Becoming Andy Hunsinger Page 9

  It occurred to me, during these visits, that Jake had no other confidants beside me. Our parents, as loving as they tried to be, weren’t the most approachable people when it came to personal matters. And Jake’s friends weren’t the types to talk about their feelings, not ever.

  Certain weekday nights, after our parents had gone to bed, we clambered atop our fuel oil tank, and then we crawled onto the roof of our home. We lay on our backs upon the still-warm asphalt shingles, with our fingers locked behind our necks and our elbows jutting. We stared into the night sky, saying little, just breathing the cool evening air and thinking private thoughts.

  One such evening, during the summer following my sophomore year, we studied constellations on the roof while a Gulf breeze whispered in our long leaf pines. Earlier, we had played one-on-one in our driveway, and now we both sweated. Jake’s body odor had a unique, sweet-and-sour scent I could’ve recognized blindfolded. After rearranging his limbs, he spoke in shaky voice.

  “There’s something I want to talk about, something secret. If I do, you can’t mention the situation to anyone -- not even Mom or Dad, understand?”

  “Of course.”

  Jake looked at me and squinted. “Do you promise? I’ll get in trouble if --”

  “Jake, I promise. Just tell me.”

  He drew a breath, let it out.

  “You know Tracey Bramlett? She’s a girl I’m seeing.”

  “Which one is she? I can’t keep track.”

  Jake turned toward me. After bending an elbow, he rested his cheek on the heel of his hand. “She talks with a Birmingham accent, has curly hair, and big boobs. Her dad has an insurance agency on Palafox Street.”

  I made a face. “Is she the one who’s older than you, the one Mom’s not fond of?”

  Jake nodded.

  “What about her?”

  Jake rolled onto his back. “I got her pregnant, Andy.”

  I winced. My little brother screwed girls? He was only fifteen. How could it be?

  “Do her parents know?”

  “Not yet. She just told me three days ago.”

  I sat up. After I bent my knees, I rested my forearms on them.

  “Are you sure it’s yours?”

  “Pretty sure.”

  I didn’t know what to say.

  “Tracey says there’s a doctor in Mobile, a woman who does... abortions.”

  I shuddered when he said the word. Sure, I knew about the procedure. The U. S. Supreme Court had ruled a woman had the right to terminate a pregnancy early on, if she chose to -- no questions asked -- but I’d never actually known anyone who’d been a part of ending a baby’s life. And then I thought of my parents. What would they say if they knew?

  “It costs three hundred dollars,” Jake said. “Tracey says she’ll do it -- her parents won’t even know -- but I have to come up with the money.”

  “You have your savings bonds from Mee-Maw, right?”

  Jake grimaced. “They’re in Mom and Dad’s safe deposit box at Second National. I’d have to explain why I wanted them.”

  I nodded.

  Jake rose to a sitting position. Like me, he bent his knees, rested his arms upon them. Moonlight reflected in a tear rolling down his cheek, and then his voice quivered when he spoke.

  “I can’t support a baby, Andy. And I don’t want to marry Tracey, either; I want to go to college, like you. Why did this have to happen?”

  My thoughts churned. I tried to imagine myself in Jake’s position: a kid entering his junior year of high school, a boy full of promise, dragged into a life he didn’t want or ever expect to face. I had a job that summer, unloading tires and batteries off transfer trucks at Sears & Roebuck’s automotive department. Already, I had saved one hundred-fifty dollars. By summer’s end, I’d have five hundred at least, a nice little cash reserve for my third year of college. The Sears job was hot, sweaty work -- I detested time spent there -- but my wages were better than average for summer work. Did I really need to spend my hard-earned money to make up for my brother’s reckless behavior?

  This is Jake’s problem, I told myself, not mine.

  But then I thought of an Earth Day poster I’d seen taped to pasted Biff Schultz’s kitchen wall. The poster depicted a little girl planting a pine seedling; it included a quote from Dr. Seuss’ book, The Lorax.

  “Unless someone like you cares a whole awful lot, nothing is going to get better. It’s not.”

