Back Alley Brothers

He wanted both of us. My e had yet to kick in, and I was hesitant. I also never had had sex with my friend although everyone thought we had. My friend was eager and willing. He was in perfect balance with his drugs and alcohol.

I downed a few shots of tequila as the music beckoned dancing and 80s nostalgia. My friend sold our story of two gay brothers that laid with each other biblically. Our admirer admired us even more asking how much he'd have to pay for our attention.

It wasn't new territory to me. It was for my friend. He was a slut not a whore. I was both. So my friend brushed aside price settling with "If both of us like you, there is no cost."

He paid for a few beers hoping to loosen me up knowing I was what was getting between him and his threesome. It didn't work. I was still wound up unable to comprehend having sex with my friend. He is attractive. He just was my "brother".

The old fit man followed us to the next bar with promises that there would be some reward. I wanted nothing to do with him sexually, but I loved teasing. He was frustrated and hard showing it in his agitated voice and through his 501s. My friend chuckled and grabbed.

We were outside next to the bar in a small alley with the fog-lined air blowing hard. He unzipped his pants demanding a blow job saying it was owed to him; he waited long enough. My friend started obliging. I turned and waled away. He only wanted both of us, so he pushed my friend off and zipped up.

My friend and I brushed the story aside as drunken antics, but it started us down a path. One that ultimately resulted in a break-up. He realized I wouldn't want him sexually. I realized he wanted me sexually. Those unspoken desires divide friends, and result in other things better left unsaid.

Friends, Lovers, Fiances, Enemies, Fiances, and Then...

She was wrapped in a towel and freshly showered when I first met her. I was unexpected and met with a nervous giggle that escaped pursed lips. My grandparents were there helping carry luggage as I coughed green and and ran to throw up. She excused herself as we made our way to my new bedroom. The sagging mattress tossed on an industrial metal frame was one of two beds in the large wooden room. It was to be mine although not quite yet.

She reemerged clothed, and my grandparents asked her for a hotel room and a hospital. We departed with a "Thank-you" towards Lombard Street.

I returned a few days later feeling slightly less sick and more consciously aware of the screaming and chair throwing. She wasn't there to greet me. Instead, I was welcomed dryly by the director from his first floor office. His dog yapping should have been a warning cry; I should have heard its pain and story. But my headache made intuition impossible, so I stayed.

Eight months of screams, bites, feces, transformations, trauma, and love occurred. It was abusive and kept me contained fearful of quiet and stillness. I also gained a close, close friend as only abuse and trauma can create: the woman in the towel.

We both stopped working at the same time and became roommates. Then, we became lovers. It was unexpected, familiar, and beautiful. It was also cyclically unhealthy.

After six plus years of being friends, lovers, fiances, enemies, and fiances again, we ended it. She ended it. I accepted it.

For all its abusive start, cyclical middle, and rocky finish, she showed me love. It prepared us for what was next. For her, grad school and a job in economic development. For me, falling in love all over again.

This time I learned: cruising dark alleys is no more riskier than meeting in a group home.

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.

Unexpected Friends

  
They were my friends in college, and thanks to them I see the world differently.

I was the only out queer on campus, though not the only queer. They were not queer but understood. I had more in common with them than the closeted ones. We were action-oriented and , at times, antagonistic.

There was a meeting of the Student Council to determine the policy on LGBTQ issues and clubs. Homosexuality is sinful in the Catholic doctrine. The council was split: half liberal, half conservative. The decision for or against could go any way and would determine if I could keep the LGBTQ club, continue facilitating anti-homophobia trainings, and remain an out student.

They were not a part of the LGBTQ club. Rather, I was a part of their Commitment To Diversity group. They were mostly folks of color dedicated to changing the University of St. Thomas. I was proud they accepted me, and in return I had to confront my privilege and racism.

They were with me at that meeting when I screamed in front of the entire council and their college advisers of professors and priests, "It doesn't matter who I fuck! I deserve the same god damn rights as you!" They applauded. I cried.

That was the beginning of the end of my stay at St. Thomas. I can't remember the outcome of the decision. I was emotionally spent trying to justify my existence and experience to powers that didn't care and active worked against me.

