1-976-THERAPIST

(This was reposted in November 2011 at In Our Words: A Salon for Queers and Company.)
  

I was sent to a counselor in the eighth grade to cure me of my homosexuality. Obviously, it didn't work. I am a happily queer man.

The signs were there for many years before -- my favorite sport (and the only one I played for an extended period of time) was gymnastics, I was in musical theater, my dad walked in on me playing with a boy's prick -- but were denied or not acknowledged. They were the types of things that just made me flamboyant or weird. My family was fine with weird. In fact, from old stories told by my dad and his mother, I'm positive my dad was also labeled weird in school. Being a fag was something else entirely.

It became too hard to deny when I was in the eighth grade because of a large telephone bill my grandma received. Grandma got me a job washing dishes a the Catholic retreat center at which she cooked. It was a weekend job, and my dad worked at the grocery store right next to it. When dad was working, it could sometimes be a couple of hours before I got a ride home. So I'd walk to grandma's for the afternoon. She often still had cooking duties, so I would sit in her apartment fiddling with the organ, flipping television channels, or raiding her fridge for a ham and Miracle Whip sandwich.

Her apartment was filled with bric-a-brac -- free calendars with birds from gas stations, glass candy dishes, needlepoint wall hangings, Reader's Digest, lace doilies -- and the flowery air of old people, a combination of rose and gardenia and lavender, permeated her home. It was filled with things that wouldn't entertain a thirteen year old boy raging with hormones and extremely horny.

One afternoon while walking to grandma's apartment, I picked up a copy of the alternative weekly paper -- the kind with the personals in the back -- hoping to pass the time masturbating in her bathroom. She was still at work, and I let myself in. I settled in by making something to eat and relaxing on the arm chair watching People's Court or The Jeffersons. I flipped through the paper lingering on the picture of half naked men (the escort page) and on the "men seeking men" and "women seeking men" personal ads. I got hard and stupid and noticed in between the pictures and the ads a 1-976 number for a gay chat line complete with a code for a free trial offer. The tingling sensation in my head urged me to pick up the phone and dial, justifying, "No one would ever know it is me as long as I hang up before the trial ends."

I took the telephone in to the bathroom -- I was smart enough to know I didn't want grandma walking in on me wanking -- slowly dialed, and listened to the instructions. I came five seconds later to the automated voice telling me to record my name. I hung up and was immediately addicted to anonymity and risk.

Picking up the paper for a new "free trial code", dialing the number, and whacking off in the bathroom passed many afternoons. I became so obsessive that I didn't notice that the free trial was over. I was lost among anonymous liberation and sexual fantasies.

One evening, I overheard my parents talking about a large phone bill grandma received. I know I would be outed if I didn't do something, so I started plotting and planning how to get out of it. Crazy ideas about calling grandma and pretending to be customer service from Man Chat ran through my head. Here's how I imagined it would go:

"Hello. Is Mrs. Wyman there," I'd ask in my best imitation of a man's voice.

"Yes, this is her. How can I help you?" She'd reply innocent and old.

"It seems that there has been a mix up on our end, and you have been inaccurately charged for calls placed to Man Chat."

"Really?"

"Yes. We will clear your account momentarily. It may take up to two months to show up on your phone bill. Please forgive us for any confusion or headache."

"Oh. Okay. Take care and have a nice day."

And she would accept it all as fact and hang up the phone. Then, I'd collect all my paychecks, pay the bill, and no one would be the wiser.

I never got the courage to make that call. Nor would my grandma have just accepted that explanation. She would want to know why the mistake happened in the first place. I probably could have thought of something, but I was afraid everyone would see through it and figure out it was me.

Even without that call, they did figure out it was me, and I was confronted. My parents were confused and crying. One of them called the number and found out what it actually was. They were not going to have a fag in the family. It was sinful and punishable by a fiery torment in hell. All of us were Catholic, and nothing was going to jeopardize that.

My parents found a counselor. They ushered me an ultimatum: see the counselor and stop being queer or get kicked out of the house. I was thirteen and opted for "stop being queer".

We drove to the therapist's in silence. I sat in the back of our paneled station wagon terrified and practicing my responses.