  Who else would help with Jake’s predicament? Who else but me could make things better? Sure, my parents would be suitably concerned at Jake’s predicament -- they’d feel badly for Jake -- but they would never in a million years finance an abortion, nor would they allow Jake to pay for one from his savings.

  “You’ve made your bed,” they’d tell Jake. “Now lie in it.”

  I didn’t know Tracey Bramlett’s parents, but it seemed they were typical, middle class Pensacola folks. At best, they’d send Tracey to live with out-of-town relatives, until the baby arrived and was given up for adoption. At worst, they’d insist Jake marry Tracey. In either case, Jake’s life would be hellish, his reputation tarnished beyond redemption. This was Escambia County, circa 1975, and both Jake and Tracey might be expelled from school, as well.

  Lying next to Jake on the roof, I studied star clusters while my brain buzzed. At the time, I owned a surfboard I hadn’t ridden since leaving for FSU. I had a gold chain my grandparents had given me for my sixteenth birthday. Together, the two would fetch two hundred dollars at a pawn shop, and my parents wouldn’t even notice these items were missing if I sold them.

  “I think I can help,” I told Jake.

  “I don’t understand,” he said. “What could you possibly do?”

  To this day, I believe no one knows about Tracey’s abortion, other than Tracey, Jake, me, and Tracey’s doctor. Jake’s relationship with Tracey ended, along with the pregnancy, and thereafter Jake never mentioned Tracey’s name again. The last I heard, Tracey had married a wealthy tobacco farmer. She’d been elected to the Escambia County Commission, running as a Republican and an Evangelical Christian.

  Now, as we gathered in my parent’s dining room for Easter dinner, I wondered if Jake would care “a whole awful lot” about my need for acceptance from him. Would my revelation damage our relationship, maybe permanently? Would he shun me like a leper?

  Halfway through our meal, my mother turned to me with her forehead furrowed. “Andy, you’re only picking at your food. What’s wrong? Are you not feeling well?”

  I looked down at the barely touched meal on my plate, and then the room seemed to shrink. My vision blurred and I felt tightness in my chest. I drew a breath. Then I looked up at my mother and spoke.

  “Mom, I’m gay.”

  My mother’s face slacked while her eyes blinked.

  My father dropped his fork; it tap-danced on his plate while his face turned as white as an egg. He looked as though he’d just witnessed a fatal car accident.

  I continued.

  “I know Easter dinner might not be the best time to tell you this, but I feel you should know about my private life. I don’t want to hide it any longer.”

  “Are you sure you’re gay?” my mom asked. “Are you positive?”

  Before I answered her question, I looked at Jake. He stared into his plate, his face expressionless. He looked as though he’d been stomach-punched.

  I said, “I’ve known I was gay since I was twelve or so. I never liked girls, not in a sexual way.”

  My dad spoke up. “Son, have you actually been with another man?”

  I looked at him and nodded. “It’s what’s right for me.”

  Dad lowered his chin; he drew circles on his plate with the fork he’d dropped.

  “I don’t wish to be indelicate,” my mother said, “especially at the table. But exactly what do you and your lovers do when you’re in the bedroom?”

  Jake leapt to his feet; his face grew beet red. “For Christ’s sake, Mom, you don’t ask a
guy something like that.” Jake threw his napkin on the table. Then he strode from the room, heading for the hallway that led to our bedrooms.

  “Jacob,” my mother called, “come back and sit.”

  Jake didn’t, and moments later I heard a door slam.

  My mother rose -- it seemed she would follow Jake to his bedroom -- but then my father seized her forearm.

  “Leave him be for now; he’s upset.”

  My mother sat. After she’d cleared her throat, she looked at me. Tears glistened in her eyes and her voice sounded throaty when she spoke.

  “Don’t you want to have children, Andy?”

  “Children would be nice,” I said, “but two men can’t make a baby.”

  Mom looked into her lap, and then back at me. “I’ve heard homosexuals can sometimes change their behavior, through psychotherapy. They can lead normal lives, even father children.”

  “Mom, that’s not going to happen. I’m okay with being gay; really, I am. But I need to know you and Dad -- and Jake as well -- are okay with it too. I need to know you’ll still love me, in spite of the fact I’m different.”

