The Gay Experience - 1. Chapter One: D. H. Lawrence "…he took hold of me…"

The Gay Experience,

Essays inspired by readings from a collection of short stories

Chapter One: D. H. Lawrence "…he took hold of me…"

I got my copy at the Virgin Megastore in San Francisco.

One would enter the near-department-store sized retailer on the ground floor and be swamped by sounds of pop or rock music. Crowds, crowds, crowds would be milling about as long lines spiked out in front of the registers.

Up the escalators, the second floor was a grab bag. Open racks of CDs and DVDs promised everything from Greek fluting playing to Enya in the World Music section, and I bought copies of the greatest hits of Engelbert Humperdinck and Patti Page to send to my mother in the Vintage aisles. A third of the entire floor was enclosed in its own little universe, and this Classical section is where I spent a fair portion my Virgin time and dime.

Continuing up, you'd find most of the movies lived on the third level. A person would be ensconced by them as you got off the escalator. Across the wide-open floor, your eyes would naturally be drawn to the light; a café occupying the front windows at the corner of the building and presented a harried view of Market Street to weary shoppers.

Sandwiched between the Hollywood DVDs and wafting aroma of coffee were the books. This was not a large area, but I found some interesting titles here, including one called Pages Passed from Hand to Hand.

Mark Mitchell and David Leavitt (the very well-known and respected out author) had created an anthology of how Gay people were seen or presented themselves in English-language literature from 1748 to 1913. It's a stunningly good collection and very illuminating. The format is based on extended excerpts from novels, edited to knit together the Gay threads, and short stories in their entirety.[1]

A couple of weeks ago I was in a very different store, The Community Thrift Store on Valencia Street, and discovered the pair of editors had penned an earlier anthology of Gay Short Stories. It's a collection I had not known existed.

So, I've been making my way through it, and thought I'd do a book report of sorts, for many of the stories contain moments of sheer beauty; they speak to the Gay Experience in a way that's timeless and universal. Many are also by the shining luminaries of 20th century literature, so they are beautiful to read as well. The format is similar to Pages, only entire chapters are presented from novels as well as short stories.

First up in the collection is a chapter of summertime romance from D. H. Lawrence's premier novel, The White Peacock.

Published in 1911, the book mainly centers around the budding romance between its central character and a young woman, but chapter 17 is a same-sex interlude titled A Poem of Friendship.[2]

The young man spends the spring and summer on a rural farm, writing and helping out George, the son of the owner, who's only a few years his senior. Creating a very evocative world of bluebells and wheat appearing as young and tender as grass, the narrator's first awakening appears in the spring as he's out strolling.

I kicked through the drenched grass, crushing the withered cowslips under my clogs, avoiding the purple orchids that were stunted with harsh upbringing, but magnificent in their powerful colouring, crushing the pallid lady smocks, the washed-out wild gillivers. I became conscious of something near my feet, something little and dark, moving indefinitely. I had found again the larkie’s nest. I perceived the yellow beaks, the bulging eyelids of two tiny larks, and the blue lines of their wing quills. The indefinite movement was the swift rise and fall of the brown fledged backs, over which waved long strands of fine down. The two little specks of birds lay side by side, beak to beak, their tiny bodies rising and falling in quick unison. I gently put down my fingers to touch them; they were warm; gratifying to find them warm, in the midst of so much cold and wet. I became curiously absorbed in them, as an eddy of wind stirred the strands of down. When one fledgling moved uneasily, shifting his soft ball, I was quite excited; but he nestled down again, with his head close to his brother’s. In my heart of hearts, I longed for someone to nestle against, someone who would come between me and the coldness and wetness of the surroundings.

This 'brother,' this someone he longed for, would soon appear in his vision as none other than George. By the end of June, a morning dip the lake revealed the young man to himself.

I heard Trip barking, so I ran towards the pond. The punt was at the island, where from behind the bushes I could hear George whistling. I called to him, and he came to the water’s edge half dressed.

“Fetch a towel,” he called, “and come on.”

