Been a Big Coupla Wheeks

Been a big couple of weeks here at Old Winters. Bryn’s sister Elayne and husband Jim spent a week with us, helped out as needed. They smoothed our path and shouldered responsibilities so we each could pursue individual goals, offered listening ears, understanding hearts.

 

sister Elayne, niece Rachel, nephew Gabe, Dave. Bryn, nice Cammie

Dave’s former wife Naomi, kids Jeremy, Jennifer, Martha & Brian, and grandkids Noah, Brennan, Charlie, Anna, Autumn (ages 12-6) spent Saturday, 15 February, with us. Houseful of fun, food, folks—Elayne’s & Jim’s youngest Gabe and wife Cammie visited, as well. 

Bryn was alert and aware, thankful for being present to the activities and individuals involved. He saw a personal wish fulfilled in his clown character Mumblecrust making a brief appearance, presentation and program for the gathering. For 40 years, the clown as served Bryn as teacher, mentor, instructor and guide. Especially poignant for him was the moment when Mumblecrust waved goodbye.

Mumblecrust

Life-long (if life begins at 20) friend Serge flew in from Toulouse, France on Thursday night to spend the weekend. Serge was the first person with whom Bryn ever fell in love; the two have remained warm friends ever since. In recent years he, Dave and Bryn have vacationed together. Dave and Bryn used Serge’s and husband Bladimir’s home as a honeymoon destination. This weekend we reminisced, reconnected and relived significant moments. Saying goodbye epitomized sweet sweet sorrow.

Bryn, Serge

 

 

 

 

 

Serge, Bryn, Dave

 

 

These last few weeks nausea and vomiting have been familiar visitors who arrive unannounced and don’t always stay long before ducking out, only to reappear in eight to ten hours later. But there’s no predicting their pattern. Bryn and his eldest sister Elayne reminisced and visited as energy levels allowed. At one point Bryn was seated opposite Elayne when nausea Adams calling. He grabbed the porcelain pail just in time. In a flash, Elayne was sitting beside him, cradling his forehead, patting his lower-middle back, crooning, “Let it come, it will be alright.”

This brought Bryn to tears. (This, or maybe the bitter acid taste in his mouth, or the fact that his sister had run toward him rather than away when he was at his weakest, most vulnerable, least prettiest.) “Elayne, you are the embodiment of our father’s love,” Bryn told her. “You and I both have strong memories of our dad taking care of us in such a way at such times. Thank you.”

 

Iso Papa and three of the grandkids, photo included in a Valentine's Day card from the kids

 

Each of the grandkids put together special Valentine’s Day greetings for their Iso-Papa, as they call Bryn . . . Among the memories they highlight: playtimes together, laughter, energy, games, caring for chickens and geese, woodland hikes, reading books. Photos were included, as well.

The weekend spent saying hello/goodbye to Serge gave me a lens through which to view my passing in and out of life. Three days with my first love, a lifelong friend. Three days to say thank you, to say I love you, I let you go. Three days and no say, really, over whether I would be present to the moment or racked with pain.

I wondered how I would handle this final farewell, saw it as a rehearsal for letting go all whom I love. My tendency: freight such moments with more gravity than they already carry. All my life I’ve tried to pile on too much. ’Had energy for accompanying Serge and Dave to the airport in Indianapolis, but not enough left over for an effusive display of grief and farewell at the gate where we parted. ‘Let Serge’s tears speak for him and me. Waved until he was out of sight.

For now, daybeds

A hospital bed now graces our living room. I’ll use it as a day bed/daytime headquarters, can still sleep in the bedroom next to Dave. He plans to sleep on the couch when I move to the hospital bed full time. Jaundice is showing in the yellow cast to my skin. Maybe because the bile duct is getting obstructed by the tumor. Made it to Ball State university theatre two times(!) last week—here’s a snapshot of Tish, Kelly, Serge, Dave and Bryn afterward.

