The Boy in Makeup

Steve admitted he'd never kissed a girl. I was stunned.

"I assumed you'd kissed a lot of girls."

"Nope. Not one. I wouldn't know how."

"Me, either. I've never kissed anyone. Except my mother. And, I'm pretty sure she doesn't count."

Steve stunned me more than before when he suggested we practice on each other.

"Are you serious?" I asked, incredulous.

"Sure. Why not?"

I pounced. "Okay," I said, a little too giddily.

"Should I kiss you first, or should you kiss me first?"

"You should definitely kiss me first," I said.

We both licked our lips. Steve moved toward me, and put his mouth on mine. Electricity shot through me. I felt like I was being struck by lightning. I hated when he broke the kiss.

"Do you think we should try with our mouths open?" he asked.

"Yes," I responded. "I definitely think we should try with our mouths open."

We both licked our lips again. Steve moved toward me, and put his mouth on mine. Electricity shot through me again and again, especially when Steve touched his tongue to mine. I felt like the monster in Young Frankenstein, jarred by bolt after bolt after bolt. I kissed him back as hard and as long as I could.

We spent hours kissing. Just when I thought we'd stop to go to sleep, we started all over again. Neither of us could give it up. It was binge kissing.

It didn't take me long to fall in love with Steve. He became my everything. And, he was happy in the role, at least when it was only me and him. I spent every Friday night at his house. We talked and talked and talked. I told him things I had never told anyone. I told him about my dad, his dad, and his dad's dad. I told him about the tunnels that closed in on me. I told him about the other thoughts that plagued and threatened me.

He listened more than he talked. He assured me everyone shared my thoughts. I knew he was wrong. I knew my thoughts were dire and unique. I never saw in the eyes of other students the fear and vulnerability that I saw in mine each and every time I looked in the mirror.

When he was tired of listening, he shut me up with his mouth and tongue. We kissed those nights away, our tongues exploring every cranny and nook of each other's mouths.

I wanted more, but I also did not want the kissing to end. So, I waited for Steve, fretful that if I acted on my want, he'd back away.

Steve was always the aggressor anyway. He initiated the kissing. When we were sitting, his head was always turned in front of mine. When we were lying down, I was always on my back.

As we kissed, I'd lay there, wondering how far his hand would descend. It never went below my stomach. Sometimes, I'd pull my shirt up so I could feel his warm touch on my bare skin. When I did, it was like being at the top of the ferris wheel, my feet dangling over the edge, nothing but horizon in front of me.

Occasionally, Steve would press against my hip or my thigh, and I could feel him, straining and yearning. I wanted to grab him, release him, take him in my hand or my mouth, and release all that was building up in him.

I never did. Instead, we'd fall asleep with a dull ache in our guts, fear stronger than frustration.

It all came undone over Christmas break. For the first time ever, we ventured out together as friends, seeing the Karate Kid on a Thursday afternoon. Unfortunately, a half dozen or so other kids from PHS had the same idea, and we ran into them in the lobby. They saw us before we saw them, and they called out Steve's name. Steve looked up, said, "Oh, shit," and noticeably stepped away from me. It didn't work. They moved toward us and talked at Steve as if I was not there, expressing surprise at his "date" and wondering aloud how long we'd been "dating." They were having fun, but Steve was not.

In the movie, Steve sat a seat away from me. After the movie, Steve marched to the car, cold and sullen. Neither of us said a word as he drove me home. We certainly didn't hold hands, as we had recently started doing. The next day, Steve was not available when I called. And, he didn't call me back.

I knew the ice beneath us had broken. It was a rupture, not a fissure. As I stared into the mirror, I fell into the frigid water. I didn't try to swim. I let the weight of me push me away from the light. I felt the world go dark. I was in a straight jacket, and I couldn't swim, even if I wanted to. I swear I could taste salt water in my mouth as I shook my head as hard as I could, freeing myself from myself and breaking the surface, seeing the light.

Chapter Four

As the New Year started, I noticed my mother's drinking more and more. She drank a bottle of cheap wine most nights. It was harder and harder to rouse her in the mornings for work. She stopped doing my makeup.

I knew what was going on. When you're a 35 year old woman, your 15 year old son is simply not enough. You need friends and lovers. She had neither. She drank wine instead.

