Becoming Andy Hunsinger Page 3

  But I never saw my fraternity brothers now. I had placed myself on “inactive status” with Lambda Chi, meaning I didn’t have to pay social dues. I avoided the house entirely and rarely heard from the guys there. Frankly, I was through with Greek life. I wasn’t part of my fraternity’s day-to-day rhythm, and now, in retrospect, the whole thing seemed a bit immature.

  I wasn’t a kid anymore, was I?

  In 1976, gay bars didn’t exist in Tallahassee. But one establishment, the Pastime Tavern on Tennessee Street, offered a gathering spot for gay men, both students and townies. The size of five tennis courts, The Pastime had a U-shaped bar and a dozen pool tables in the rear. A woman known as “Miss Kitty” ran the place. She sold half-gallon pitchers of Budweiser for three dollars, and bags of peanuts roasted in the shell for a quarter. Cigarette smoke in the bar grew so thick you couldn’t see across the room. The men’s toilet stank like an outhouse. Ammonia pucks resting in the urinals did little to lessen the rankness. The sink was rust-stained, and my shoe soles always stuck to the linoleum floor whenever I entered. The paper dispenser in the toilet stall rarely held paper. Above a battered condom machine someone had scrawled an observation with a felt-tipped pen.

  “This gum chews mighty tough.”

  I spent considerable time at The Pastime my senior year at FSU, and never once saw a fraternity jersey there. The place catered to nonconformists of every stripe: hippies, bikers, musicians, local artisans, and so forth. Gay boys gathered on the left side of the bar; they occupied stools or sat at tables with brimming ashtrays. They smoked cigarettes and sipped from beer glasses. Broken peanut shells littered the concrete floor around them.

  The gays drank and talked while scrutinizing one another. Cruising for sex was a subtle process at The Pastime: guys didn’t touch one another; they only exchanged glances or conversed in lowered voices. Then, around midnight, young men paired up. They left together, and I always felt jealous, seeing them depart.

  My first visits to The Pastime were uneventful. I’d grab a stool on the left end of the bar, and then watch the goings-on. My sexual tastes ran toward slim guys with dark hair and eyes, young men who reminded me of Jeff Dellinger. Some of these types frequented the Pastime, but whenever our gazes met they always looked away -- a sure sign of rejection.

  A few guys hit on me. A man in his thirties named Bob, with thinning blond hair and a sissy’s lisp, bought me a beer. Then he asked me home, but I declined. A chubby guy my age, who I recognized from campus, struck up conversation with me on a Friday night. He brushed my thigh with his fingertips, but when he suggested we leave the bar together, I let him know it wouldn’t happen.

  I was desperate, but not that needy.

  As time passed, I began to wonder if I’d ever meet a guy I found attractive -- one who might also want me -- but I had no success finding anyone.

  Maybe my experience with Jeff was dumb luck.

  Each Friday and Saturday night, I returned home from the Pastime, to my empty apartment, and then I lay on my mattress, staring at the ceiling.

  Is this how it’s always going to be?

  Sometimes I second-guessed myself; I wondered if maybe I had made a mistake in leaving the fraternity house. Maybe I wasn’t suited for the gay subculture. Was there something about me that gay men -- guys my age, anyway -- found unappealing? Was it so obvious I was a needy youth with little knowledge of the homosexual world and its rituals?

  Nonetheless, I kept visiting the Pastime; I figured something would eventually happen.

  And finally something did.

  On a Saturday in early October, just before midnight, a guy my age took a stool next to mine at the bar. I’d seen him at the Pastime before, talking with various people, sometimes leaving with one guy or another. A bit taller than me, his black and wavy hair grew to his shoulders. He wore bib overalls and high-top Converse sneakers, but no shirt. A red bandana drooped from his right rear pocket. After he’d ordered a beer, he swung his gaze toward me, and then he spoke in a raspy baritone flavored by a southern Georgia drawl.

  “You’re always alone when I see you here. How come?”

  My cheeks steamed. What should I tell him?

  “I’m new at this,” I said.

  He crinkled his forehead. “You’re new at drinking beer?”

  I shook my head. “At meeting guys.”

