Becoming Andy Hunsinger Read online

  Table of Contents

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of either the author or the publisher.

  Prizm Books an imprint of Torquere Press Publishers

  1380 Rio Rancho Blvd #1319, Rio Rancho, NM 87124.

  Becoming Andy Hunsinger Copyright © 2014 by Jere’ M. Fishback

  Cover illustration by Fiona Jayde

  Published with permission

  ISBN: 978-1-61040-858-5

  www.torquerepress.com

  All rights reserved, which includes the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever except as provided by the U.S. Copyright Law. For information address Torquere Press. Inc., 1380 Rio Rancho Blvd #1319, Rio Rancho, NM 87124.

  First Torquere Press Printing: December 2014

  Printed in the USA

  Becoming Andy Hunsinger

  By Jere Fishback

  “It takes courage to grow up and become who you really are.”

  E. E. Cummings.

  Dedication:

  This book is dedicated to the founders of Florida State University’s Alliance for Gay Awareness. I remember each of you as though I saw you yesterday: Dave, Tony, Wayne, Dwight, Dan, Julie, and Ollie Lee in his colorful jumpsuits. Being yourself back then was never easy, but we stood up for each other and I believe we changed things for the better.

  I truly do.

  CHAPTER ONE

  On my seventh birthday, my parents gave me a Dr. Seuss book, The Cat in the Hat.

  I still have the book; it rests on the shelf above my desk, along with other Seuss works I’ve collected. Inside The Cat in the Hat’s cover, my mother wrote an inscription, using her precise penmanship.

  “Happy Birthday, Andy. As you grow older, you’ll realize many truths dwell within these pages. Much love, Mom and Dad.”

  Mom was right, of course. She most always is.

  My favorite line in The Cat in the Hat is this one:

  “Be who you are and say what you feel because those who mind don’t matter and those who matter don’t mind.”

  ***

  Loretta McPhail was a notorious Tallahassee slumlord. On a steamy afternoon, in August 1976, she spoke to me in her North Florida drawl: part magnolia, part crosscut saw.

  “The rent’s one-twenty-five. I’ll need first, last, and a security deposit, no exceptions.”

  McPhail wore a short-sleeved shirtwaist dress, spectator pumps, and a straw hat with a green plastic windowpane sewn into the brim. Her skin was as pale as cake flour. A gray moustache grew on her winkled upper lip, and age spots peppered the backs of her hands. Her eyeglasses had lenses so thick her gaze looked buggy.

  I’d heard McPhail held title to more than fifty properties in town, all of them cited multiple times for violation of local building codes. She owned rooming houses, single-family homes, and small apartment buildings, mostly in neighborhoods surrounding Florida State University’s campus. Like me, her tenants sought cheap rent; they didn’t care if the roof leaked or the furnace didn’t work.

  The Franklin Street apartment I viewed with McPhail wasn’t much: a living room and kitchen, divided by a three-quarter wall; a bedroom with windows looking into the rear and side yards; a bathroom with a wall-mounted sink, a shower stall, and a toilet with a broken seat. In each room, the plaster ceilings bore water marks. The carpet was a leopard skin of suspicious-looking stains, and the whole place stank of mildew and cat pee.

  McPhail’s building was a two-storied, red brick four-plex with casement windows that opened like book covers, a Panhandle style of architecture popular in the 1950s. Shingles on the pitched roof curled at their edges. Live oaks and longleaf pines shaded the crabgrass lawn, and skeletal azaleas clung to the building’s exterior.

  In the kitchen, I peeked inside a rust-pitted Frigidaire. The previous tenant had left gifts: a half-empty ketchup bottle, another of pickle relish. A carton of orange juice with an expiration date three months past sat beside a tub of margarine.

  Out in the stairwell, piano music tinkled -- a jazzy number I didn’t recognize.

  McPhail clucked her tongue and shook her head.

  “I’ve told Fergal -- and I mean several times -- to close his door when he plays, but he never does. I’m not sure why I put up with that boy.”

