Winning the Lottery - 1. The best news ever

Okay, admittedly I didn’t with THE lottery.

Not millions in cash.

But my luck definitely changed for the better.

When my boss said, “We want to transfer you to our office in Honolulu,” I know I experience the same kind of shock, disbelief and ecstasy that a lottery winner would.

“You’re kidding!” I exclaimed. This really was too good to be true!

“Serious as a heart attack,” he said.

Holy motherfucking....!

“When? When do you want me to go?”

“Soon, starting next month, if you can.”

Of course I could! I had no ties to Vancouver, or anywhere else. My family had disowned me when I was fifteen, and my love life was less than stellar.

I come from a model family, who live in semi-suburban comfort in a smallish Manitoba town. Dad owns a successful equipment business selling fire prevention and suppression gear. One of his main customers is the local fire department, but he ships equipment all across Canada. He’s a pillar of the community and has served at least two terms, that I know of, as the local Rotary Club president. Mom is a stay-at-home wife. She belongs to the garden club and volunteers two mornings a week at the hospital gift shop. I think we were semi-rich. Our house was nice, and both parents drove expensive cars. Dad had a huge Ford pickup and Mom drove a Cadillac. I have a brother who is two years older than me. Can it get any more Beaver Cleaver than that?

But there was trouble in paradise. My older brother, James, is very much the favored son. Dad went to all his football games. They watched sports on TV together. From the time James was about fourteen years old Dad took him on his annual trade show trip. I was told I was too young to go. When I turned fourteen I asked if I could go and was again told I was too young. “Maybe another time,” was the vague promise.

James’ football team came in second in the regional playoffs, for which he received a small trophy. That trophy is displayed prominently in the living room. I won a trophy when my swim team placed first for a regional title. That trophy is displayed on a shelf in my bedroom. Needless to say, Dad didn’t come to my swim meets.

It’s not like the family mistreated me. Well, except for James, who was a sneaky bully. He was an artist at getting me into trouble. Of course in Dad’s eyes James could do no wrong. One of James’ favorite tricks was to hit me or do something else mean, like break one of my toys, and when I retaliated he’d go running to Dad and tattle. Of course I got into trouble for hitting or breaking something. James would stick his tongue out at me, and I could do nothing but bite mine.

But even in the midst of that my life wasn’t too bad. I was fed and clothed. I got pretty much the things that James got. And my Dad would at least give me a, “Well done, son,” when I came home with a good report card or a ribbon from a swim meet. My school marks were always good, and I had pretensions of becoming a doctor.

But all that went to shit when I was fifteen. It was around that time that I started to become interested in guys. At first I thought that it was just worrisome, but normal, adolescent curiosity. But it got worse, and the curiosity turned into a longing, or an ache. I wanted nothing more than to look at and touch naked guys. I started jerking off thinking about the older, good looking guys at school. I was headed for trouble if I couldn’t control my impulses, but it seemed like I was running full tilt toward a brick wall, and there were no brakes on this car.

I knew that some guys looked at porn on the internet, but my parents had installed some sort of Net Nanny program. Plus, I was terrified at being found out if I so much as went to any suspect sites. So my curiosity and longing went unanswered, except for the occasional glimpse of teammates in the shower. But I was very careful not to look too assiduously lest I be called on it. So I had to make do with quick glances and let my imagination fill in the blanks.

One Saturday I was out for a walk, trying to get my head around what was happening. I was desperately trying to come up with a strategy to be normal and attracted to girls, just like all the other guys at school. My aimless stroll took me pas a convenience store where I stopped to buy myself a Coke. As I was walking to the cooler, I passed a magazine rack. There on the upper shelves were the ‘naughty’ magazines wrapped in plastic. And what red-blooded adolescent can resist running his eyes over the covers trying to glance something titillating? Lo and behold if I didn’t see a magazine with nude men! I felt gut punched and knew that no matter how embarrassing it was going to be to take this magazine to the cash register and pay for it I absolutely had to have it. With my heart pounding I reached for it and headed to the register, the Coke totally forgotten. Much to my relief the guy at the cash register didn’t react one way or the other. He just took my money and put the magazine in a plastic bag.