"No sir. This is just a phase. I am not attracted to men. I like tits. Yes, it will never happen again. Really, I don't like men. Well, yes...but only as friends. Girls. I like girls."

All three of us met the the counselor first. He told us he was recently on Oprah and was an excellent and trusted family therapist. My parents outlined the problem and what needed curing. He just listened, and then he told them he needed one-on-one time with me. They left the room, my mother crying, my dad silent.

Once the door closed behind them, the therapist looked at me with his brown eyes and messy hair and said, "Contrary to what your parents say, homosexuality is nothing to be cured."

I stared at him dumbfounded, mouth slightly open. Here was a chance to finally say it. I bordered on tears and the ultimatum reverberated through my head. I responded with waht I practiced in the car.

He excused me from his office with the diplomas and certificates and picture with Oprah and asked me to send in my parents. They exited five minutes later and we all hopped back into the rusted station wagon with the slightly flat tires.

I don't know what he said to them, but I wasn't kicked out or sent back. It was another five years before I had the nerve to say I was gay and another seven after that to finally admit to my family I was queer.

The second and third time around they were more prepared and accepted me for me. Time and distance are forces that change people, circumstances, and situations. Fortunately, my family changed in a manner that opened their hearts and minds. For that I am grateful.

My grandma forgave me for racking up the phone bill, and met my soon-to-be husband many years later. I'll never forget the way her eyes lit up when she met him. She smiled the way grandmothers smile when they know you've found "the one". She was in her wheelchair and asked me to sit by her. She grabbed my arm and looked at me.

"Jason. He sure is handsome. You've found a lovely and nice man. I love you, and I wish you all the love you deserve."

That was the last conversation I had with her before she died.

Questions to Queer

I never asked to be queer, but it is through questions that I found it.

Gay 90's on Roller Skates

  
There was a drag queen who always performed on roller skates at the Gay 90's. She lived in my building off of Loring Park and threw amazing parties. I cherished our friendship and her shaved eyebrows. It was a casual friendship one with only a greeting as we passed each other coming and going from the apartment complex.

One night, I snuck in to the Gay 90's to see her perform. All I remember was disco and yellow and the feeling that I'd love to be a drag queen. It scratched the itch of theatrics. I wanted to hide the still quivering and shy boy of winter behind the loud color of an illusive summer. Sometimes I still want to be an illusion.

True to Self

  
If I had to pick a religion or a spiritual path, it would be Taoism. But I am loathe to pick just one. I do not believe in mono-, poly-, pan-, or a- theism. I do not believe in a singular way to truth. Rather, I believe in being true to your self.

I set down this path after reading Stephen Mitchell's translation of the Tao Te Ching in 1997. Every year, I pick up that dogeared book and reread it cover to cover. I highlight or underline passages that spark my interest or raise a question. Over the years, different passages resonate. It is amazing to tangibly see how a year of life's experiences change resonance, mark the passage of time, and shift perception. In that way, Taoism is a rock firmly beneath my feet. It helps me find truth in who I am.

Little Luncheonette of Drag Queens

  
In the eighth grade, I was in Little Luncheonette of Terror. It was a spoof of Little Shop of Horrors for theatre companies and schools too poor to purchase the rights to the more famous musical. The jumpsuit I wore was detailed with bubble wrap spray painted a bright leaf green to give the impression of some swamp thing from outer space. My face was also painted a verdant green with black grease accents on my nose and eyes. It was my first starring role. I was thrilled.

While I no longer perform in musicals (Did I really think I could sing?), the flair for the dramatic, theatrical, and illusion live with me. It is why I still love wigs and make up and drag queens.

The Not So Silent Signs

He came all over my retainer when I was 11. Right after, my dad caught us doing the deed. None of us have ever spoken about the incident ever again. These are the not so silent signs that your life is queer.

What's Queerer?

  
It is a weird thing to find yourself one of a finite number. 18,000. My husband and I are one of 18,000 couples. What's queerer:

Being segregated from your own community by date?

Or not having these rights at all?

Or being a part of an institution that still doesn't recognize you?

Or believing that that institution has any validity or bearing on who I am?