  A smile crept onto his lips. “Cruising’s an art I haven’t figured out. Some nights I win, other times I can’t catch a break, know what I mean?”

  I nodded but didn’t say anything.

  “I’m Aaron.”

  I told him my name, and then we shook. His hand felt warm and moist. Just touching him that way, in a public place, had my pulse racing. For a moment, I felt like a schoolgirl at a dance; I couldn’t think of anything more to say. Aaron sipped from his beer, smacked his lips. Dark hairs peeked at me from his armpits. His biceps looked like baseballs, and his big hands were large-knuckled. After turning toward me, he rested his feet on the stringers of his bar stool. Then he looked at me with a puzzled expression on his face.

  “You’re as pale as a ghost,” he said. “Your hands are trembling, too. Why?”

  I lowered my gaze. What an idiot I was.

  “I’m nervous,” I said.

  “Don’t be,” Aaron said. “There’s nothing to be scared of.”

  I took a swig from my beer. Then I watched bubbles rise in my glass while my pulse raced.

  “Andy?”

  I looked at Aaron.

  “I’ll leave you alone if you want. I can --”

  Say something; you’re losing him.

  “I don’t want you to leave me alone. It’s just...”

  “What?”

  “I don’t know how to invite you to my place.”

  Aaron snickered.

  “I think you just did,” he said.

  ***

  Aaron’s gaze traveled about my living room. By now, the room was fully furnished, and rock band posters decorated the walls: The Rolling Stones, The Who, and Yes, among others. Aaron pointed to a framed copy of Max Ehrmann’s Desiderata I’d hung over the sofa.

  “I like what he says about love and not being cynical about it. Does that make me a romantic?”

  I crinkled my forehead. Aaron’s remark took me by surprise. Love and romance weren’t topics Jeff and I had ever discussed; our relationship was purely about sex. We never went to a movie or dined at a restaurant together. We never held hands or kissed. After all, we were two men, and men didn’t fall in love with each other, right?

  I gestured toward the Ehrmann poster.

  “I read it each morning before leaving here, to prepare myself for the day.”

  After we sat on the sofa, we rested our feet on a coffee table I’d found beside a dumpster. My belly did flip-flops; I couldn’t believe Aaron was in my apartment and seated so close to me. I could actually feel his body heat and smell his skin. What, if anything, would happen during the next hour?

  “I share a house with three friends,” Aaron told me. “I have my own room, but my roommates don’t know I’m gay. I can’t bring guys home.”

  I nodded.

  “It must be nice,” he said, “having your privacy.”

  I explained about the Lambda Chi house, and how I’d moved to McPhail’s building so I could live as I pleased. “It’s taken some adjustment,” I said. “Most evenings, I spend alone.”

  Aaron placed his beer bottle on the coffee table. After turning to me, he reached for my cheek, and then he stroked it with a thumb. Right away, my heart thumped.

  Aaron’s dark eyes gazed into mine. “You’re good-looking, Andy. Do you like me?”

  I nodded.

  “Can I kiss you?” Aaron asked.

  Holy shit.

  “I’d like that,” I said.

  Aaron brought his hand to the back of my neck. He pulled my face to his, and then our mouths touched. He pried my lips apart, our tongues rubbed, and our chin stubbles made a scratch
y noise. The kiss lasted a minute or so before Aaron pulled away. He wiped his shiny lips with the back of his hand. Then, after reaching for his beer, he took a swallow.

  “I like the way you kiss,” he said.

  I told him about Jeff and the things we’d done in bed. I spoke of the girls I’d dated, too.

  “But you’re the first male I’ve kissed. Jeff’s not the romantic type, and he’s the only man I’ve ever had sex with.”

  Aaron crinkled the corners of his eyes. “I’d like to change that, if you would.”

  My pulse drummed inside my head. Was this how it worked? Was finding a boyfriend really so easy? I led Aaron to my bedroom. After I lit a candle on the bureau, I killed the ceiling fixture, and then our shadows appeared on a wall: two silhouettes removing clothing. Aaron kicked off his shoes and peeled off his socks. He unclipped the shoulder straps on his overalls, and then they fell to his ankles. His genitals bulged in his olive-colored, cotton briefs. When he slipped his thumbs into his briefs’ waistband, I spoke up.