I lost touch with them afterwards, but thought of them often. Then, I joined Facebook. They were and are there. We reconnected.

I admire that they stuck it out. They all graduated and continued on to higher education. It is amazing to see, 14 years later, that we are doing what we set out to do: we are changing the world; we have committed to diversity as a way of life.

Summerfest Shenanigans

  
I was mean in middle school. It was part being near the bottom rung of the social ladder and hormones. Partly, I was just an ass.

Every summer, I went to a non-denominational Christian summer camp called Summerfest. The summer after the eighth grade was the most cathartic. Three thing happened that changed everything. One, I found out that a friend was being abused by her father and repeated the story to an adult so they'd call Child Protective Services. Two, people who were friends in fifth grade but decided to harass me sixth through eighth grade apologized. The third is this story.

We had gone to elementary school together. Then she went to public school. We were friends when we were younger. We both didn't quite fit in, and we were both socially awkward. Both of us were outsiders by the eighth grade. The friends we had when we were younger were no longer friends even though that's what we called them.

This Summerfest, she was there, and because of public school she was now lower on the social ladder than me. She wrote me a love letter -- a passionate, gushing one. Other teens saw it and teased me. They started calling em "Mauve" --  some vague reference to being gay as only teenagers can make. They told me that if I liked her, I had to be a fag. I was desperate to prove otherwise. 

I found the video camera that was chronicling Sumemrfest and stole it. I took the note, one friend, and found a secluded place. We turned on the camera and pressed record.

I jumped in front of the camera and started mocking the love letter. I read it in that annoying voice of a teenager that knows everything. I made fun of her and called her names. I think I even made up a song about how much I hated her.

I put the camera back. No one had missed it. I was proud, momentarily, that my little tirade was recorded for posterity and that it would be seen by other teens. A day later, I regretted everything. I even tried to get the tape back and failed.

I never told anyone else about my actions in hopes the story wouldn't reach her. I'm sure it did. There was a witness after all.

If she is reading this: I am sorry, and thank-you for your current gift of friendship. It is good to know I wasn't and am not the only queer.

Memories Worth Capturing

 
We fought the entire ride up to the North Shore, a total of 3 plus hours. It was a miserable car ride made more embarrassing by having a friend along for the trip. I didn't want her to see this side of my family, this side of me.

We got to the cabin, and it was beautiful and luxurious, something we could only afford because it was owned by a friend of the family. Once there, the fighting ceased for a bit. It picked back up again whenever a decision had to be made. Everyone wanted a hand in decision-making but didn't want to be the one to decide. She removed herself at these times. I wanted to but was too stubborn.

In the spaces between arguments, I drew, wrote, took pictures, and hiked. I had fun. My friend is responsible for these times. She helped me escape.

I thumb through my old notebook and photographs, and I see only these joyful and content moments. They were the only ones worth capturing.

Outcast Like Me

  
I remember him as an outcast just like me, but I think he had it worse. We were neighbors although he didn't live next door. Now that I think about it, everyone on our street was an outsider. We were all striving for something more than we were, wanting to climb and claw up the social and economic ladder.

Growing up there, I thought we were poor. When I visited Pine Ridge Indian Reservation, I saw poverty. We were not poor; we were working class. We were as blue collar as they come, union and all.

He was poor. I remember his mom struggling to put food on the table, and I remember bringing over lunches every now and again. I also remember hating him. He made me look bad, and I didn't need an help in that area.

When no one was looking, we were friends. We'd head over to the Witches' Tree and play spies or cops and robbers or some other boyish game. He took karate. I hated sports. We found that middle ground of imagination.

Remembering him reminds me that we all categorize and compartmentalize. We are taught how at a very early age thanks to money, school, religion, gender boxes, the list continues.

Thanks to necessity, we find ways to blur them.

A Meeting

 
We met at the seminary, but he wasn't a seminarian. I can't remember the exact circumstances; they are unimportant. I don't remember staring at him; he does.

He was short and stocky, North Minneapolis born, straight and straight-laced. I was a suburban boy, freshly out and scared shitless. We were worlds apart in many ways but one: we both knew what is was like to be an other. We became fast friends.