Or not giving a fuck and claiming your own freedom?

Seeing More Than Gay

She was the love of my life for six plus years. I am queer because of my love for her. I was no longer gay because I loved the feel of her smooth, supple body next to me -- the way her breasts pushed against my back. She was not the first. She was the catalyst. I am forever indebted to her for showing me so much more than gay.

The Seminarian Visits

He visited me often after I left the seminary. Partly, I pitied him. Partly, I loved him. His conflict and turmoil excited me. His willingness to let go gave me power. I never wanted to give that up. But his tears finally washed away my contempt, and we had to say good-bye. I never forget him. I hope he forgives me.

The Church of Rocky Horror

   
It all started innocently and ended maliciously. I loved the movies, especially the trashy midnight ones at the Uptown Theater. Mostly, it was the Rocky Horror Picture Show complete with a live, d-list cast performing along with the film. It was divine -- filled with smut, nudity, and fornication. This was my new church.

The seminarians said they loved Rock Horror even though that week they were trashing Priest. It was a lie. I knew. So I invited them to a showing that Saturday. Pride said yes, and the mischievous trickster smiled.

I arrived at the Uptown before everyone else. I told the performers about the special guests. My friends sat far away from me giggling. The seminarians arrived, and I showed them to their seats. The spectacle started and no seminarian, except me, stayed for the climax.

Now I Am...

There was a time when I was gay. There was a time when I was straight. Now, I am queer.

Media Memories

  
I have memories of Star Wars and Scooby Doo and of being so afraid of snakes I had to leave Raiders of the Lost Ark. I remember Family Ties, Who's the Boss, and Facts of Life. I remember the not too distant future of Fahrenheit 451, the mythic past of Dracula, and the land of the Wild Things. And they rattle and reassemble themselves as pieces of my history more real and tangible than actual memories for I have revisited them more frequently than the memories of fights, arguments, and tempers. Yet they are not real, which reminds me that the fights, arguments, and tempers might be real, but they are not truth.

Moments of Coming Out

  
There are moments of rebellion of taking risk, fate, and chance and mixing them into a combustible concoction set to explode at a moments notice. Those are the moments of coming out of being who you are regardless of what others think. Those are the moments you know love. I've had many of those moments. For that, I am grateful.

Crying under the Stairs

  
She could be found often under the stairs or in the tiny space behind the bathroom that wasn't finished, and often she was crying. I visited her there to calm her and reassure her that everything was going to be okay. And after she was comforted and returned upstairs, often I stayed behind and cried.

The Boy Who Loved Snow Angels

 
There was this boy that loved making snow angels. He plopped right down in the freezing snow without a care in the world and energetically moved his arms and legs back and forth. He'd get up, look at his work, and then make another. By the time he was tired, there were dozens of snow angels, and he was sopping wet. That boy is now a man and hates the cold and the snow. He never makes snow angels. But the memory still makes him warm.

"This Sucks!"

 
She was my girlfriend in the ninth or tenth grade. I can't exactly remember, and it doesn't really matter. She was shorter than me with ashy blond hair that fell to the middle of her back. She liked me a lot. She also wanted to lose her virginity. I did not.

She came over to my house because my parents were at work. My siblings were elsewhere, occupied. She threw me on the bed and pulled down my pants. Hers were already off. My penis touched her labia -- wet and sticky. I screamed "No." She yelled, "Yes." I was inside her.

"This sucks," she said, climbed off, and left.

I laid there violated.

The next day she broke up with me. She never knew that after she left I sat there with a knife to my wrist all night long. I was relieved she broke up with me because it meant I could put the knife away Little did I know that that wasn't the first or last knife.

The First Coming Out

  
I came out as gay when I was in seminary. I remember going into seminary already questioning myself. I was attracted to boys/men at a very young age. In fact, I can't remember a time when I didn't like boys. All of the social stigma that still exists around being LGBTQ existed then, and I knew I couldn't say anything. Sure there were glimpses of my latent homosexuality -- I called 1-976 numbers when I was in 8th grade from my grandma's phone thinking I wouldn't get caught. But that didn't mean I would verbally admit to those attractions.