  “Let me take those off.”

  Aaron looked at me with his eyebrows gathered, and then a smile crossed his face.

  “Is that a bit of kink you have, Andy?”

  I nodded. “Jeff always let me.”

  Aaron’s hands dropped to his hips. “Be my guest.”

  After kneeling before Aaron, I ran my hands up the backs of his legs. Dark hair carpeted his calves and thighs, and the hairs looked like raindrops streaming toward his ankles. I squeezed his butt cheeks; they felt firm and rounded. Already, he had stiffened.

  “Go on,” Aaron said.

  I shucked his briefs south. Then I took him into my mouth. His crotch smelled musky, and I salivated at his scent. How I’d missed intimacy with another male.

  Moments later, my boxers lay crumpled in a corner and Aaron lay beside me in my bed. We kissed like a pair of love-starved kids, caressing each other’s private places. Waves of pleasure slithered through my limbs. We both sweated in the warm October night; our scents mingled in the still air. For a moment I considered switching on the box fan on my window sill, but...

  No.

  I liked sweating with Aaron. I enjoyed the smacking sounds our flesh made wherever our bodies touched, and the sour scent wafting from Aaron’s armpits made me crazy with lust. Outside, our neighborhood’s resident whippoorwill sang his nightly tune.

  Woo-who-hoo, woo-who-hoo.

  A car passed on Franklin Street; headlights swept my bedroom walls with their milky glare. I felt completely removed from the world I normally lived in, as if Aaron and I had traveled to some distant and magical location, where no one but the two of us dwelt.

  At Aaron’s request, I took him on his back, with his legs draped over my shoulders, the way Jeff had taught me. When I eased partway inside him, Aaron clenched his teeth, and then a blue vein popped out on his forehead.

  “Jesus, Andy, you’re big.”

  “Are you okay?”

  His chest rose and fell. “I think so, but give me a minute.”

  I stayed inside him, keeping still and listening to him breathe. The warmth of his gut and the scent of his skin seemed like exotic gifts.

  “It’s been a while,” he said, “and the last guy wasn’t...”

  “What?”

  “As large as you; I’m surprised your friend Jeff let you leave Pensacola.”

  I chuckled. Then I said, “I can pull out if you want.”

  Aaron shook his head. “Go on,” he said.

  I thrust my hips while Aaron grunted and we both sweated. Candlelight made our skin glow and our hair gleam, as if we’d just emerged from the sea. More than ever, I felt far removed from the mundane world I normally dwelt in. My heart chugged and chills ran up my spine. I shook my head in amazement while I thrust.

  This is where I belong. This is what I need.

  I wanted our lovemaking to last forever, but of course it didn’t.

  Aaron came first; he let out a wail I hoped the neighbors wouldn’t hear. His irises rolled up inside his head, and then his chest heaved. I came moments later; I heard a crackling in my ears. When I closed my eyes I saw fireworks, like my first time with Jeff. I felt my orgasm in my scalp, in the cleft of my buttocks, and even in the soles of my feet. I cried out Aaron’s name, more than once. If the neighbors hadn’t heard Aaron’s wail, they most certainly heard my shouting. I’m sure I sounded like a lunatic.

  I stayed inside Aaron while catching my breath. Neither of us spoke. We listened to the whippoorwill’s tune as our pulses slowed. Sweat trickled from my armpits and scalp. My hips and thighs stuck to Aaron’s butt as though our skins were glued together. I ran my fingers through his damp hair; I savored its thickness while I shook my head in amazement.

  How had I survived three years of college without this? I’d been a fool, but no longer.

  No longer, Andy.

  ***

  Next morning, I woke to find Aaron’s arm draped across my belly and his cheek resting on my sternum. I inhaled the scent of his hair; it smelled like freshly mown grass. Fixing my gaze on the ceiling, I listened to his soft breathing while I marveled at the moment’s intimacy.

  Back in Pensacola, I had never spent the night at Jeff’s motel unit. He’d never invited me, and I never thought to ask. As mentioned before, my relationship with Jeff was all about sex, nothing else. We weren’t even friends, really.

  Would things differ with Aaron and me?

  Did I want them to?