I was back in a few moments, and there stood my Charon fluttering in the cool air. One good push sent us to the islet. I made haste to undress, for he was ready for the water; Trip dancing round, barking with excitement at his new appearance.

“He wonders what’s happened to me,” he said, laughing, pushing the dog playfully away with his bare foot. Trip bounded back, and came leaping up, licking him with little caressing licks.

He began to play with the dog, and directly they were rolling on the fine turf, the laughing, expostulating, naked man, and the excited dog, who thrust his great head on to the man’s face, licking, and, when flung away, rushed forward again, snapping playfully at the naked arms and breasts. At last George lay back, laughing and panting, holding Trip by the two forefeet which were planted on his breast, while the dog, also panting, reached forward his head for a flickering lick at the throat pressed back on the grass, and the mouth thrown back out of reach. When the man had thus lain still for a few moments, and the dog was just laying his head against his master’s neck to rest too, I called, and George jumped up, and plunged into the pond with me, Trip after us.

The water was icily cold, and for a moment deprived me of my senses. When I began to swim, soon the water was buoyant, and I was sensible of nothing but the vigorous poetry of action. I saw George swimming on his back laughing at me, and in an instant I had flung myself like an impulse after him. The laughing face vanished as he swung over and fled, and I pursued the dark head and the ruddy neck. Trip, the wretch, came paddling towards me, interrupting me; then all bewildered with excitement, he scudded to the bank. I chuckled to myself as I saw him run along, then plunge in and go plodding to George. I was gaining. He tried to drive off the dog, and I gained rapidly.

Later, as they prepared for the day of work ahead, this is what happened:

We stood and looked at each other as we rubbed ourselves dry. He was well proportioned, and naturally of handsome physique, heavily limbed. He laughed at me, telling me I was like one of Aubrey Beardsley’s long, lean, ugly fellows. I referred him to many classic examples of slenderness, declaring myself more exquisite than his grossness, which amused him.

But I had to give in, and bow to him, and he took on an indulgent, gentle manner. I laughed and submitted. For he knew how I admired the noble, white fruitfulness of his form. As I watched him, he stood in white relief against the mass of green. He polished his arm, holding it out straight and solid; he rubbed his hair into curls, while I watched the deep muscles of his shoulders, and the bands stand out in his neck as he held it firm; I remembered the story of Annable [sic].

He saw I had forgotten to continue my rubbing, and laughing he took hold of me and began to rub me briskly, as if I were a child, or rather, a woman he loved and did not fear. I left myself quite limply in his hands, and, to get a better grip of me, he put his arm round me and pressed me against him, and the sweetness of the touch of our naked bodies one against the other was superb. It satisfied in some measure the vague, indecipherable yearning of my soul; and it was the same with him. When he had rubbed me all warm, he let me go, and we looked at each other with eyes of still laughter, and our love was perfect for a moment, more perfect than any love I have known since, either for man or woman.

It's such a beautiful encapsulation of the Gay Experience – of the pain of isolation, of the fear of emotional exposure to one of the same gender, and then the surrender and placing of trust that the other won't hurt him after all – that I can think of hardly a better tribute in English than this segment; it's certainly worthy of its near contemporary, Maurice by E. M. Forster.

I also have to say it puts me in mind of an extraordinary passage from Lawrence's much later novel, Lady Chatterley's Lover. In it, the main character is chatting with her sister in typical 1920s frankness about sex, and praises the penis in extremely un-ladylike language. This too seems to be a Gay man speaking about male-male connection in the most open of terms.

"I know it is the penis which connects us with the stars and the sea and everything. It is the penis which touches the planets, and makes us feel their special light. I know it. I know it was the penis which really put the evening stars into my inside self. I used to look at the evening star, and think how lovely and wonderful it was. But now it’s in me as well as outside me, and I need hardly look at it. I am it. I don’t care what you say, it was the penis gave it me.”[3]

So there you have it, a brief exploration of the first entry in Mitchell and Leavitt's Gay Short Stories. I will follow up fairly soon with a similar review for the second piece in the anthology.

Please let me know your thoughts.