I raced home and into my bedroom and locked the door. I tore out the magazine and dropped my pants. By the time I’d turned three pages I was ready to blast. And blast I did! It took at least half a dozen tissues to wipe the mess off my desktop. I felt limp and satisfied in a way I’d never experienced. And guilty and ashamed. I knew then that there was indeed something wrong with me. I had just no clue what to do about it.

Over the next couple of weeks that magazine became my obsession. Any moment I could escape from the family and hide behind my locked door I would jerk off looking at the handsome guys with their fat, erect cocks; hopelessly wishing that one of them would come alive in my bedroom and sweep me into his manly arms. But every amazing orgasm brought a subsequent wave of guilt and shame.

It was the best of times. It was the worst of times.

Now I digress to tell you that my bedroom was right above my Dad’s den where he would retreat almost every night to do his business paperwork. Even perfect James was forbidden to disturb him during his work period. I could somewhat hear Dad’s voice when he was on the phone. Then I discovered that I could hear clearly what was being said down there if I put my ear to the heating register in my room. One night, around 10 in the evening, I heard my Mom say something to Dad about it being time to go to bed. My Dad responded with something I couldn’t quite make out. So being nosey I put my ear to the heat register to find out what they were talking about. What I got was more than an earful.

I heard Mom say, “In here?”

My Dad responded, “Yeah, it would be really hot to do it on my desk. What do you say?”

I didn’t hear Mom’s response, but then Dad said, “Take your clothes off.”

Jesus! My parents were having sex in my Dad’s den!

Then I heard Dad saying, “God you’re beautiful.”

Then Mom suggested getting a new couch for the living room.

And Dad replied, “Anything for you, babe.”

What? My mother was trading sex for a new couch!?

Mom said, “Well! You’re more than ready!”

Then heard my did grunting and my mother yelping. Then a long moan told me Dad was coming.

Then Dad said, “God that was hot.”

And Mom replied, “Glad you liked it. Now it’s time for bed.”

I was titillated by the whole episode. I jerked off listening to them. But I also felt revolted by the fact that my parents were having sex. And that business of Mom trading sex for a couch: Did that make her a whore?

Anyway, my point being that I can hear what’s being said in the den.

The lock on my bedroom door was pretty flimsy, it offered no real resistance to James when he was determined to get in. One evening, as I was supposed to be doing my homework, I was instead taking pleasure from my magazine. Bloody James showed up at my bedroom door, and when he discovered that it was locked he proceeded to rattle it pretty hard. The damn thing gave way and James burst into my room. I turned to try and hide my boner and swept the magazine off the side of my desk. James, always the trouble maker, demanded to see what I’d been looking at. Unfortunately, with my dick out of my pants I was unable to offer a good physical defense and within moments James had the incriminating magazine in his hands.

I was utterly fucked.

James being the asshole tattle tale that he was went racing, magazine in hand, down to Dad’s den to rat me out.

I sat in blind panic wondering what my fate was going to be.

I heard James yelling, “Dad! Dad! Look what I caught Gabe looking at!”

Of course James didn’t get into trouble for disturbing Dad in his den.

There was an ominous silence. I guess Dad was looking at the magazine and digesting what it meant.

Then he yelled, “Gabriel Nichol, get your disgusting ass down here! NOW!”

I went downstairs, into my father’s den, and stood there rigid with fright.

James stood there gloating.

“Is this yours?” Dad asked me, holding up the magazine.

I knew lying was futile, so I shrugged my shoulders.

“Are you a.....a.....PANSY?” my Dad asked. He was very angry. His voice was low and controlled.

No use denying it, I shrugged again.

His angry eyes bored into mine for several seconds—which seemed more like an eternity to me—then he said, “Go to your rooms. Both of you! And stay put until I call you down again.”

James and I headed up the stairs together and James whispered, “Faggot!”

I whispered, “Fuck off, asshole.”