  “Honey,” my mother said, “you know we’ll always love you. It’s just... some people will say cruel things when they find out. We don’t want you hurt; we want you to be happy.”

  “I’ll never be happy if I can’t be myself.”

  When my dad rearranged his limbs, his chair frame squeaked.

  “Do you have a boyfriend?” Dad asked.

  “Not now, but I did for a while.”

  I talked about Aaron and our breakup. I told them about Jeff, and then I spoke of the AGA and the guys I’d met through the Rap Group.

  “They’re the first true friends I’ve ever had. I can be myself with them.”

  My mother chewed her lower lip; I could tell she was fighting an urge to weep, and who could blame her? Her eldest son was a faggot; he’d never give her grandchildren.

  “Do you think,” my dad asked, “this happened because of something your mother and I did when raising you?”

  “You’ve been great parents,” I said; “I couldn’t have asked for better. But honestly, I think I was born gay. Nothing you could have done would have changed that, believe me.”

  My mother stiffened her spine. Then she looked at my dad.

  “Darling, will you help me clear the table and load the dishwasher? I think everyone’s quite finished with their meal.”

  “I can help,” I said.

  Mom shook her head. “Go talk to your brother instead.”

  When I knocked on Jake’s bedroom door, he didn’t respond. I twisted the knob, but he had engaged the lock.

  “Jake, please open the door. I want to talk.”

  No response.

  “I’m your brother,” I said. “Please don’t shut me out.”

  Sheets rustled and bedsprings squeaked. Then Jake opened the door. His eyes were red-rimmed and puffy, and he wouldn’t look at me. His dark hair was tangled. After I entered the room, I closed the door behind me. Jake sat on his bed and I sat on his desk chair, facing Jake. He fixed his gaze on his sneakers.

  “Tell me what you’re thinking right now,” I said. “I need to know.”

  When he looked up, his breath whistled in his nose.

  “I’m pissed. Not because you’re a cocksucker -- I guess I can handle that -- but you hid it from me, like being gay was a secret you didn’t trust me with. I thought we’d always been honest with each other, but now...”

  “What?”

  He gazed into his lap.

  “I don’t know what to think. I don’t even know who you are right now.”

  “You have to understand,” I said, “I only realized I was gay last summer. I had to be sure before I told you, or Mom and Dad.”

  Jake raised his chin, and then his gaze met mine. “You’ve led a double life, all this time. How many more secrets are you hiding from me?”

  “You can ask me anything,” I said, “and I’ll answer truthfully. I mean it: just ask.”

  Jake narrowed his eyes. “How many guys?”

  “Huh?”

  “How many guys have you fucked with?”

  I held Jake’s gaze. “Two,” I answered.

  “Did you take it up the butt?”

  The tops of my ears burned, but I kept my gaze fixed on Jake’s.

  “Sometimes I did. It may sound strange, but it felt very good to me.”

  Jake made a face. “Doesn’t it hurt?”

  “Not if it’s done right.”

  “Did you kiss these guys?”

  “One of them, yeah. Look, gay sex is not all that different from straight sex; I’m just working with different body parts than you do when you’re in bed with a woman.”

  Jake made another face, like he’d swallowed something bitter.

  “What’s it like, sucking another guy’s dick?”

  “I like it -- a lot. In some ways, I think a man can pleasure another guy in ways a woman can’t.”

  Jake grimaced. “I wouldn’t want some guy’s dick in my mouth.”

  I snickered. “You don’t have to like cocks, Little Brother. It’s my thing, not yours.”

  Jake’s face clouded. “Don’t laugh; this isn’t funny. We’re having a serious talk here.”

  I raised a palm. “Okay, all right, I’m sorry. Any more questions?”

  Jake moistened his lips. “Have you ever thought about...”

  “What?”

  “Fucking me?”

  I stifled a giggle. Sure, Jake was a good-looking boy, but he was my brother, for god’s sake. Making love with him seemed incomprehensible, like having sex with one of my parents. After reaching across the space between us, I mussed his hair.

