So you’re calling again now.  And I’m actually picking up the phone and talking to you again.  Wow.  It’s been a while hasn’t it?  A while since I stopped returning your calls.  Because you voted one too many times for George Bush.  Because you didn’t seem to give a good goddamn how much slime the republicans threw into your gay friend’s face.  Because you didn’t seem to care one whit how hard they tried to make everyone hate people like me.  Hey…look at us.  We’re talking again!  So nice.  When we talk nowadays, it’s almost like old times.  But that’s the problem.

So once again I get to hear about your life.  What you’re up to.  All your successes.  All your disappointments.  That’s what friends do.  We share our lives with each other, the good times and the bad.  The highs and the lows.  Well…wait…except I’m suppose to hide a part of my life from you aren’t I?  And not a small part either.  Not judging from how often you talk about that part of yours.  Your love life that is.  Still single are we?  Yeah.  I know the feeling.  I know a lot about being single, and lonely that you will never know.  But then, you don’t want to know. 

That was always the bargain wasn’t it old friend?  I get to hear about your girlfriend problems.  I get to hear about the latest cute new girl you’re seeing nowadays.  I get to hear about how the two of you got it on.  I get to hear about how great you felt afterward.  Hey, I know the feeling!  But you’d rather I didn’t tell you that I suppose.  Feels great at our age doesn’t it though.  We’re both getting old now aren’t we?  Not quite the sexy young guys we used to be back in the day.  Except I was never allowed to think of myself that way, even back then.  Even back when I was young and cute and could have made something of it.  I wasn’t allowed to be that.  Cute.  Sexy.  Desirable.  I had to keep it under wraps.  I had to play it low key.  You didn’t want to hear about my struggles with the dating and mating game.  You didn’t even want to know I was interested in any of that.  Because that meant bringing up the fact of my sexuality.  Yeah…yeah…I know…  You’re Not Gay.  I got that then.  I get it now.  What I didn’t really get back then was that I wasn’t allowed to be gay either. 

Oh I could be gay…Theoretically.  I could be gay as some abstract concept you could put in some safe place in the back of your mind.  I could be the oddball artistic little nerd nobody expected to date girls for some unspoken reason.  I could be that.  I could be out of the closet, so long as I kept being out of the closet in the closet.  That was always how our friendship worked.

And I went along with it.  Because you didn’t have anti-gay prejudices.  You were just…misinformed.  Like I was.  I knew how that worked.  They taught me the same lies about homosexuals they taught you.  I knew this.  I knew from firsthand experience how it was to live with all the stereotypes in my head that you have in yours.  The mincing faggot.  The swishing queer.  The lurking child molester.  The dangerous sexual pervert, waiting in the men’s rooms…in the bushes.  Cocksuckers.  Ass fuckers.  I laughed at all the same fag jokes you did all through grade school.  They were fairies.  They were queers.  They were homos.  I understood this the same as the rest of you guys.  And then puberty came along and tapped me on the shoulder.  It took a while…you can appreciate why…but one day I finally came to understand that I was gay myself.  Kinda gave me a whole new perspective on the subject, that.

I came out to myself when I was 17.  That was back in 1971.  And because the guy I fell in love with was so decent and good hearted, because I saw that what I had fallen in love with was the person, not just any random male body, I realized that there was nothing wrong with me.  In that rush of first love I learned that what I had been taught about homosexuals was a load of horseshit.  The fact of my homosexuality was there, staring me in the face, every time I laid eyes on the guy I was in love with.  Making my heart beat.  Making my knees tremble.  Putting knots in my stomach and sweat on my brow.  It was terrifying.  It was wonderful.  First love is like that.  And there I was, feeling that for another guy.  Yet I knew I was none of the things I had been taught that homosexuals were.  And because of that, I was able to accept it.  I am a homosexual.  But I’m still me.  I knew both of those things were true.  So I never hated myself.  Because of him.  Because of how it hit me in just that way.  I was in love, and it was wonderful.  And nobody was happy for me.

Mom would have cried her heart out.  The preacher in our church would have warned me direly that God considered homosexuality an abomination and I was going to hell.  Maybe everyone in my life would turn against me.  I could go to jail.  That’s not what usually happens to a young guy, who wakes up one day to find he’s in love.  But I grew up in a world where the radios played rock and roll love songs about young guys and girls in love, and locker rooms echoed with jokes about homos who suck cock.

It’s a pure miracle I didn’t hate myself, but I didn’t.  I was in love.  But looking back I never really felt good about myself either.  How could I, when I still heard all the fag jokes I used to laugh at?  How could I, when could still hear our gym teachers telling us in Sex Ed that homosexuals were dangerous, deranged, sexual psychopaths who raped children and killed the people they had sex with?  How could I feel good about myself, when from Every…Fucking…Direction…I was being told that homosexuals were ridiculous, pathetic, repulsive, and that same-sex love was a sick parody of the real thing. 