 

Tish, Serge, Kelly, Dave, Bryn

 

Sobering News

Dear ones,

We’re feeling our way into the mixed blessing of modern technology. Assuming you have expressed an interest in getting this information, thank you. Your thoughts, prayers and warm well wishes are both welcome and felt. Bryn says he sometimes can sense an unseen safety net around him, buoying him up. We like to think that’s the web of connection making itself known. 

No promises as to how often we’ll post these updates: life is in flux and things are a whirl at the moment—we’re slow getting this first installment posted. That said, know that we appreciate your loving support.

Sincerely,

Dave and Bryn

Bryn

+ + +

At a glance:

October 2019.   Bryn feels unwell, can’t see any reason why. Throughout the month and the next one he sees the doctor several times and test after test comes back “all clear.” Except that is is not all clear and the pain continues. It started with the sensation of a knife stabbing into the base of the rib cage and being drug laterally across. Next the pain focuses on lower back, then middle-lower back, then gut, then lower back again. It ricochets  off off these three points, sometimes lighting up two or three areas at the same time. Since his doctor is finding nothing, Bryn seeks chiropractic treatments, hoping this will help. The pain continues to ramp up, as do the medical bills for (some expensive) tests that all say nothing is wrong. 

Over a given weekend the pain is especially severe. The doctor has no openings that Monday, so Bryn agrees to drive 45 minutes to a satellite office where he can see a nurse practitioner. She encourages him to get an ultrasound of the chest area. He refuses to throw more money down the rathole of tests that keep coming back clear. She bargains with him, “If I can find you a CT scan for under $400, will you have it done?” He agrees and she’s as good as her word. It’s a low-cost, low-res scan that will ultimately have to be repeated at high-res (and higher cost), but this is the test that comes back showing a suspicious growth on the pancreas. Thank heavens for nurse practitioners who listen to and are willing to work with their patients.

A high-res CT scan indicates the need for an endoscopic biopsy of the pancreatic tumor, Bryn’s first-ever surgery. He makes it through fine. That night the pain ramps out of control. “Take him to the emergency room,” Dave is told. Bryn refuses to go. He wants medicine for the pain, not a huge bill for a visit to the ER. Nothing doing. The surgeon’s fear is something may have gone dreadfully wrong and Bryn may die. Bryn counters that as pancreatic cancer carries a very similar prognosis it won’t make that much of a difference. He just wants something for the pain. Ain’t gonna happen.

Bryn survives the night. Dave calls Bryn’s regular doctor the next day. No, they won’t give out anything for pain since they didn’t do the surgery. Call the surgeon. Nope, surgeon insists Bryn go to ER. He’s just a once-and-done surgeon; pain management is the responsibility of the regular doctor. We call the regular doctor back. No, he didn’t make the referral to the surgeon. Contact the nurse practitioner. Meanwhile, the pain continues. Back to the surgeon who says, “Go to ER for a CT scan.” Sheesh.

In the end Bryn asks the surgeon to order the durn CT scan so as to avoid the ER charges. Bryn has the CT scan which shows the surgery went fine; he’s just in need of something for the pain. Even now the surgeon refuses. Pain management is not his responsibility.

Bryn can count on being up three or more hours each night with pain. Bed to couch, back to bed, back to couch, then soaking in a scalding hot bath, sleeping with a heating pad, making it through one moment to the next. Tylenol and Exederin within reason, pain a constant companion.

Ability to work is compromised. He misses more hours than he makes it in for. On Christmas Eve he meets with the top pancreatic surgeon in Indianapolis who delivers the news: it is inoperable pancreatic cancer. Chemo is suggested.

Bryn meets with an oncologist. She promises pain relief. And comes through for Bryn on the weekend the kids and grandkids and grandparents get together to celebrate Christmas. Bryn has a couple of days where he is able to be present to something and someone other than the pain. By Christmas Day the pain ramp way up again. Days continue like this...unremitting pain. A flurry of medical appointments. Surgery to have a port put in so Bryn can get started on chemotherapy. And still pain.