Coming Out Again, and Again, and Again

  
I came out at 18, but also at 8, 13, and again at 23. Each time, I found a new piece of myself and lost another. It was a constant opening and shutting of doors, of answering different people's knocks in the early morning hours. Partially, it has been about me and my identity. Partially, it has been about conforming to others' constructs. It is a vacillation between breaking free and being bound. In reality, I am still coming out. I always will.

Priestly Bathroom Encounters

  
Father Paul claimed he talked to God and divined his greatness. It was Father Paul that recruited me in to seminary. He approached me one day to talk about why I was there, about the trouble I was causing by being who I was. "Jason, my son, can you tell me why you are here?"

"To be closer to God, Father. I want to be a priest." I replied.

"Well my son, I am afraid you can't be a priest because of who you are. I think you should leave the seminary," he said.

I saw Father Paul a few months later in a public bathroom cruising for sex.

The god of the Library

  
God always visited me in the library ever since I was a little boy checking out the How to Draw books. It wasn't the God I was raised with -- the God of the Trinity, the God of morning prayer. This was the god of exploration, knowledge, information -- the god that lead me to the wonderful 100 section of the Dewey Decimal System and to the photographs of Robert Mapplethorpe and Nan Goldin. It was the god that didn't care about redemption. Rather, it cared about love. It was the god I couldn't find at seminary, so I came out and left.

One Semester Seminary

   
I was raised Catholic. Very Catholic. In fact, I went to seminary to be a priest when I was 18. I only lasted one semester. It was the most insightful and informative four and a half months of my entire life. I would never change that experience. I would also never relive it.

Morning Prayer Revelations

  
Morning prayer was a ritual and requirement, and every morning I reluctantly attended hoping I would be forgiven of all that took place the day and night before. Instead, I was greeted by my fellow seminarians with "Hey fag, you shouldn't be here." Or "Look at that fucking queer." The ones who visited at the early morning hours were the loudest, especially him with the confederate flag. These men were and are the future of the Church.

Early Morning Faggot

 
He knocked on my door at 3am. I was sound asleep, dreaming of possibilities of freedom and openness. I awoke to "Faggot! Open up!" And possibilities faded to the four confining walls of my dorm room.

I opened the door knowing the seminarian with the confederate flag and constant hate speech was on the other side waiting impatiently for his early morning blow job. I complied.

Coming Out Day Connection

  
We first met at a Coming Out Day celebration at the University of Minnesota, but he doesn't remember it. He was part of the event team and was busy meeting all of the attendees. I was there alone trying to figure things out.


We met again at a state-wide conference to help craft the lgbtq agenda. I was a tragic mess. I was extremely poor and got there because my ex-boyfriend helped organize the event. I was supposed to be volunteering.

Instead, I drank and made a fool of myself. I grabbed the microphone and performed horrible songs and dance routines. At one point, I serenaded him. That is how we started our now 13+ years of friendship.

High School Halloween

 
I went to high school as Marilyn. It was Spirit Week. I didn't care what would happen, but I feared the worst.

I forgot that I had a site visit scheduled. She came from Washington, D.C., to ask questions about our federally-funded program. She couldn't get past the red vinyl pants, army jacket and cap, the three ratty wigs piled on top of each other, or the gothed-out make-up. She laughed the entire time. It ended with a great report.

Later, a student visited me in my office. He was Dracula -- face painted white, blood red lips, plastic fangs, polyester cape, and black pants and t-shirt. "Thanks," he said. "You make it okay for me to be in this."

I smiled and skipped as I walked home that evening. Everyone loved the costume, even the principal. As I was crossing the pedestrian bridge over the 101, my pants split wide open. I laughed hysterically. It felt fabulous being my self and not giving a fuck.

Surviving Faith

  
She saved my life even though she doesn't know it. It was her depression that did it. I saw her hurting and sad, and it reminded me of something. I felt resonance deep within my bones, right near the marrow. We became friends, boyfriend/girlfriend, acquaintances, lovers, and dear, dear friends.

The fact that she survived meant I could too. Her resilience inspired and inspires me. Her faith seeps out into the places and relationships around and beyond her. And when I feel that feeling in my marrow, I remember her, and I am hopeful.