James yelled, “Dad, Gabe is swearing!”

Dad bellowed, “Gabe, no swearing! You’re already in enough trouble!”

See what I mean, James was always bating me then ratting me out. I always got into trouble and he always walked off with a smirk on his face.

Mom was called to Dad’s den for a discussion of the “situation.”

Naturally, I was listing at the heating duct and heard every word. Long story short it was decided for the good of my father’s business, and to save my mother embarrassment at her garden club, my perversion would remain a closely held family secret. But what stung me the most was when he said, “I knew there was a reason I never liked that bloody kid!”

It was decided that James would be bribed with a new car when he graduated high school the next month to keep him quiet. Then, to remove him from his little pervert brother, he would be sent away to McGill University, in Montreal, come the fall. I, on the other hand, would be subjected to some sort of prolonged grounding. I was to be effectively imprisoned and given no chance to embarrass the family. It was my mother, heartbreakingly, who suggested using my college fund to buy James’ car.

James and I were summoned to the Den where we were lectured on the necessity of keeping this thing, this perversion quiet for the sake of Dad’s business. Lord only knows what would happen if word got out that his son was a pansy!

James promised to keep quiet in exchange for the bribes. I was too distraught to argue when told to quit the swim team (to keep me the hell away from temptation, Dad said) and to come home straight from school every day where I would be confined to my room.

Dad made it very clear that I was only allowed to stay at “his house” until I graduated high school two years hence. After that I was to leave. He said he didn’t care what I did after that so long as I wasn’t an embarrassment to him.

James got a Camero when he graduated high school. That summer he worked in Dad’s business. When he wasn’t out showing off his car, smoking dope and trying to get laid he made my life miserable. If I had a dollar for every time he spit the word faggot or some other derogatory term at me I’d have gotten rich that summer. If he was ever behind me he’d push me. Once he snuck up behind me and shoved me down the stairs. Dad came across me crumpled at the bottom and yelled at me to ‘stop being so bloody clumsy!’ After that, I checked behind me compulsively. Another time he tried to run me down with his car, but I saw him coming and jumped out of the way. It was a huge relief when he headed off to McGill University in September.

That summer was bad, but the next two years were torture.

There were no beatings, raised voices or harsh words. Instead, I was completely shunned. By both parents. I think the only words I heard from my father were just after James left when he said, “I don’t want to see you, I don’t want to hear you. Just be bloody grateful you’ve got a roof over your head for the next two years!”

Christmases were awful. My parents simply left town without telling me where they were going. I knew though, because I could overhear Dad talking to James on the phone, telling him not to forget to pack his bathing suit. Apparently it was good swimming weather in Aruba. Merry fucking Christmas, Gabe.

I became adept at avoiding my parents. Like a little mouse, I’d sneak into the kitchen to purloin my food.

Mom at least kept the cupboards and fridge stocked with food. And she made my dinner. She’d prepare a plate of food which I was allowed to microwave and eat either before father got home from work, or after he had retired to his den in the evening.

Naturally, I avoided going home as much as possible. After class each day I’d go to the school’s library to do my homework, and if that was finished I’d read. The librarian gave me a few odd looks, but she didn’t say anything about me being there every day.

I avoided my friends lest I slip and give away ‘unnatural urges.’ I did, however look for a part-time job.

Luckily, and ironically, I found one in the store where I’d bought the gay skin magazine. Mr. Foroughi, the owner, was very good about letting me juggle my work hours with school. I loved working there because it gave me something to do with my spare time. Even at minimum wage, the pay I received for working 20 hours a week seemed like a fortune. I worked hard, and Mr. Foroughi complimented me. For a kid that’s on the receiving end of a good at-home shunning his compliments and amiable nature meant the world to me.

During non work hours I studied. I got straight A’s, and some of the teachers complimented me, but that kind of thing can backfire too. The jocks took to calling me ‘suck’ and sometimes ‘faggot’ so there was both positive and negative about getting good grades. But I viewed getting good grades as the ticket out of the hell I was in, so I tried to ignore the whispered insults in the halls.