Then chemo. Not only pain, but nausea, diarrhea and other side effects as well. 

Bryn and Dave have some long talks about quality of life, the disease prognosis, goals for the time remaining. Bryn leans toward stopping chemo, asking for a focus on pain management, clarity enough to write a funeral oration, have some moments of being present to the grandkids, be able to put some of his affairs in order. He meets with the palliative care doctor, makes a cogent case for why he’s considering bowing out of chemo.

Says the doctor, “I don’t usually counsel any of my patients to stop chemo, but I’ve never met anyone quite like you.” The doc says he’s reviewed the chart, seen that no one’s promising chemo as a cure, says getting an additional month of life would be considered a good outcome. 

Bryn says he doesn’t care for an additional month if he’s going to be feeling as good as he has been. “This is not the quality of life that’s going to help me achieve my goals.” The doctor ups the dosage of pain medicine.

After further consideration, Bryn stops chemo after having had one round of it, signs on for hospice care. Has higher energy—four good days in a row, feels better in those four days than he has for three months. Makes progress on his funeral oration, other goals. Can finally summon energy for writing a little, talking on the phone, visiting in person.

Learns the hard way that energy is going to fluctuate. A hard day may follow a good one or not. No rhyme or reason. As word gets out, people email, telephone and schedule visits.

We schedule a photo shoot with a photographer who makes house calls. Have a lot of fun having our pictures taken.

Bryn and Dave caught in a snow globe

Bryn contacts Ball State University officials about their interest in accepting donation of his diaries and papers—a personal record of one man coming out gay at a unique time in the nation’s history. Yes, they’re interested in expanding the diversity of their holdings. And would you be interested in making a class presentation, review the story of your life? “Why, yes I would.” That presentation was on Wednesday of this week. It went well and Bryn enjoyed and appreciated the opportunity to share his story in this forum. As he was speaking one woman leaned over to Dave and whispered, “It looks like he’s in his element.” She was spot on. 

If we get a promised link to the video we’ll send it your way. Meanwhile, attached are a couple of proofs from the photo shoot. 

All this comes to you with gratitude for your support and caring and staying in touch. There is something to this unseen web, the cords of love that bind heart to heart to heart. I’m glad to be in it with you.

Thank you,

Bryn

Dear Boone Grove High School Librarian,

Dear Boone Grove High School librarian,

I feel rather sheepish coming to you this late in my life with an overdue book. OK, not overdue, stolen. A book I stole from the library 47 years ago when I was in eighth grade. My husband and I are cleaning house, setting my affairs in order. Today we started going through my books—I have a ton of them—and the race is on. Doctors tell me I have maybe two months left to live with pancreatic cancer.

One of the books I pulled from the shelf today was Wolf Brother by Jim Kjelgaard. I smiled when I found it, set it aside. I want to return it to you with my apologies.
Kjelgaard’s novel spoke to me back when I was a gay boy who did not then know he was gay. A goody two shoes, good church boy who worked in the library’s AV section, helping set up audio visual equipment for various classrooms. A bookish lad, shy, withdrawn, introverted, teased. Teased for what? For being gay, awkward, naive, stupid, foolish. For being a prick, a prig. A boy who identified with the main character in Wolf Brother.

It’s the story of an Apache youth who returns to his people after years in a white man’s boarding school. He gets caught up with a band of his people who refuse to remain confined to the reservation, choose to pursue freedom against overwhelming odds. The Apache are branded as cutthroat savages, hunted mercilessly. The boy earns the name Wolf Brother when he befriends a lonesome wolf cub and vice versa. This unlikely pair play an important role in the novel, come to each other’s rescue, are able to escape, eventually help carry hope back to the tribe. Wolf Brother serves as an example of how to make it through.