The weekend of Valentine's Day, she went out on Friday night. She didn't come home. She missed work that Saturday. She wasn't home when I went to bed Saturday night.

I heard her fumbling with her keys early Sunday morning. I opened the door to a mess. She was clearly drunk. She had a black eye and a busted lip. Her dress was torn. She was not wearing shoes.

I ran a bath and helped her in. I washed her hair and her face. I held her hair back as she retched. I dried her and led her to bed. I held her and fretted as she slept.

When she woke up, she was surprised it was Sunday and more surprised by the state she was in. She had no idea how she had gotten a black eye or a busted lip. She had no idea how she'd gotten home or where the car was. Or her shoes.

She clearly needed help. She agreed to rehab more easily than I expected. She'd be gone thirty days. I thought I could stay alone. She disagreed. She wondered if perhaps I could impose upon the Lustigs. I said no way. We settled on Lori's.

We packed together. My mother headed to Indianapolis. I headed to the Miller guest room. We would both be changed when the thirty days were over.

Lori and I had a slumber party my first night there, just the two of us. She had sneaked a bottle of her parents' wine, and we drank it and laughed the night away in her bedroom. The irony was not lost on me: my mother was in rehab, and I was drinking stolen wine, tracing her footsteps.

When the wine was gone, Lori suggested that we end our mutual virginities. I was surprised. I had always assumed she knew I was gay, although I had never told her, or anyone else for that matter. I'm not sure I'd ever even said the word out loud.

I did, then, for the first time. "Lori, you know I'm . . . uh . . . uh . . . gay, right?"

"Duh. Everyone knows you're gay."

"I can't have sex with you. You're not a guy."

"I know I'm not a guy. But, I'd like to lose my virginity, and you're my best friend."

I was intrigued. I wouldn't mind knowing what intercourse with a girl was like, for later comparison purposes, if nothing else. But, I wasn't sure that, when push came to shove, so to speak, I'd be able to, well, push. I also was sure Lori was in love with me, and introducing sex into the only friendship I had seemed fraught.

"I don't think I'd be able to do it. And, I'm afraid it would ruin our friendship."

"Have you ever had sex?"

"No."

"Gotten close?"

"Maybe. I'm not sure."

"How can you not be sure?"

I told her about Steve. She didn't believe me at first, but the details convinced her. I thought I could trust her. But, I wasn't sure I cared. Steve had betrayed me, so a little betrayal his direction seemed justified.

Lori was impressed. "Wow," she said. "Steve Lustig. Who'da thunk? Although, there is Lust in his name."

"And in his heart, just like Jimmy Carter."

"Did you touch his dick?"

"No. But he grinded it against my leg a few times."

"Was it big?"

"I don't know. I don't have anything to compare it to."

"You have a dick, ass."

"True. I think it was about the same as mine," I speculated.

"That tells me nothing. You could be hung like a horse or a bug fucker?"

"A bug fucker?" I asked.

"Yes. A guy whose so small he could fuck a bug."

We both cracked up. Lori was awesome. I assured her I could not fuck a bug.

"Why didn't you touch it?" she finally asked. "Or suck it?"

"Fear. Unadulterated, granulated fear."

"What's there to be afraid of? It's not like you could get pregnant."

"Scaring him away. Liking it too much. Falling in love."

"Why'd you two stop?"

I told her the Karate Kid story. Lori captured it quickly.

"He's an ass. I'm glad you didn't touch his dick. He doesn't deserve it."

I felt liberated the next day. Secrets get heavier and heavier as you carry them around, slowing and then dragging you down. It was not a secret that I was gay, but saying it out loud for the first time felt like the releasing of one. And, sharing the secret of Steve made the actuality of it seem more real.

*****

My mother was transformed when she retrieved me from the Miller's. Her eyes were clear, her skin glowed, and her merriness had returned.

She embraced AA. She made amends to me, which I told her wasn't necessary. She assured me it was for her, not for me.

I took advantage of the solemnity of the conversation to come out to her. Saying it out loud the second time was easier than the first. There was no hitch in my voice, no faltering over the words. It was just "Mom, I'm gay." Plainly and simply.

"I know," she responded. "I've always known."

"Gosh, you could have said something."

"I wasn't going to tell you something you weren't ready to know. I figured you'd figure it out and let me know when it was okay for me to know what I knew. Which, I assume, it is now."