First Grade Fondle

   
We first fondled each other when we were in kindergarten or the first grade at a sleepover when everyone else was asleep. I was excited. He was excited. It felt good.

We continued fondling each other through the eighth grade. Then puberty stopped it. It was no longer childhood innocence and exploration. It was sex and sin.

We ended up at the same college. One afternoon, he knocked on my door and asked to talk. He wondered if what we did as children made him gay. I said, "No. It was just childhood innocence and exploration." He smiled and asked me not to talk about it ever again. And we never spoke of it or to each other again.

The Saviors in San Francisco

 
They were my saviors, though not in any religious or co-dependent sense. They were the ones who helped me find gay San Francisco and provided the resources to be a part of it. They gave me a job go go dancing in all of their clubs. They invited me to all the parties. They brought over food when I was starving. They provided the drugs.

One night at one of their clubs, another boy came up to me and said, "You know they're going to get tired of you. You're just fresh meat."

I responded, "I don't give a fuck. I'm having fun now."

And they did tire of me. I also tired of them. Well...I didn't really tire of them, I was falling for one of them. They were and are a couple, and I knew I had no chance in hell.

I still see them about the City, and I smile each time. I am whisked back to the podiums and bar tops, the flashing lights and pounding bass, the mesh Calvin Kleins, the free drinks, the easy sex. I am not that person any more, but boy do I enjoy him.

Marilyn Discovered

 
Her name was Vamp. Then it was Wednesday. Now, I am not quite sure what it is. To me, she will always be Vamp. Her class and perfect make-up, her gothic look with lace and rock and roll remain with me.

I still look for her in clubs when I can muster the energy to go out. Sometimes, I see her perched against a wall with a tall cocktail in her gloved hand, the straw twitching from her impatient tongue. Most of the time I don't find her.

She was the one who discovered Marilyn. It wasn't my first time in drag. It was the best. It was Halloween in San Francisco.

Paved Memories

There was a Witches' Tree -- old and dieing with long, dry spindly branches surrounded by sumac and tall grasses -- to which I escaped. I ran up the trunk and grabbed the nearest branch hoping it wouldn't snap beneath my weight. I climbed the tree with a satchel over my shoulder and ground a comfortable spot to sit. Then I wrote. Mostly it was nonsense or fantasies about being Jacob Wetterling.

The Witches' Tree was felled for a parking lot expansion, and the small woods that surrounded it was also torn down. The smell of composting earth is gone; the rough bark that scraped my knuckles is gone; the sticky resin of sumac is gone.

I visit this space frequently because it reminds me that nature is as temporary as childhood memories, and childhood memories are as easily paved over.

My First Gay Kiss

 
He wasn't my first boy-boy kiss. He was my first gay kiss. I was researching a project on LGBTQ discrimination for a sociology class and ended up at the queer center at the University of Minnesota. He was the receptionist or something like that.

We sat on the couch in the lobby surrounded by windows passionately making out. In retrospect, our degree of making out on that couch was tacky. At the time, it was hot. We were both exhibitionists.
We exchanged numbers, and eventually I went over to his house to continue our passion. I mistook passion for love.

He opened the door and led me upstairs. We immediately picked up where we left off. Suddenly, he was on top of me, condom over his prick, my pants around my ankles, ass in the air.

"No. No! NO!" I screamed.

He didn't listen. My ass burned. It was my first time.

I wish I turned and slapped him.

Lovers Become Friends

  
We met at a Catholic retreat designed to manipulate emotions and destroy your ego in an effort to find Christ. I remember seeing her for the first time so clearly: her hair curly, a brownish-blonde, and cut below the shoulders; her beauty marks on her distinguished face; her lighting of candles. I loved her instantaneously.

Gone are the curly locks, now replaced by short straight hair. More prominent are the distinguished beauty marks. Instead of wax candles and Christ, she lights the fire of spirituality in anyone she comes into contact with.

We are no longer lover. We are dear, dear friends. I still love her.

Hot Tub Terror

 
The hot tub was large filled with tepid water and small coves for hook-ups. The lights were dim covering everything in a fog that blurred distinguishing features. The music was typical gay house music played at a level that made conversing impossible. None of us were there to talk.

