. I think he winked at me.

“Right, we broke up before Easter,” I said.

Mrs. Rosenberg smiled. “Well, that’s nice. Would you like another taco?”

“No, thank you,” I said. “I think my Mother is making dinner too. She’ll get mad if I don’t eat.”

She laughed, the world-weary way mothers do. “Oh, I know how that is.”

After dinner, Michael walked me to my car. He kissed me passionately in the street, just out of view of his house, and I returned it as if I meant it, as if it meant anything to me.

“I’ll see you again soon?” His eyes were raised with hope and affection.

“Absolutely. Maybe next weekend, even.”

He squealed and kissed me again. I cupped his face. I have never put any stock in religion, but I prayed for him in that moment. I prayed that he would learn to value himself, and prayed for forgiveness for the lies I was telling, and for what I had done.

Across the highway there was a gas station. I filled my tank up. I had noticed, while pumping gas, that I could smell summer in the breeze, that strange smell that after so many months of winter seems vulgar and overpowering.

I bought a cola to wash the taste of him out of my mouth.