"It is."

"Okay. I have only one request. Be safe. I've been to too many funerals. I can't bear another one. I just can't."

She started to cry, so I did, too. We cried for my dad, long gone. We cried for my childhood, just ended.

Chapter Five

That Summer, I grew into a man. The fuzz on my face turned to hair. The thin, fine hair under my arms, on my chest, and in my crotch coarsened and thickened. I grew to almost six feet. I filled out, including between my legs. If I had cut my hair short, I'd have been Billy Idol's double.

Somehow, I got a job working at one of Mr. Lustig's plants. I spent my days loading boxes onto pallets and pallets onto trucks. I sweated. I got sore. I thinned where I should and filled out where I wanted. My ass and shoulders rounded. My chest thickened. My arms and legs rippled.

For some reason, I made $5 per hour, almost fifty percent more than the minimum wage. I saved every cent. When the summer was over, I gave over $1,500 to my mother to add to her checking account. She tried to refuse it, but I refused her refusal. She, too, was stubborn and willful, but her stubbornness and willfulness was nothing compared to mine.

My increased stature did not change my status at PHS. As the year started, I confirmed what everyone already knew and came out. It caused quite a ruckus. Some parents wanted me expelled. The priest at St. Mary's refused to give me communion, even though my mother and I had been attending every Sunday since I could remember. The town judged her, callously concluding she was to blame for my homosexuality, as if a little makeup and a wig can transform a straight boy into a queer man. They assumed I'd have stayed straight if my father had not killed himself and been around to be a "male influence." They didn't care or understand that I'd never been straight, that I'd never been attracted the least bit to a girl, that, from the first time I knew what an attraction was, it was toward a boy, or that some straight boys like wigs and makeup and some gay boys like guns and sports. Their assumptions betrayed their ignorance. Their ignorance was unshakeable.

Our isolation increased. At least I had Lori. My mother had no one, or so I thought. I did notice that money was less of an issue than it had been, even before I was able to contribute. I also noticed my mother being gone more, at odd times.

I finally asked her about it. We were still best friends, and I wanted to know what was going on with her.

I was gobsmacked when she told me she was having an affair with Henry Lustig, Steve's father. She had been for months. Her guilt had sent her in search of the bottom of the bottle. She had ended that search, but not the affair.

It had started on Thanksgiving night. While Steve and I were making out in the family room, Mr. Lustig had seduced my mother while his wife slept down the hall. They'd been sleeping together since, whenever they could. And, he'd been helping her out with money.

Mrs. Lustig either didn't know or didn't care. She'd long ago lost interest in her husband and their marriage. She liked her house and her things and her trips, and her marriage was nothing other than the means to all of them.

I tried not to judge my mother. I wouldn't have tolerated any judgment from her about anything I was doing, so I couldn't burden her with any of my own.

Instead, I told her about Steve, about the kissing, and about the end of it all. She responded only that Steve "had too much of his mother" in him, preoccupied with what other people think.

We found it funny that, while I was falling in love with Steve, she was falling in love with his father. Steve was the youngest of the Lustigs's children, and his father assured my mother that he planned to leave Steve's mother for mine when Steve left for college. Until then, they were content to sneak around.

I doubted Mr. Lustig's assurances. I assumed my mother was not the first and would not be the the last woman to receive that assurance from him.

With me now in the loop, Mr. Lustig was free to visit our apartment, which he did regularly. He parked behind the building and entered through the back door. Every once in awhile, he dined with us. I liked him. He seemed real, especially with my mother. I thanked him for the job and for the extra money, both of which I now understood. He asked me what had happened between me and Steve. I didn't tell him.

Usually, I saw him only briefly. He'd enter through the back door and I'd leave through the front. I didn't want to hear what I knew they were doing during those visits.

Lori and I started traveling to Chicago some Saturday nights. There, we could sneak into Berlin, a dance club that allowed boys who looked like me in regardless of our ages. We'd dance the night away and then sleep in her car before heading back to Paris. We referred to Chicago as heaven and to Paris as hell.

"Are we going to heaven this weekend?" I'd ask.

"No, we're stuck in hell," she'd reply. Or, "St. Peter, here we come! Swing those pearly gates wide open!"