What spoke to me in this tale? Perhaps it was echoes of a boy who is on the outside, whose world is falling apart, who must find his way through tribulation and trial, anger and prejudice, make a way for himself and a life for those he loves.

Throughout my life is not Wolf who has been my totem, my spirit animal guide, but Bear. Bear came to me in a recurring dream throughout childhood. Time and time again he chased me around and around and around the garage at our house on Highway Two. It was always the same dream: me, running pell mell in terror, the bear hot on my heels. I would wake up sweating, panting, scared.

The dream came back to me after I'd come out as a gay man in mid life. Had left a wife and three small children, was living by myself in a ratty apartment in a building soon to be condemned by the city. Sleep was hard in those days. Eating was hard. Putting a life together was hard. Then Bear showed up to terrorize my night dreams.

I was angry, but had the wherewithal to say, I cannot go on like this. I will not. The next time this dream happens, I'm going to turn and face the bear. The dream came again with Bear chasing me around my parent's garage. As I ran through the pine trees I could feel its hot breath on my neck, slap of pine tree needles in my face.

I turned to face the bear, plunged my hands deep into its fur, yanked its face up towards mine. (My skin still gets goose pimples when I think of this.) I looked that animal straight in the eyes. It was me I was looking at. I was the bear. I was running from myself.

I realized I had always been running from myself.

I swore then to walk alongside Bear, rely on his power, strength, courage, wisdom. He has reappeared to me since. Never again in the dream chasing me. But whether in waking life or in the liminal world of sleep, I pay attention when Bear shows up.
After coming out I met and married a man whose animal totem Wolf is different than mine. Yet he understood and embraced the concept of an animal spirit guide. We share many similarities. Dave grew up on a farm in rural northwest Ohio; I grew up on a hobby farm in rural northwest Indiana. We share core values: simplicity, integrity, compassion. Value the unseen as much as the seen. Live without TV, cell phone and until recently internet connection. He's retired now after a long stint as chaplain with hospice. (I signed up for hospice yesterday.)

In partnership with this Wolf Brother of mine, I learned to live outside the rules of society. We made our way as two gay men in rural Indiana against blatant opposition from the legal system, religious system, society at large. In 24 years together our lives, our love has served as an example for others. They’ve told us so. I am grateful.

Grateful, too, for a story that spoke to me those many years ago. Grateful for the way I embraced the story, lived it, made it my own. My thanks to you for the lifetime loan of this book are long overdue.

Sincerely,
Bryn Marlow, Class of ’77
Boone Grove School
Home of the Wolves

THE POWER OF ONE

By the time I met him, Orville had mellowed. Years back he'd had a flash pot temper that went off without warning. As a child, my husband Dave ran scared of his dad's anger, always kept his guard up.

Orville was in his mid-80s when Dave came out. "You're my son. You're always welcome here," Orville told him. "Just don't bring any of your friends around."

At the time I counted myself one of Dave's friends. He and I had formed a mutual-survival pact. We'd agreed to companion each other through the coming out process, shared a six-month lease on an apartment.

Despite his dad's instructions, Dave soon invited me to accompany him on one of his regular trips to visit his father. I agreed to ride along. "He may not invite you in," Dave said. Fine by me. I'd heard enough stories about the old man's temper. I'd sit in the car, no problem.

To my surprise, Orville did invite me into the double-wide trailer house straightway. To my delight, he never looked back. He always welcomed me. I'd ask him about the good ol' days; I'd laugh at his jokes. He laughed at mine. He could hear the pitch of my voice easier than Dave's; I became the designated megaphone during regular visits to the house and later, the nursing home.

Dave's siblings had a harder time with his coming out than did their dad. I think they didn't know what to do with him (let alone me) and preferred to keep their distance.

Many a time Dave and I wished Orville would put his foot down, assert in his role as patriarch, "We are a family and no member of this family will be excluded from family gatherings." He never spoke these words; I think everyone involved lost something as a result. Only now after his death at age 97 have we taken tentative steps towards acting as a coherent family unit. I wish he were here to see it. I wish he had used his influence to make it happen.