  CHAPTER FIVE

  “I’m not a political person,” a blond boy with a lisp said.

  Tom, a grad student from the Education Department, responded. “Living your life as an openly gay man is a political act.”

  The blond boy shrugged. “I joined this group to make friends, not to wave a placard. Besides, I’m a Republican and we don’t do protests.”

  The Gay Rap Group, as it was known, met every Sunday night. The group had no elected leaders, no procedural rules, and no agenda. A chunky boy with ice-blue eyes, wavy brown hair, and a silky voice “facilitated” our meetings. His name was David Pettyfield; he majored in Psychology at FSU. At each meeting, after everyone sat down, David began things.

  “Does anyone have a suggestion for a discussion topic?”

  Then guys would talk.

  We discussed everything: coming out to parents and friends, promiscuity, STDs, the best sexual lubricant, the better pickup bars in North Florida -- you name it. The group was a hodge-podge of students, university staff, and Tallahassee townies. A few members were in their forties, and one kid, Eddie, was a senior at Leon High School.

  This particular January evening, a group of twenty guys occupied a circle of chairs in a classroom on FSU’s campus. Tallahassee winters were cold -- temperatures often dropped below freezing -- and the building’s heating system wasn’t turned on. Most of us wore sweaters or jackets. When guys spoke, their breaths steamed in the frigid air. This was the fourth meeting I’d attended, and I had never heard politics mentioned.

  Now that would change.

  Anita Bryant, a gospel singer and anti-gay activist, had come to Tallahassee to offer her homophobic ideology for consideration by the Florida Legislature. Bryant, a former Disney Mouseketeer, was now Florida’s “Orange Juice Queen.” She appeared in television ads, sang jingles on the radio. She wore dowdy clothes even my mom wouldn’t be seen in, and she coiffed her brunette hair in a teased-up and lacquered “flip” style. Still, for as long as I could remember, Anita had seemed like a big sister to me.

  Not anymore.

  Bryant had already succeeded in repealing Dade County’s gay rights ordinance through her religion-drenched, “Save Our Children” campaign. And now she wanted a state law banning adoption of children by gay men and lesbians. Her “crusade” had drawn nationwide media attention. You couldn’t open a newspaper or turn on your television without confronting Bryant’s likeness and her smug, self-righteous grin.

  “Homosexuals don’t reprodu
ce,” Bryant said during her Dade County campaign. “They recruit new members for their subculture by preying upon innocent young people; they even adopt them, legally. We can’t allow this to continue.”

  Now, in Tallahassee, the very next day, Bryant would appear before a Senate committee to urge passage of the adoption ban.

  While I shivered in the Rap Group circle, a hefty, bearded guy named Earl spoke up.

  “My boyfriend’s a server at Fontana’s Restaurant. Anita has a lunch reservation there tomorrow; I suggest we organize a protest.”

  Eddie, the high school kid, chimed in.

  “I have a cousin who works at WCTV. We can tip them off, maybe get a little air time.”

  The discussion raged for over an hour.

  “If my parents saw me protest on TV they’d disown me.”

  “We’ve got to make our voices heard. This is personal; she’s attacking us.”

  So on and so forth.

  I kept my mouth shut, not knowing what to say. I thought of Vietnam War protests I’d seen as a teenager, on TV. I recalled the tear gas, the sirens, and the riot police with their helmets and nightsticks. Protests were something for radicals with beards and bullhorns, right?

  The meeting ended without consensus.

  “I’ll be there tomorrow, with a poster,” Tom the grad student said. “Those of you with balls are welcome to join me.”

  After our meeting, certain members of the Rap Group visited the Pastime, to drink beer, socialize, and, of course, cruise. We did this every week. We’d grab a circular table on the left side of the bar, and then settle in. Miss Kitty called us her “Sunday Boys.” She always greeted us with a smile and a free pitcher of beer to prime our pump. Then we spent a couple of hours there, drinking many more pitchers and talking away.

  This particular night, the political discussion continued. Should one join the Bryant protest? Was participation inviting trouble?

  “The woman’s a bully. We have to fight back.”

  “What good can come of it? No one will pay attention.”

  “What if the cops arrest us? What then?”