Berlin was mostly gay. It took us a long time to work up the courage to go in, but, once we did, we quickly became comfortable with the scene. Men often bought me drinks, and I'd insist they buy one for Lori, too. They asked if she was my hag. I assured them she was.

More than once, a man offered us a place to stay for the night. I knew what those offers were for, and I wasn't ready for it. One, I carried Paris with me, so I thought AIDS was everywhere, and it was difficult to get any true information about the "gay cancer." Two, I had an atavistic streak, and I didn't want my first time to be with a random stranger just looking for a quickie with a hot kid.

Lori disagreed with me. She urged me to spread my wings. And my seed. She thought I should sow and sow and sow, so long as I was careful about it.

I came close only once. His name was Mark, and he was stunning. He was older and professional. He wore a suit. He was dark and tall. He smiled broadly. And a lot.

He cruised me from the across the club. I cruised him back. He made his way toward me. I had never made my way toward anyone. He introduced himself and bought me a drink. He asked me to dance. He wondered aloud where I'd been hiding. And, when I thought it couldn't get any better, he kissed me. Right there, in the middle of the dance floor, like it didn't matter that others were watching.

We were soon in a cab headed to his Gold Coast condominium, Lori in the front seat while we made out in the back. My walls were coming down when he mentioned that we'd have to leave early in the morning, before his wife got home. The walls went back up. The idea of having sex with someone's husband struck me as wrong, and it doused the lust that had propelled me into that cab.

As we drove back toward Paris, I felt the first pangs of disgust at what my mother was doing. If I knew better than to sleep with another woman's husband, she certainly should have.

As Lori drove, the lines in the center of the road starting coming at me faster and faster and faster. I couldn't catch my breath or control my thoughts. I realized my Saturday night away made my mother's lie easier to live out. I was a conspirator in her pretense. I wanted to open the car door and fling myself out. I took the door handle in my hand. It was cold, but comforting. It would be so easy . . . .

Lori knew me. I heard the locks triggered.

I told Lori I couldn't go to Berlin any more. I could not be part of the conspiracy. She understood. She knew my demons and how they worked. She knew I was always on the edge, looking down, my toes dangling. She pulled me back.

Chapter Six

I turned 18 the summer before my Senior year. When my father committed suicide, I failed to finish the grade I was in. I had to repeat it, which meant I was a year behind where I should have been.

I noticed Evans Fowler immediately on our first day back in school. He was new, and new was notable in our town, but especially in our high school. The week before, the Fowlers had moved from St. Louis. Evans' father was managing the largest plant in town, dispatched from St. Louis to modernize it and make it more productive and profitable.

Evans had black hair that was spiked on top and longer in back, black eyes, a thin nose, and thick, red lips. He reminded me of Rob Lowe in the Outsiders.

He was also built. He was 6'2", taller than me by two inches. He was broad shouldered, thick chested, and thick thighed. He was a football player. In St. Louis, he had been the starting quarterback on his private school's team. If he hadn't been new, he'd have been the starting quarterback on our team. Since he new, small minds meant he would not even be part of the team, much less a starter.

He was in my homeroom. Naturally, there was an empty desk next to mine. He slid in. He was not dressed like everyone else. His clothes were elegant, not common. And certainly not from Penney's. Or Sears.

He held out his hand. "I'm Evans," he said. "Evans Fowler."

"It's nice to meet you Evan, I'm Eric. Eric Akers."

"It's Evans, not Evan. There's an S on the end. Please don't call me Evan."

"Okay. So long as you don't call me Erics."

"I won't," he said, flashing a bright, easy smile.

The bell rang, and we were off. By the end of the day, girls were plotting ways to land Evans, and boys were plotting ways alienate or outdo him. It depended on their place at PHS.

Evans seemed to move above and beyond it all. He was distant, but polite. The first weekend of school, he was notably absent from the football game. I was absent, too, but not notably.

Monday morning, girls surrounded his desk, chirping. "Where were you Friday?" "How was your weekend?" "Where'd you go Saturday?" I could smell the estrogen. It was nauseating.

When the bell rand and they scattered, Evans leaned over to me. "Dude, you coated it on too thick this morning. It looks better when it's subtle."

I raised my eyebrows at him.

"Your makeup. . . . It looks better when it's a little more subtle."