  McPhail pulled a pack of Marlboros from a pocket in the skirt of her dress. After tapping out two cigarettes, she jammed both between her lips. She lit the Marlboros with a brushed-chrome Zippo, and then she gave me one cigarette.

  I puffed and tapped a toe, letting my gaze travel about the kitchen. I studied the chipped porcelain sink, scratched Formica countertops, and drippy faucet. Blackened food caked the range’s burner pans. The linoleum floor’s confetti motif had long ago disappeared in high-traffic areas. Okay, the place was a dump. But the rent was cheap, and campus was less than a mile away. I could ride my bike to classes, and to my part-time job as caddy at the Capital City Country Club.

  Still, I hesitated.

  The past two years, I’d lived in my fraternity house with forty brothers. I took my meals there, too. If I rented McPhail’s apartment, I’d have to cook for myself. What would I eat? Where would I shop for food?

  Other questions flooded my brain. Where would I wash my clothes? And how did a guy open a utilities account? The apartment wasn’t furnished. Where would I purchase a bed? What about a dinette and living room furniture? And how much did such things cost? It all seemed so complicated.

  Still...

  Lack of privacy at the fraternity house would pose a problem for me this year. Over summer break -- back home in Pensacola -- I’d experienced my first sexual encounter with another male, a lanky serviceman named Jeff Dellinger, age twenty-four. Jeff was a Second Lieutenant from Eglin Air Force Base. I met him at a sand volleyball game behind a Pensacola Beach hotel, and he seemed friendly. I liked his dark hair, slim physique, and ready smile, but wasn’t expecting anything personal to happen between us.

  After all, I was a “straight boy”, right?

  We bought each other beers at the tiki bar, and then Jeff invited me up to his hotel room. Once we reached the room, Jeff prepared two vodka tonics. My drink struck like snake venom, and then my brain fuzzed. Jeff opened a bureau drawer; he produced a lethal-looking pistol fashioned from black metal. The pistol had a matte finish and a checked grip.

  “Ever seen one of these?” Jeff asked.

  I shook my head.

  “It’s an M1911 -- official Air Force issue. I’ve fired it dozens of times.”

  Jeff raised the gun to shoulder height. He closed one eye, focused his other on the pistol’s barrel sight. “Shooting’s almost... sensual,” he said. Then he looked at me. “It’s like sex, if you know what I mean.”

  I shrugged, not knowing what to say.

  Jef
f handed the pistol to me. It weighed more than I’d expected, between two and three pounds. I turned the pistol here and there, admiring its sleek contours. The grip felt cold against my palm and a shiver ran through me. I’d never fired a handgun, never thought to.

  “Is it loaded?” I asked.

  Jeff bobbed his chin. “One bullet’s in the firing chamber, seven more in the magazine; it’s a semi-automatic.”

  After I handed Jeff the gun, he returned it to his bureau’s drawer while I sipped from my drink, feeling woozier by the minute. Jeff sat next to me, on the room’s double bed. His knee nudged mine, our shoulders touched, and I smelled his coconut-scented sunscreen.

  Jeff laid a hand on my thigh. Then he squeezed. “You don’t mind, do you?”

  I looked down at his hand while my heart thumped. Go on, chickenshit. He wants you. I looked into Jeff’s dark eyes. “It’s fine,” I said.

  Moments later my swim trunks lay in a corner and Jeff knelt before me, slurping away. Currents of pleasure crept through my limbs, and then I felt a buzzing between my legs. When I came, I thought I’d pass out. I closed my eyes and drew a deep breath. Then I watched fireworks explode inside my head.

  Jesus, this feels good. Why haven’t I done this before?

  Thereafter, we rendezvoused several times during summer, always at the same hotel.

  “I get a military discount here,” Jeff explained.

  I quickly learned the basics of male/male sex from Jeff, and each session proved better than the one before. During these meetings, Jeff introduced me to anal intercourse, something I’d never dreamed I would do. The first few times, Jeff took a passive role. But then he asked me to surrender my cherry, and I acceded. Jeff’s initial penetration felt painful, but soon I relaxed, and then I discovered a side of myself I hadn’t known existed. A fullness and warmth crept through my body as Jeff thrust inside me. The whole thing felt so... natural.