Oh…I had pride.  I was chock full of gay pride.  I felt good about myself In Theory.  But you don’t come of age in a world that is constantly screaming in your face that you’re a sick, twisted pervert without being wounded somehow, somewhere.  I remember sitting in a movie theater watching "Something For Everyone" with my straight friends, and when the evil homosexual villain at the center of the story embraced and kissed the naive countess’s son, the entire theater erupted in a collective Ewwwwwwww!  That character was an evil murdering, blackmailing manipulating bastard, but it was that kiss that made the audience’s gorge rise.  I can still hear it to this day.  Ewwwwwwwwwwww!  It was spontaneous.  It filled the theater.  That was the world I grew up in.  How was I supposed to see my love life as anything but completely disgusting to everyone? 

How then, was I supposed to see myself as desirable? 

How especially, when I had so many straight friends, male and female, who kept signaling to me…tactfully of course…that they shared the audience’s disgust at my sexuality.  It took a while, and a lot of sweating…but I finally began to come out to my friends shortly after that first high school crush.  Do you remember when I came out to you?  I have a question: Have you ever sat down and pictured your friend Bruce sitting in one of those Sex Ed classes…the ones we all had back then…while his teachers taught him and everyone sitting in that class around him, that homosexuals were sick, sexually twisted, mentally ill deviants who raped children, lurked around public toilets and killed the people they had sex with?  Picture it now then, because that’s what happened to me.  I sat through it all only to discover years later that I was one of the people they were talking about.  Now recall again that moment when I came out to you.  Maybe you noticed how white my knuckles were.

But it seemed to go well.  You said it was okay.  You said it didn’t matter. I was still your friend.  I was so relieved…so happy.  My friends were cool!

Er…as long as I kept it low key.  But that was okay.  I had to know reconciling your mental image of me with the stereotypes we were all fed wasn’t going to happen overnight.  I could be patient.  I had to be.  You were my friend.  I came out to you and you didn’t walk off in disgust.  I figured I was the luckiest guy in the world to have friends like you.  Of course you were a little nervous about the whole thing.  Good god I was terrified!  I could cut you some slack.  Jeeze.  I figured once you saw that I wasn’t any of that crap we were all taught that homosexuals were, you’d treat me just like anyone else. 

But that never happened did it?  At least not with you.  And let it be said you weren’t the only straight friend of mine who never got over it.  Some did.  But only some.  And for the rest who didn’t, I ended up doing something no one should ever have to do: I stifled my human need for love and companionship, so you wouldn’t have to deal with it.  I put a pillow over it and suffocated it.  I did that because I thought it was for the best while I tried to coax you out of your…well…your cheapshit prejudices.

So there we are…two young men in the prime of our lives…and you’re talking about how messed up it is that your new girlfriend broke up with you.  And I nod my head and start talking about how much I miss the guy I fell in love with back in high school.  WHOOPS!  Can’t talk about that because it reminds you that Bruce likes having sex with guys.  So let’s change the subject.  So how about that movie we saw last week?  Great flick wasn’t it?  And…damn…the lead actress was smokin hot!  I guess…but I kinda liked that cute guy who played the part of…  WHOOPS!  Can’t talk about that because it reminds you that Bruce likes to look at guy’s bodies the way you like to look at girl’s.  So let’s change the subject.  How about we get something to eat and listen to some tunes?  I have some OJ in the fridge…  None for me thanks…I’m boycotting Orange Juice.  Huh?  Orange Juice?  What for?  Well Anita Bryant…  WHOOPS!

Damn boy…why is it that gays always want to talk about sex?

But Forcing the issue would just be too hardassed of me, too demanding.  We were all victims of the same homophobic crap we were taught.  Those were the excuses I kept making for you, whenever you signaled to me in some unspoken way that the thought of Bruce having a boyfriend of his own was a tad…repellent.  A bit Disgusting.  Uhm…Gross.  All that time I kept being patent with you, and all that time you were teaching me to accept the fact that I was disgusting.  Friend.

So I went out into the world back then, and tried to find a lover, knowing deep down inside that the sight of two males in love was a repulsive thing to…well…to just about everyone…Ewwwwwwwww!  Most of my friends included.  So I went into the world looking for love, understanding that same-sex love was utterly gross to most people.  Disgusting.  Sick.  Ugly.  Had you told me that in so many words I’d have walked away from you.  Instead, you fed me the poison slowly, one drop at a time, one sour look at a time, one change of the subject at a time.  I had to be careful.  I had to be respectful of your sensitivities.  And every time I approached a beautiful guy, someone who attracted me, someone decent, and smart, and good-hearted, someone who made my heart skip a beat, I approached them not as a potential lover, but the way I’d been conditioned to behave.  By my friends.  By you.  Carefully.  Trying hard not to shock and offend.