When I had to move out of the house, the day I graduated high school, Mr. Foroughi offered me a basement room in the little house he and his mother shared. He said he could use a little help with the mortgage, but he really only charged me a nominal rent. There was a small bathroom in the basement, and Mr. Foroughi gave me a little fridge and a microwave. The bedroom had electric baseboard heaters, and in the winter it got devilishly cold, but I only really used it for sleeping. I was able to study at the college, and I got my daily shower there after a run or gym workout.

The running and gym workouts began to pay off. My body began to show, if not real muscles, some definition and wiriness. More track team than football, but I was pleased nonetheless.

With little or no social life I was able to put a few dollars aside each month for the future. I’d been awarded provincial scholarships that paid my tuition, and I could live pretty cheaply otherwise. The local thrift shop was a good source of clothes. The volunteers working there got to know me, and they’d sometimes put aside something good for me.

Also, because of my good grades I was asked to become a volunteer tutor/mentor to struggling students. There were some who were just plain lazy, but others were genuinely motivated and just needed help and encouragement. Often it was just a matter of study skills, and once the student got a few tips he’d be off to the races, doing well. I found that very rewarding.

There was neither romance nor sex in my life. In spite of my independence, I still felt duty bound not to cause a scandal. I was a slave to the threat of small town gossip. If I’d so much as kissed a guy the news would be all over town in minutes. Why I was hobbled with these worries I had no idea, but it probably had to do with the fear of being even further shamed.

Having taken advance placement courses in high school, it took me just under 3 years to finish a 4 year degree with a double major in science and accounting. In those three years my parents didn’t contact me once. Unfortunately James did. Every time he came back to town to visit my parents, which wasn’t all that often, thank God, he’d drop by the store when I was working to ‘borrow’ money. I had a healthy bank account, but I always told James I was broke and would give him twenty or maybe forty dollars. I tried saying no once, and he’d thrown a tantrum and threatened to tell everyone in town I was a faggot. It was an empty threat; he’d never risk Dad’s wrath and the hand that fed him. But I hated the conflict so I would buy him off with a few dollars. He always promised to pay me back when he got his next allowance check from Dad, but he never did.

While I got straight A’s at college, I heard via the town grapevine that James limped along at McGill. He managed to graduate with a degree in Communications thanks to a lot of tutoring and ghost-written essays (cheating paid for, of course, by good old Dad and Mom). My parents were, apparently, delighted that he’d landed a job with a polling firm in Toronto as a “researcher.” (The truth was he worked in a call centre where he phoned people to survey them. Hah!)

After three years, in April, just shy of my 21^st birthday, I finished my last college exam. I went home to my little room, packed a duffel bag with my few possessions I said goodbye and thank you to Mr. Foroughi and his mother who both seemed genuinely sorry to see me go. They wished me well and made me promise I’d keep in touch. They even gave a little Turkish coffee set, which I will treasure for as long as I live. They’d always treated me kindly and with respect. In the three years I’d been renting their basement room they’d become the closest thing I had to family. They struggled financially, I think. The store wasn’t a big money maker, and I hoped that maybe, in the future, when I was successful, I could do something nice for them.

With the money I’d saved, I had plenty for a bus ticket to Vancouver and enough to survive on for two or three months while I looked for work. When you live in a small Manitoba town, Vancouver seems like the mythical land of milk and honey. It also has a reputation as a gay friendly city, and I was hopeful that I’d soon meet my one-and-only, lose my virginity, and live happily ever after.

The bus trip through the Rocky Mountains was mind blowing. I’d never seen any landscape except the prairies, and the mountains and cascading rivers were truly awe inspiring. When the bus left the mountains just a few miles from Vancouver we entered a valley that was green and lush. Imagine greenery in April! In Manitoba there was still snow on the ground and the land was dull gray. This summer-like tableau, even in April, was so much better than I’d even dreamed about! This had to bode well for my future.

I was excited and optimistic.

Unfortunately, my cloistered years had rendered me overly eager and far too naive for the gay dating scene.