  Whenever I lay in bed with Jeff, after sex, I always rested my head on his pectoral, and while I listened to his heartbeat I felt like a guy released from jail. I knew I was queer then -- there was no doubt about it -- and the realization made me feel a bit foolish, like I was the last guy at the party let in on the joke. I was a faggot, a fudge-packer, a butt pirate. My attempts at dating women had been a ruse -- I’d only done it to fit in with my fraternity brothers -- and what a waste of time it had been for all concerned.

  Like most guys, I’d masturbated chronically since my early teens, and now I knew why visions of naked men crept into my thoughts whenever I did so. Now I knew why my friends’ girlie magazines had never held my interest. No wonder showering with my P.E. classmates in high school had thrilled me so.

  It all seems a bit stupid in retrospect. How could I not know I was gay? But in 1976, most guys weren’t in touch with their inner selves. I don’t know why, but we weren’t. Feelings weren’t a topic of male conversation. Emotional needs took a back seat to more “important” matters: achievement, sports, and politics -- “normal” concerns, if you will.

  My summer with Jeff changed all that, for me at least. In the sexual sense, I had found my mother lode. I belonged in the arms of a man -- I would settle for nothing else -- and I was fine with it. But now fall had arrived, and I would live in Tallahassee again. I couldn’t drive to Ft. Walton Beach every weekend. That would mean a three-hour drive on monotonous Highway 90, passing by cow pastures and slash pine forests, just to meet up with Jeff. And how much sense did that make? I needed a boyfriend who lived nearby, and assuming I found one, I would face problems.

  If I remained at the Lambda Chi house, I’d share a room with a fraternity brother, so I’d have no privacy. Plus, the guys at Lambda Chi wouldn’t understand if I dated another male, no way.

  Wasn’t it time I had my own place?

  Now, in her rundown rental apartment, McPhail blew a stream of blue smoke. After the cloud rose to the kitchen’s cobwebbed ceiling, she looked at me with her insect eyes.

  “Well?” she said.

  I studied my shoes and licked my lips. Go on: do it.

  I swung my gaze to my future landlady.

  CHAPTER TWO

  On a Saturday evening, I arrived at the four-plex with a sofa tied to the roof of my Chevy Vega. Two ladder back chairs occupied the back seat, along with a portable TV.

  Already, I’d learned how to buy used furniture.

  “Avoid Salvation Army and thrift shops,” my friend Biff Schultz had told me. “Their stuff’s overpriced. Buy the Friday Democrat, check the classifieds for garage sales. You’ll find stuff cheap if you shop around, and sometimes folks will give you stuff if you show up toward the end of the day.”

  Biff had been my dorm mate our freshman year. At the time he dressed preppy like me, but even then he displayed an irreverent streak. When I asked him to join me in pledging Lambda Chi, he looked at me like I was crazy.

  “I don’t have to buy friends, and I don’t need my ass paddled, either. Go ahead and join if you want, but I have no interest.”

  Now, Biff was a dope-smoking nonconformist. He shared a house with two other guys, both pre-med majors like Biff. They often hosted weekend parties, and the odor of burning marijuana pervaded the rooms of their home.

  I envied the freedoms Biff enjoyed. Sometimes he attended classes barefoot and shirtless. Weekends, he camped in Ocala National Forest with his housemates, or he canoed nearby rivers with his girlfriend. Also, Biff was a dedicated nudist. At home he paraded around in his birthday suit; his cock wagged and his balls swung to and fro. He’d lie on his stomach, on a blanket in his fenced back yard, displaying his beefy butt while he studied a biology text.

  “Clothes are a pain in the ass,” he told me. “Who needs them?”

  Biff’s nudity didn’t seem to bother his roomies -- they hardly seemed to notice -- but it took me a while to adjust to his immodest ways. I found it hard to ignore his muscled butt cheeks and stogie wiener; they made me think indecent thoughts.

  Aye-yi-yi.