In small ways and large we all of us exert influence on the world 'round. Even when that world falls apart, we may have more influence than we know.

When Dave came out, his world opened in many new ways. At the same time, the world his wife had been accustomed to turned suddenly on its head. Family dynamics shifted in the wake of their divorce. Their three adult children muddled through as best they could, provided support to one or both parents as they were willing and able. Holidays were celebrated in duplicate; a daughter's wedding gave rise to some tense moments.

Who knows how long this state of affairs might have continued. With plans underway for yet another daughter's wedding, Dave's former wife decided to take action. "We are going to be a family and present a unified front to the world," she said. She was as good as her word. She began by inviting Dave out for a meal to talk matters over. During their conversation her cell phone jangled. It was one of the kids calling to ask how she was doing.

"Your father and I are on a date," she said. Well. That news lit up the family hotline in nothing flat. Their parents were talking. And laughing together. Mom must be serious about being one family.

She was.

Leading by example, she enfolded both Dave and me into the wider family. We hugged, discussed wedding particulars, hung decorations together. We stood side by side in the receiving line. In the several years since, this one family has celebrated holidays and important events together, welcomed the arrival of two grandchildren, weathered job losses, medical issues and moves—the stuff of life, and for all of us now, the stuff of family life.

This past December I looked at the faces lit by the Christmas tree and thought, those kids' mother gave them back their parents. She gave me a family. What a gift.

My former wife and I took a different tack. Upon my coming out we parted ways and have remained east and west ever since. She found solace and refuge in a system of religious beliefs that left no room for a continuing relationship with me. Our three sons soon followed in their mother's footsteps. Now adults, they remain estranged from me.

Amazing, the power, the potential, of one. Of anyone. Of you, of me. And what shall we do with our power? Squelch it? Use it to build up or to tear down? Ours is the weighty responsibility—and amazing power—to choose.

This essay appeared in The Community Letter, February 2011

TO LIFE, HAMMERING AT THE DOOR

"Our culture ignores the power of initiation. Uninitiated boys become lost men leading unfulfilled lives. The male initiation experience we offer makes a difference."

This was the official spiel and I was skeptical. I'd come to the graduation ceremony to honor a friend's successful completion of the male initiation program offered by a non-profit organization. I didn't come to be sold a bill of goods.

Then one by one the 30 new initiates stood to speak. Man after man described the recent weekend event as the most powerful experience of his life. I listened intently. That evening I reserved a space on the next initiatory weekend, still some months away. it couldn't come soon enough for me.

I had a vague notion the venture would include drumming in the woods. What else, I didn't know. I didn't care. I wanted whatever those 30 men had found. I set out with anticipation.

What I did not anticipate was boot camp. As soon as I and my fellow initiates set foot on the wooded site, we were ordered about, offered no explanations, extended no sympathy.

We languished in cramped dark quarters. We were yelled at. One instructor played good cop; two dozen more acted bad ass. We received scant rations, cold showers, little sleep, loud lectures. One unexpected experience after another kept us off-balance.

At last, our resistance worn down and our bodies worn out, we were herded into a darkened enclosure. We were told to sit on the concrete floor and keep quiet.

Off in the woods began a distant drumming, accompanied by men shouting and chanting in unison. The noise grew closer, louder, more intense. It erupted right outside the rusty doors of the metal hut in which we waited. Then came a loud rapping. Someone, something wanted in. I was convinced that whatever or whoever it was, it held the power to change my life. My heart raced. My hands shook. My breath came in gasps. I thought the top of my head might lift off. As the chanting reached a crescendo, the man next to me elbowed my ribs. I heard his dry voice: "I'm not buying any of this, are you?" At that moment, the ribbed steel doors of the hut were wrenched open.

For me, that whole weekend was tinged with a sense of possibility, magic—and déjà vu. In condensed form, it echoed some of my coming out experiences of six years earlier.