  “Sorry to disappoint you, Jake, but as cute as you are, I’ve never wanted to get inside your pants.”

  Jake looked away and sucked his cheeks. Then he swung his gaze back to me.

  “Can we make a deal?” he said.

  “What’s that?”

  “Promise you’ll never hide something like this from me again. We should always be truthful about everything we do, no matter what it is. I don’t think I could stand it any other way.”

  At that moment, I realized I just how lonely a person Jake was. I’d always been his confidant -- the only person he truly trusted -- and I had violated that trust. No wonder he felt upset. After moving to my brother’s bed, I wrapped an arm about his shoulders.

  “I promise, Jake,” I said. “No more secrets, ever.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Coming out to my family released whatever inhibitions I’d previously harbored about sex and promiscuity, and then I became -- quite frankly -- a slut. No matter how many sexual encounters I had, I wanted more.

  Shortly after Easter, Tallahassee’s first gay bar, The Gate, opened for business, and this expanded my opportunities to meet men, exponentially. No more furtive glances or subtlety, ala The Pastime. Guys danced with each other at The Gate, they kissed in the bar’s dark corners, and left the place holding hands.

  Located on Lake Bradford Road, The Gate was a mile south of Doak Campbell Stadium. The bar’s proprietor was Darby, a bearded man in his late thirties, with linebacker shoulders and a South Carolina drawl. The son of a Parris Island Lieutenant Colonel, Darby shared his double-wide mobile home with a freckle-faced boy named Beau, age sixteen, a high school dropout. The relationship between Darby and Beau was never fully explained. Was Darby a mentor to Beau, were they related, or were they lovers? Who knew? But I never saw one without the other.

  Word had it Darby’s dad sent him periodic stipends, enough money to pay Darby’s living expenses, and then some. In exchange, Darby kept his distance from his hometown of Beaufort, where his homosexuality would have disgraced his military family.

  The Gate shared a building with The Owl Tavern, the latter a dump catering to bikers. The Owl had a reputation for fistfights and drug deals. Broken glass and crushed beer cans littered the propert
y’s asphalt parking lot. On Tuesday nights, both bars offered specials to their patrons -- twenty-five cent cans of Busch beer -- and crowds from both establishments would spill into the parking lot. The gay boys wore sweaters and flared dress slacks, or blue jeans and long-sleeved T-shirts. The bikers sported leather gear and head scarves.

  An unwritten understanding existed between patrons of The Owl and The Gate: leave us alone and we’ll leave you alone. Sure, occasionally a biker might holler “faggot” at a swishy gay boy, or maybe a crowd of Owl patrons would wolf-whistle at a drag queen passing by them in the parking lot, but otherwise the two subcultures ignored each other.

  In the days before I’d come out to my family, I was cautious about approaching other men for sex. I’d wait for a sign, a flicker of interest. And, of course, this rarely happened, at least when it came to men I found attractive. But now, I didn’t hesitate to hit on guys I liked. Who cared about rejection? If I struck out with one guy, I might score with the next.

  Fortified by beer, I’d approach a cute FSU student or a handsome state government employee. I’d say, “Hi, I’m Andy. I don’t think we’ve met.”

  Then things would take their course.

  More than once, I shared a bed with an angelic FSU undergraduate named Pierre. He was a meteorology student from Baton Rouge, with a Cajun accent and a cute bubble butt. A law clerk for the Chief Justice of Florida’s Supreme Court screwed me silly on his waterbed, several times. I hit on a Publix bagboy named Chris when he wheeled my groceries to my car. Chris was a high school senior with a Panhandle drawl, rust-colored hair that grew to his shoulders, and ample endowment between his legs. He’d visit my apartment when he was supposed to be studying at the public library, and then we took turns humping each other.

  In The Gate’s shadowy parking lot, I shared oral sex in my Vega with guys whose names I didn’t even care to know: a long-distance trucker, a drywall hanger, a physicist, and a postal worker. Not once did I seek anything more than a physical relationship with these guys, nor did they look for something emotionally meaningful from me. Our meetings were sex for its own sake, nothing more, and I often wondered if my private life would always be this way.