  Two weeks had passed since I’d moved into my apartment. Already, I had collected a Barcalounger, a floor lamp, a bookcase, a rocking chair, a card table with folding legs, and two aluminum chairs. I slept on a comfortable, queen-sized bed. All these items had cost me less than fifty dollars total.

  My folks gave me flatware, linens, and kitchen utensils. My grandma gave me her old set of Melmac dinnerware, along with a Betty Crocker cookbook, published in 1952. I opened accounts with the electric and telephone companies, and also joined a food co-op. In exchange for working at the co-op four hours per week, I could buy provisions there at a discount.

  My apartment was not air conditioned, but my folks had given me a box fan. I placed the fan on my bedroom’s windowsill; it kept me cool at night. The place was no Taj Mahal, but it was mine. Finally, I had my independence and privacy. I set the rules in my apartment.

  Now, as I pulled into our little gravel parking area, a couple my age tossed a Frisbee back and forth in our rear yard. The guy was Fergal, the piano player who lived downstairs. The girl I’d never seen. They were both barefooted, and Fergal was shirtless; he wore only blue jeans. Sunlight reflected in marmalade ringlets cascading down his neck. The girl wore cut-off denim shorts and a halter top. Her dark hair grew past her shoulders.

  I’d spoken to Fergal once or twice while toting furniture up the stairwell. His door was usually open, and he’d wave. We had exchanged names -- he’d told me he was Australian and a music major at FSU -- but I didn’t know much more about him than that.

  Now, while I loosened the rope encircling the sofa, he approached. I was six-foot-one, and he was nearly as tall as me, with a slender frame and emerald eyes. A riot of copper-colored freckles danced across his nose and cheeks. His gaze traveled to the sofa, and then he spoke to me in his Aussie accent.

  “Been shopping again, mate?”

  I nodded while untying a slipknot.

  “This thing’s a beast,” I said. “Could you help me with it?”<
br />
  We grunted while maneuvering the sofa up the stairwell. Fergal’s stringy muscles flexed while sweat beaded on his forehead. His chest heaved and his mane of curls bounced here and there as we labored. After we’d positioned the sofa against my living room wall, I offered him a cold beer.

  “Thanks,” he said between breaths, “but I must go ‘cause Gina’s serving me dinner at her place. Some other time, eh?”

  When we descended the stairs, Fergal in the lead, his ass cheeks twitched in his jeans and his shoulder muscles rolled under his freckled skin. Feeling a tingle in my undershorts, I licked my lips while I pondered how it might feel to touch Fergal intimately.

  Then I shook my head.

  Easy, Andy, he may be friendly, but you don’t hit on straight boys.

  ***

  In the mid-1970s, FSU operated on the quarter system: fall, winter, spring, and summer terms. Fall term began the Tuesday after Labor Day. By then, I’d painted all the rooms in my apartment. I had scrubbed the bathroom and even replaced the toilet seat.

  One weekend, my folks visited. They stayed down the street, at the Travel Lodge. My dad hung Venetian blinds at my windows while Mom stocked the kitchen cupboards with things she thought necessary: salt and pepper shakers, a sack of sugar and another of flour, boxes of macaroni and cheese, and Hamburger Helper. She gave me bottles of garlic salt, oregano, black peppercorns, and dried rosemary leaves.

  My folks brought an ice chest from Pensacola, too. They filled my freezer with packages of ground beef, chicken legs, pork chops, catfish fillets, and boxes of frozen vegetables.

  “You’ll need to cook healthy food,” Mom said in her sternest, junior high English teacher voice. “No eating at burger joints.”

  Each day, I spent a half hour with my grandma’s cookbook; I studied culinary techniques: sautéing, searing, steaming, frying, and so forth. At the co-op, I bought cooking oil, vinegar, bread crumbs, spaghetti noodles, and jars of pasta sauce. I visited a discount department store to buy a set of measuring spoons, a spatula, a steam basket, a measuring cup, and a colander. I learned how to fry chicken and catfish, and how to steam fresh vegetables like yellow squash, zucchini, and broccoli.