He approached me from across the hot tub. He wasn't the first of the night or the last in the hot tub.

We kissed and caressed. He slipped inside me. His cock unsheathed. He came and slipped out.

I waded over to another cove shaking. Everything I knew about safer sex gone. I was in ecstatic terror.

It took me months before I could muster the strength to get tested.

Just Weird

 
I was called "faggot", "fag", and "fucking queer" from the sixth grade on. Before that, I was just "weird".

Fallen Towers

 
He was aware of the crash before it happened. It is why he woke up early that morning and turned on the television. There it was: two skyscrapers burning, billowing with smoke, crumbling to the ground. Immediately, he called his director to see what to do about program that afternoon. It was closed she said. He stayed glued to the television watching people jump to their deaths, and he knew everyone else was doing the same thing including the youth in his program.

He cried not only for the loss of life but also for the loss of innocence.

The next day he realized innocence was lost way before the towers fell.

Walking through the Tenderloin

  
Traveling through the desert brings me peace. There is something about the distant horizon, sand, and sunlight that illustrates both possibility and desolation. The landscape balances my optimist and pessimist.

The ocean does the same thing. So does looking at a star-filled sky. So does walking through the Tenderloin.

Introducing Chicken Boy

 
I worked the Renaissance Faire in bright, bright red tights, royal blue puffy shorts, a peasant shirt, and a purple velour cape all mad by my granny. Chicken Boy they called me because the tights accentuated my bowed legs, my voice cracked and garbled, and I was full of nervous energy. Buses pulled in filled with tourists, and we'd hop on telling them what to expect in our best, which were really horrible, British accents. At some point, one of my fellow actors would scream "Chicken Boy", and I'd cluck and flap my arms up and down the aisle in an old school Chicken Dance sort of way.

Chicken Boy was my role for two falls. I made it, and it made me. He's still somewhere inside me, and he comes out when I'm smashed. It's how I ended up in the middle of the street at 1am drunk off 12 glasses of red wine refusing to listen to anyone.

Hormones Raging

  
She had the biggest breasts I had ever seen, and it made me hard. The kind of hard only a pre-pubescent boy knows. She was two years my senior and a little more knowledgeable in the ways of sexual exploration. We became fast friends.

My hormones raged, and soon our friendship morphed into lovers. We'd hide in the Green Room when all the other actors were on stage and the crew was busy building sets. She'd throw off her shirt and unsnap her bra. I'd start fondling her. We'd both giggle.

One time my hormones took control, and I was unzipping her pants. She said no. I couldn't and didn't listen. She slapped me.

I returned to my body, my hormones subsiding.

That was the end of our relationship. It was the beginning of my understanding of power and control. I was afraid. So was she.

"and we're in love"

She came out to her parents.

"What? Isn't he gay," they asked.

"No," she said. "He's queer, and we're in love."

The Broken Up Silk Road

 
We were in China with her parents, and we were broken up. Her parents didn't know. They had already paid for the entire trip.

We traveled the northern route of the Silk Road by train. We had a compartment to ourselves.
It was a difficult to be in a foreign country traveling with your ex and her parents and sharing close quarters. We made it work. We had sex. We even enjoyed the trip.

Upon returning state-side, everything changed. I resented her. If we were broken up, I couldn't continue sharing close quarters. I loved her too much.

She resented me too. We were trapped just like before the break up. So I took off for Des Moines for a week.

It was the best decision I've ever made.

The Undercover Condom Distributor

  
I love mischief. I wasn't popular in middle school. Who is? But I was desperate for friends. I went to the local drug store and stole condoms.

I was a huge kleptomaniac. It was exhilarating getting away with it, but looking back they probably knew and just didn't say anything. Such are the privileges of being white and growing up in suburbia: the authorities are way more forgiving.

I had no intention of using the condoms for sex, although I was highly sexually active. Instead, I used them as leverage for friendship. I was the condom dealer, except the other students used them for water balloons.

Somehow a tip of an exploded condom ended up in Sister Nancy's hands. That was the end of my days as an undercover condom distributor.