Voenix Rising

An comment on another post left by The Relucant Rebel sent me into the archives to remind me what I'd written. To my horror, I realized I left the story hanging (as I often do), so apologies all around, because there is much more to the story.

Previously on Battlestar Galactica…

Falling in Love (Again), Back to School and it all Comes Out

When we last left our illustrious hero—three fucking years ago, mia culpa for the delay—Dad had just blown the doors off my world view and left me reeling.

In late July or early August—just a few short weeks before packing up and heading back to UofA to continue my architectural education, Kent and I were at The Forum. It was there that I met David Martinez, a young man who drove down from Williams (a very small town west of Flagstaff) that particular evening to go clubbing. I remember standing at the side of the dance floor and someone tapped me on the shoulder and asked if I wanted to dance. I turned around, took one look at the guy and said, "Sure!" We meandered out on the floor, and almost immediately the bouncy, upbeat tune (for some reason Do Ya Think I'm Sexy comes to mind, but the dates don't jive), slowed down and mixed into Violation by the group St. Tropez:

David and I looked at each other as it started, shrugged our shoulders as if to ask, "Do you want to stay?" and moved closer together. Until this point I had never slow danced with anyone—of either sex—so I just let David take the lead.  (No, I never went to prom.) When it ended and we were leaving the dance floor, I stopped and peeked over the edge of the DJ booth and asked DJ George what that had been, and he raised a beautiful translucent pink disk and showed me the album cover.

David and I hung out at the bar until closing time, but for some reason did not end up in bed together. (I believe he was crashing at his sister's place, and I was living at home, so our options were limited.) We exchanged addresses and phone numbers and went our separate ways.

The next day I drove downtown to Circles Records and immediately bought two copies of the album; one to keep, and one to send to David.

After getting the records home however, imagine my horror at opening them and discovering both pressings were the usual black vinyl, not the translucent pink George the DJ had shown me the night before. (It turns out that Butterfly records was notorious for always issuing their DJ-only copies on colored vinyl with the general public only getting black vinyl.)

Finding that album—on pink vinyl—became my holy grail, and in fact, that goal wasn't reached until the late 90s—completely by accident—at a San Francisco thrift store in the Mission.

At some point David came back to Phoenix. I have no clear memory of when this happened and only a photograph of him in our back yard, so I can't put a definite date stamp on it other than to say it was before I returned to Tucson for the fall semester:

Returning to school after the summer was…interesting. I chose a different dorm that year, a 50s-era construction dubbed "Kaibab-Huachuca." Upon checking in, I was greeted by David Garcia, a guy I'd known since 1st grade. He suggested we room together, and while I initially agreed, something was gnawing at the back of my mind that was making me useasy. After I agreed and went back out to my parents' car to start bringing my stuff into the dorm it dawned on me: David had made his virulent homophobia quite well known via a letter to the editor of the campus newspaper the previous semester, and there was no way I was going to live with that, our history be damned.

I went back in and told him I'd changed my mind. Obviously—based on our years-long history—he asked why. So I told him.

He was angry. He assigned me to a different room on a different floor and sent me on my way. We never spoke again.

Hoping that coming out to my new roommate would guarantee me another single room for the semester as it had done with David Miller the semester before, I told him almost immediately.

He shrugged it off. "Whatever, man. Doesn't make any difference to me. I'm not gay but I don't care what you do."

Well fuck me. Someone tolerant.

Fortunately, he was gone so often during the semester I almost had the room to myself. We never became friends, but we tolerated each other, and it soon became common knowledge on our floor that I was the resident homo. With only one exception, no one else seemed to give a fuck, although at times I think that was simply out of politeness.

In fact, one of the residents on the floor was downright friendly, but obviously straight (or, looking back, more probably bi). He was absolutely aghast that (at the time) as a practicing homosexual I'd never seen Rocky Horror Picture Show.

But there was one instance that brought my assessment of the general  politeness into question. One evening when my roomie (sorry, I don't remember his name) was out, my friend Peter and I shared a rather prolonged make-out session in the room, and when we came up for air and when I headed down the hall to hit the restroom I heard someone yell out, "The fags are finished!" (Apparently we'd drawn quite a crowd in the adjacent rooms by voyeurs careening their heads out the windows.) "Straight" guys are weird.