And now I’m 55 years old, and still single.

In my 30s, when the fear began to creep into my heart that I might not find someone to love after all, I began to pour myself into a series of charcoal and ink drawings, and a couple oil paintings, of young male couples in love.  I put everything I had, everything I wanted to say at that point in my life, about love and desire and finding your heart’s desire in another’s smile, into those drawings and paintings.  Nothing even vaguely pornographic, they were about love, but also about being in love body and soul.  All my unfulfilled yearnings, all my hopes and dreams.  I put them down on paper and canvas.  I showed a couple of them to you…or tried to…once.  You took one look and I could see in your eyes that it was as if I’d shown you gay pornography.  No…worse then that.  Pornography you might have just laughed at.  But this was two guys in love and that completely squicked you out.  So I didn’t show you the rest.

I had one drawing…I titled it "Moment of Recognition"…of two young guys sharing a look…that was all, just a look, as they briefly, lightly, touched hands while having a quiet moment alone.  They weren’t even actually holding hands…just fingers lightly touching…eyes looking into eyes…a slightly astonished look on their faces…the moment before the smile…  I wanted to capture that look in their faces, that hushed sudden timeless moment in time, when they both realize that they’re in love.  I remember that moment.  By then I’d had it more then once.  It’s the most wonderful thing in the world.  It’s the most wonderful part of being alive.  And I was really happy with what I was able to get on the artboard.  I thought I’d captured it.  And I guess I did, because it sure got a reaction.  I showed it to another straight friend and I could swear I saw the hair on the back of his neck stand up.  "What’s that about?" he asked, in a very perturbed voice.  But he knew damn well what it was about.

So I told myself to be patient, and in the process let the wound dig itself deeper and deeper into me.  I knew the beauty and sacredness of love wasn’t denied to same-sex lovers too.  I knew that.  Intellectually.  Rationally.  But your disgust was like a ball and chain around my heart, allowing it to soar only so far.  I eventually stopped drawing.  For nearly a decade and a half I did not pick up my tools again.  I put down my cameras too.  I just didn’t want to deal with my feelings anymore.  I stopped creating artwork altogether.  That’s another landscape of my life that should have more in it then it does.  Friend.

So now you’re calling again.  So now I’m picking up the phone again and talking to you.  It’s almost like old times isn’t it?  But that’s the problem, and I am over being the "some" in "some of my best friends are…".

The other day you phoned and shortly into the conversation you told me about that cute next door neighbor.  The one who made mad love to you one night, and then the next didn’t want you calling her.  The one who you later found out was playing you against her old boyfriend that she’s still mad at, but still seeing.  I got the whole story, listened supportively, fell back into the old routine of being a friend.  Yes, says I…I know how it is to be jerked around by a young cutie.  There is this really cute guy guy who moved in just a few doors down from me, who gives me this hot and cold routine…one moment he’s all flirty, the next he’s treating me like an old troll…  But you didn’t want to hear about that, and quickly changed the subject.

You wonder why I don’t call?  I am 55 years old now, single, alone, and sick with loneliness, and one thing I bitterly regret is spending so many of the precious moments of the prime of my life with people who thought there was something wrong with me.

I came out to myself back in 1971 and actually managed to feel good about myself afterward.  Looking back, that was a miracle.  That was three years before the APA removed homosexuality from its list of mental illnesses.  But I was stupid.  I trusted in some of the people in my life, just a tad too much.  The kind of friendship you offered me was the one poison I didn’t know any better not to drink.  I came of age in a world that thought I was the most disgusting thing ever.  I didn’t need friends telling me to accept that.  I needed friends to tell me that I was beautiful, desirable, and just as deserving of love as anyone else.  I look at the pictures taken of me back then and I cannot believe that really cute gay kid never found a boyfriend.  But he never did.  And that was okay with you.  My friend.

You want to know why I don’t call anymore?  There’s a vast and empty wasteland in my heart where love should have been, and one of the signposts pointing to it has your name on it.  

I’m not laying it entirely at your doorstep.  There were larger forces in the culture we both lived in, grew up in, working hard to insure that no gay person ever knew what it was to be loved.  But you said I was your friend.  So I stifled that part of me.  Not just for you, but for the others too.  The others who couldn’t handle it.  And now…I’m 55 years old and I don’t know how to set it free.  That was something I was supposed to learn decades ago, and I never did.  And now here I am.  Alone in my little Baltimore rowhouse.  Talking to you on the phone.  Listening while you tell me about your latest heartache.  Old friend.