Coming out remains the watershed moment of my life, the reckoning point that divides the B.C. and A.D. of my existence. It changed the course of my life. It threw me off-balance and held me there whilst a deep reordering took place in my psyche.

I came out at age 34. It remains the single most scary, painful, destructive, instructive, exhilarating and wonderful experience of my life. I will never know what it is to give birth to a child, but I will always remember giving birth to myself.

And I will always wonder, 'why did it take me so long to get there?'

Part of the answer rings in the dry voice at my elbow. For years it was my own arid withering self-talk: "You absolute loser. You sin-sick reprobate of a worm scudding to hell. You little dog turd. Don't you know men are supposed to be attracted to women? Can't you pray a little harder? Can't you control your thought life any better than that?"

I admire young people who come out early. I feel jealous of them. And rather stupid. How could I not realize I was gay? How many clues were staring me in the face? How many chances to come out earlier did I miss? How many times did life come roaring up, rapping at my door, ready to teach me about loving and accepting myself—and how many times, unwilling or unable to face my sexual orientation, did I turn away?

How much life I must have missed out on! Or maybe not. Maybe the time wasn't right. Maybe I was not psychically strong enough to face the truth of my sexual orientation. Maybe a deep inner wisdom whispered, "Not yet, not now." Maybe that wisdom is still at work in me.

Maybe life is forever knocking at my door, wanting to come in and shake things up, offer me chances to grow into more life. Maybe I can trust the process as it unfolds, take one step at a time, be gentle with myself even as I honor my current understanding, knowledge and awareness. Maybe all of life is one long initiation into itself. To which I say, "L'chaim!"

This essay appeared in The Community Letter, January 2011

RE-RIGHTING OUR LIVES

Ever wish you could rewrite the past? At a friend’s urging I tried this re-righting exercise: “Recall a painful life episode and retell it with an alternate, positive outcome. Include the presence of a supportive, powerful character.” I chose to examine my real-life memories of a high school bully I’ll call Mack.

* * *

I riffle through the tumble of books, notes and papers and pull out what I need for the next three classes: advanced biology, college math and English. Almost there now, almost there. I’ll breathe easy once I reach Mrs. Bush’s classroom. I swing the locker door shut. A hand lands on my shoulder, a piece of lead in my gut.

Mack shoves me against the beige lockers. A silver handle stabs at my back. “Where you going in such a hurry.”

It is not a question.

He jabs a hand under my chin, jerks my head up and back against cold steel.

Mack is not the biggest boy in our class, nor the meanest. But for four years he has loomed large in my school life; for nine months out of every twelve I have let him make my weekdays hell. He seeks me out, baits me, calls me names, teases me, pushes me around, gets in my face. And I let him. I play the good boy, turn the other cheek, pray for his soul to burn in hell.

What does Mack see in my countenance that gives him license to treat me with such disdain? What do I see in his that stops me from standing up for myself? These are questions I won’t ask until years later.

“Where do you get your clothes.” Again, it is not a question. “Fetla’s.” Mack spits out the name of the discount surplus store in Valparaiso, our county seat. “I bet your mom bought that shirt at Fetla’s.” He fingers my shirt collar. “Why do you wear clothes like that anyway. If I had clothes like that, I wouldn’t wear them to school.”

I keep my mouth shut. Long ago I learned there’s no reasoning with him. He steps in close, pushes my chin up again, my head back, presses his chest to mine. “I asked you a question, pud.”

“Mack, please. I have to get to class.”

It’s the wrong thing to say. Anything is the wrong thing to say. His chest swells. “Didn’t you hear me, faggot? I asked you a question. You’re not smart enough to—”

“Oh, no you don’t!”

Everything happens at once. One second Mack is on me, over me, the next he’s not even touching me. A loud shout. An “oof.” His body slams into the lockers to my right.

“I’ve had enough of you, Mack.”