One boy in particular made no secret of his disdain toward me, and it didn't take long for me to recognize where that disdain came from.

Our floor had one shared shower. It consisted of only two shower heads, side by side. I remember one instance when both of us ended up in the shower together. I don't remember if I was there first or he was, but there we were. He kept his eyes glued firmly forward to the wall, and try as he might, the poor boy could not keep the soap in his hands. I could tell the drops were completely accidental and I found it quite amusing.

On the other hand, I did sneak a glance and noticed that he was becoming…let's just say his penis betrayed him.

When he saw that I saw what was happening he rinsed off and after drying himself as quickly as possible almost ran from the bathroom.

He was much less vocal after that and we basically ignored each other for the remainder of the semester.

(A couple years later—and I may have written about this at some point already or at least intended to, so forgive me if you're already heard this part—I ran into that boy at a bar called Bullwinkle in Phoenix. We locked eyes, and he couldn't have turned and fled the establishment any faster if it had been raided by the police.)

Back to David…

David and I had maintained contact as promised after I returned to school, and both of being huge fans, when we heard that Fleetwood Mac would be coming to the Arizona Stadium at UofA, we both got tickets. David would drive down, we'd grab dinner, and then go to the concert. He said he'd drive back to Phoenix and stay with his sister that night—because you know he couldn't get a motel room where we might actually consummate our relationship. (Crazy, huh?)

Well, the concert was a blast. We had assigned seats, but we ended up down on the field before it was even half over. And afterward David left and drove back to Phoenix.

While at the concert, we made immediate plans for me to spend the upcoming Labor Day holiday weekend in Williams. I remember how I got there (it was a very long bus ride from Tucson), but I don't remember who paid for it (or my motel room in Williams).

Two—no, three things stand out from the trip. Firstly, our drive up Bill Williams Mountain to enjoy the fall foliage:

(I still have this photo framed with an enclosed sprig of aspen leaves in storage somewhere.)

The second thing that stood out was how the dominant form of entertainment in (what I now assume to be all) small towns across America is to spend entire evenings at the local bar drinking and gossiping about people.

And lastly, despite numerous opportunities and a motel room to ourselves, still nothing sexual happened between us. I think we may have cuddled, but that was the extent of it. To this day I don't know if we were both simply waiting for the other to make the first move, or what was going on, but the relationship was never consummated, and after that weekend the calls and letters slowly dried up.

Even though nothing happened with David that weekend, I knew it was time for me to come out completely. Dad knew and I knew my sister had her suspicions,  but Mom was in the dark (or more likely in complete denial, as so many parents are.) The following weekend during a trip home, I left a copy of  the then new and much lauded Loving Someone Gay in the top drawer of my dresser, knowing full well that my mother would find it. On the inside cover, I wrote, "You need to read this."

A week passed and I heard nothing. I'd made no plans to come home for the weekend so I phoned instead. My sister answered. In hushed tones she said,  "Mom found something and I think you need to come home next weekend," she said.

The rest of the family got on the line and not a word of the book was mentioned. Everything was cheerful small talk and we all signed off after plans were made for me to spend the next weekend at home.

The following Friday night they picked me up at the bus station. The tension in the car was palpable, but no one brought up the subject of the book. We ate dinner together, and the rest of the family settled in for evening television. I figured since nothing was said I'd go ahead and take a shower and go out. After showering and dressing I was literally on my way out the door when my Mom pointedly asked, "Aren't we going to discuss this thing?"

I knew that tone.

I turned around and sat down.

I don't remember specifics, but at one point I made it clear that if she couldn't accept me for who I was, I was more than prepared to quit school, get a job, move out completely and cut her out of my life. There were tears. There were accusations. There was a lot of, "I just don't understand…"

Finally, after she calmed down she asked, "Those men who were at your party last spring…were they all…?"

"Yes Mom, they are were all gay."

She sat there for a moment, and I could almost see the gears turning. "You have nice friends," she said.

"I think so too," I replied.

She ended with "I don't if I'll ever understand this, but you're still my son and I love you." We shared a long hug, and that was the beginning of my mom becoming an ally.

(To be continued. Hopefully it won't take three years this time.)