reading part 1 of this story, you might get the impression that i was some sorta frail, timid, dewy-eyed chicken who needed protection from the big bad wolves, instead of the strapping 28-year-old i actually was when these events took place.
and it wasn't that i'd lived a sheltered life, either--my first boss outta high school, a raging horndog with excellent gaydar who'd tried unsuccessfully to get me into bed on any number of occasions, had regaled me with endless tales of gay life in houston. and what he hadn't covered, five years of UT architecture school--a place where even the faculty restroom had glory holes--had pretty much filled in most of the remaining gaps.
so what was it with me--why had i so long delayed the inevitable? simple: i was a shut-down loner who really, really didn't wanna be gay, and it took a force of nature like steve kuzi to break through my shell.
* * * * *
as i've said, kuzi and i always got a fair amount of attention when we went out--he because he was hot, me because i was new, both of us because we never hooked up [which i now understand is the gay equivalent of waving the red flag of challenge at an angry bull].
over the course of that spring i would meet many guys and have many phone numbers tucked into my pockets, all of which got dumped into a nightstand drawer when i got home and never looked at again.
see, i was just an observer in this strange new land (or at least that's what i told myself)--just passing through, kicking the tires, seeing what's up. i was there with kuzi--no way you woulda caught me dead on colorado street without him.
and he was endlessly patient--never ridiculed me because i was dorky and dressed straight and couldn't dance for shit, or because i didn't know who madonna was.
fuckin' madonna--brings up the other thing that was happening in my life thanks to kuzi: people were starting to get wise to me at work.
* * * * *
it happens shortly after i come out to him--he's still trying to inculcate me into gay life, and the subject of madonna comes up.
to which--because i swear to god i really didn't know--i make the fatal mistake of asking, "who the fuck is this madonna you keep talking about?"
he gives me a long look, puts down his pencil, picks up his keys, leaves the room without a word. i watch out the window as he exits the building, strides across the parking lot below to his little yellow fiat, retrieves something from it and returns. the "something" turns out to be a cassette, which he puts into his boombox, cues to the following song, and hits "play."
it has me from note one. he sees it in my eyes, grabs my hand, pulls me outta my chair--next thing i know, god help me, i'm dancing with a man.
lost in the music, i dunno how long it is before we look up and realize our door is open and half the office is standing crowded into the doorway, watching us with open mouths--guess it was louder than we thought.
i freeze, red-faced and abashed, my straight facade in shreds. kuzi, on the other hand, amps it up, twirls and beckons to the uptights in the doorway to join us--difference between him and me.
[thing that still kills me is, had he picked anything else--holiday, like a virgin, material girl, lucky star--none of this woulda happened, because any of those woulda left me in my chair, unmoved.
no, he had to go with borderline.]
* * * * *
as the weeks go by and kuzi drags me into the life, i become more comfortable with the fact that i'm now seen as the other fag in the office--to the point that when our boss announces he's taking everybody and their families down to padre island for memorial-day weekend, i'm not in the least annoyed when it's assumed that kuzi and i will be happy to share a room.
we make excuses as to why we can't go down with 'em on friday [leaving out the real reason--that we're not about to miss a friday night at halls], promising we'll drive down the next morning instead.
we take my car, arrive a little after noon, check into our room--everybody's out on the beach already.
kuzi heads into the bathroom to change while i unpack. a minute or two later, the door opens, he emerges silhouetted in the bathroom light, my jaw hits the floor and i realize i only thought i knew everything i needed to know about him.
we walk down and join our party, and they all gasp at the sight of this magnificent, muscled creature in his black speedo [and trust me, we ain't talkin' about me].
turns out he's as easily in his element on the beach as he was in the office, and as indifferent to his co-workers' new awe as he was to their wary distance--kuzi is who he is and would forever be, god love him.
i'll never forget him that day--laughing, the sun glinting off that oiled, flawless body, plunging into the surf and doing handstands in the sand, frolicking with all the little kids who flocked to him, having more fun than all the rest of us mere mortals put together.
as the afternoon wanes, we head back to our room to shower and change for what turns out to be a long, enjoyable dinner with our co-workers--all of us relaxed and easy and having a good time with each other for a change.
afterwards, a bunch of us fill a cooler, sit out on the beach and talk into the night.
finally, exhausted, kuzi and i head back to our room and collapse into bed at the end of what was a far more perfect day than either of us expected.
middle of the night--something's wrong, i awaken and flip on the bedside lamp, turn to see my still-sleeping friend lying face-up and paralyzed beside me, face contorted, teeth bared and chattering, muscles clenched, shivering violently and drenched in sweat.
the bigger part of me is clueless as to what's happening; it's my small, knowing, inner voice that understands and says
oh, fuck.
[conclusion to follow--this being 1985 and all, you can probably see where this is going just like i did.]
8 comments:
Your blog is an accident at the side of the road....you don't want to look, but you do, in spite of yourself.
finally, something i completely relate to solely based on the music.
i was 15, discovering the power my body had over men, grinding up against and making out with boys in the darkened corners of S. Florida's teen clubs while Madonna worked the crowd on the dance floor.
thanks for drudging up old memories...
blindman: unlike much of what i've turned out lately, i didn't consider this post, or its predecessor (both of which have been festering in my heart and soul for the past 24 years, yearning to be set free) to be even the least bit train-wrecky--sorry they hit you that way.
judi: glad i could give you a little something to hook onto.
Yeah 1985--I both want and don't want to read the final chapter.
Well, you had to give us the dark and foreboding last couple of lines.
Before that, it is a man as I would like to remember him: living life to his fullest.
But it seems like ages ago and too many people have either forgotten or never knew what it was like to be gay in 1985...or 1990...or even 1995. Because things were so different. It seems like it was long ago, a different world. But it was not.
...and now the rest of the memories have been dredged up.
i'm at a loss for words.
Many of us get to know a golden boy (or girl) or two along the way. They're all extroverts, charismatic, with a narcissist's fabulous generosity, and usually doomed. The circle-of-life, passing the torch theme here makes me ache.
will: i hope you do anyway
noblesavage: i'll get to you next time
judi: ah, i see you read this one in two parts.
jeaux: yes and no. kuzi lacked the true narcissist's self-absorpsion, which is what saved him--in my eyes, anyway.
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