Tony claims to be jealous of alter boys: the pomp and circumstance, the eucharist and the fondling. He seriously states that as a young boy he was so starved for touch that he would have welcomed older hands and their lecherous groping. “I wanted to be the object that inspires such sinful desire. Still do, as a matter of fact.”
I sit and nod silently. I’m not sure if he is being candid or crass. If I feel like laughing or punching him. Maybe a few tears?
That’s not to imply that I was an alter boy, no, I missed my chance when I refused first communion. You see my sister had had her first communion and was given a lovely white purse with bible and rosary inside. I asked mother when I would get mine and she explained that I “was a boy.” Well fuck first communion, I decided.
But that doesn’t mean I escaped.
I worked a summer job at my father’s old factory upon returning from my freshman year of college. Before that summer I had only kissed a boy. Then before I knew it I found myself thrust in a desparate relationship which seemed built upon an economy of sex for understanding. Luke had needed somewhere to place his confused desire and abuse memories and I needed attention and confidence-building. The two of us tried to dance but we kept stepping on each other’s feet. We had managed a field between the two schools and his parent’s waterbed, but soon we were lost in pain, tears, and fear. Tears for fear? Don’t even think about it.
In the mean time I needed an escape route and found it in Mark.
He had a tattoo on a bicep, a chinese character, which he explained was in honor of his “…fiance, so I can always have her in my arms.” He was a personal trainer, 24 years old, still going to college, and lived with his parents. Hairless. I was convinced he was gay, despite the fiance. It turned out I was correct. Hmph, lucky me.
Mark was the first boy I mentioned to my mother that I was dating. By dating I meant we were going to go out to a city, eat dinner and take a horse-carriage ride through the dusk. That night, on the way home, we stopped by the factory and began to make out. He wanted to remove clothes and I asked him to wait. He did, though not happily.
It was nice to have an excuse for Luke and a boy to discuss with my mother. We talked on the phone, took early morning bike trips (well, just one), and had a picnic down by the river. I read him a poem, he told me he had some “lube” in the truck and would like to show me.
I managed to delay him about month. He had quit at the factory, walked out mid-shift to show spite, but still showed up when I got off. That night he surprised me, made me come with him in the truck, and took me to a corn field. By this time he was oblivious to me or my desire to leave. “Get out.” “Lean against the truck.” “Stand still.” The first car passed and I was told to hide in the trees so I did. I hid desparately but he found me. “I’m not finished yet.” Another car and one more fleeting hope, but as it turned out the only way I was to leave that night was with him.
The point? It only took an hour to get home, take a shower, and medicate. But it was three years until I realized what happened. And I was old, enjoyed my sexual attractions, and had previously sought release. Poor Luke had been young and his was church-related. He is now crazy, while I just tense up from time to time.
For what it’s worth, Tony has no idea what he is talking about.
Me and Mr. Jones 