It’s Frank Stassek who last year, even as a sophomore, played varsity basketball. Next year he’ll help our school capture the conference triple crown and whup big city Valparaiso—a first-ever feat. In this corner of basketball-crazed Indiana, in this small school where grades K through 12 gather under one roof, jocks are gods.

Blinking, Mack looks up into the face of an angry god.

“You leave this guy alone, hear me? Keep your paws to yourself. I don’t want to see you touching him again.”

Curly ringlets of dark hair frame Frank’s deep brown eyes and gorgeous face. Although I hate sports, I attend every home basketball game I can to watch Frank’s thighs pound the length of the court, his muscled arms pull down yet another rebound, his chest heave under the blue and white jersey marked with a large number 20.

It’s my chest that’s heaving at the moment. Frank takes my arm, pulls me forward. He slips an arm around my shoulder. “C’mon. Mrs. Bush will be looking for us. You don’t want to be late for class, do you?”

It is not a question. It is an answer to prayer.

* * *

In “real life,” neither Frank nor I ever came to my rescue. But in retelling this story, I catch a glimpse of the Frank who lives inside me. Maybe I will call on his power next time I need his protection.

This essay appeared in the November issue of The Letter.

STUNNING THE BLOND GOD

From what I am told, I map the geography of his upper body. A faint trail leads southward from the oasis of navel. Northward, the ridgeline runs through a ripple of abs to where well-defined pecs rise up, capped by salmon-brown peaks of aureole and nipple.

Strong neck, square jaw, stubbled chin. Lips full in the flower of youth. Dusting of moustache, unapologetic nose, blue blue eyes. Windblown bangs drift across his forehead. What in his upbringing could prepare him to fathom his own beauty?

He recently came out to himself after growing up in a conservative, homophobic religious tradition. His rugged good looks and generous endowment garner attention, praise, devotion. Heady stuff, I imagine, for one who spent years denigrating himself and his “sinful” desires.

He has thrown himself into the gay sexual scene with abandon. He supplements his sensual exploration with heavy drug use. He regularly engages in barebacking and other unsafe sexual practices.

“I suppose I should get tested.” he says and laughs. His voice tone says he has no such intention. His behavior says he wants it all, wants it now, wants it with no holds barred. No time to think, no time to consider. Take, taste, feel, feel, feel.

In his poem Syringe, Jim Wise describes

The stunning blond god,

His muscles straining against

The taut flesh of a body he

Was just learning to enjoy.

The godlike youth in the poem employs sex as a means of getting heroin into his system. He strips sex of its potential for celebration, emotional connection, a sense of being present to another human being. People make such choices. So do gods. I feel sad when I tot up the costs.

What the gay youth, so recently out, seeks in his headlong rush, I don’t know. To heighten sensation? Numb the pain of losses incurred in coming out? Blot out the confusion of so many new choices? I doubt that he knows himself.

I do not condone his choices, yet I recognize the wild eruption of feeling, the recklessness, the sense that the shackles have been thrown off and anything goes. I felt a similar rush in my coming out journey.

Yet behavior has consequences, understood or not. And desire exerts a powerful pull. The gay poet Cavafy observes (in this translation from the Greek)

He swears every now and then to begin a better life,

But when night comes with its own counsel,

Its own compromises and prospects—

When night comes with its own power

Of a body that needs and demands,

He goes back, lost, to the same fatal pleasure.

In coming out I encountered men who shepherded me, acted as mentors, offered sage advice, modeled appropriate behaviors. I also found men who stood ready to take advantage of my naivete. While I learned something from both sets of men, I have maintained friendships with only one group.

We do others a favor, and bless ourselves and our entire community when we treat others with respect and genuine regard. We can celebrate the body electric—the body erotic, the body taut with pleasure and discovery of its own sexiness—in a way that honors the sacredness of all life, affirms the expression of our sexual selves, and builds community at the same time.

This article appeared in the September issue of the Letter.