Author: Michael Thomas Ford
Category: LGBT
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We came up laughing and sputtering, our hair plastered against our heads so that we resembled seals. I returned Jack's ducking, pushing him down and under. He came up behind me, wrapping his arms around my waist as he rocketed up and out of the water. For a moment, before he pulled me back down with him, I felt him pressed against me. His penis was nestled in the cleft of my cheeks, and I felt the curly swirl of hair at its root against my skin.
Then I was underwater, looking up as bubbles swarmed around my face. Jack let go and I floated away from him. I turned and watched him surface, his arms and legs ghostly against the darkness. I reached for him, wanting to pull him back against me, then remembered that I couldn't breathe and swam toward air and light.
Jack was heading back to shore, his strong arms carrying him quickly. I started to follow, then realized that my cock had swelled to attention. I didn't want Jack to see it that way, for fear he would guess what had caused it, so I slowed my strokes and waited for it to go away. By the time I reached shallow water, Jack was putting his sneakers on and my erection had abated. It was helped by the shock of the night air which, despite the relative warmth of the water, caused gooseflesh to rise on my skin.
"Let's get back to camp," Jack urged as I dressed. "We don't want them to miss us." I nodded, saying nothing. Then I followed Jack back down the path we'd taken until it joined the one leading away from the ceremonial grounds. When we came to Unami Lodge, we went right, past the Win campsite and on to our own. Although several of the tents were zipped up and lit from within, others were dark, indicating that their tenants were still out, perhaps brushing their teeth or engaged in earning their astronomy badges. We had not been missed, and we entered our tent with feelings of having accomplished something dangerous and forbidden.
"Boy, that was fun," said Jack, unzipping his sleeping bag.
"Yeah," I said.
"What's the matter?" Jack asked me. "You sound funny."
"I'm just cold," I told him. "I need to warm up."
"Here," Jack said, unzipping my bag and pulling it closer to his. "We learned this in survival class today."
"What are you doing?" I asked him. "Putting our sleeping bags together," he answered as he fed the teeth of my zipper into the slider of his and joined them. "Now we both get in and our body heat warms us up. It's how you stay warm if you're trapped in the snow or whatever."
He slipped into the new, double bag. I hesitated, then got in beside him, turning so that my back was to him. Jack zipped the bag closed and turned on his side. I felt his arm go around my chest. "Don't worry," he said. "I'm not going to feel you up or anything. I know you don't do that on the first date." He laughed, and I felt his breath against my neck. I closed my eyes. The tent smelled of wood smoke and water and pine. I tried not to think about Jack pressed against my back, or his hand resting on my stomach. I tried not to feel the heat moving between us.
"Now, if you were Cheryl Kipe, I might feel you up," Jack continued. "I might even do more than that, if you know what I mean."
He thrust his hips against me. Again I felt the bulge between his legs brush against my ass. My dick jumped in response, and I cringed inwardly. No , I told myself. Don't.
"Man, I wonder what it would be like to be with her," said Jack. "Have you seen her boobs? Pete Lowry told me she let him touch them once after he took her to a basketball game." He reached up and squeezed my chest as if he had one of Cheryl's breasts in his hand. "I bet they're soft," he said. "So, who would you want to do it with?"
I struggled to think of an answer. My penis, already half erect, was getting harder. Jack still held me to him, his hand cupping me as he thought about Cheryl.
"I don't know," I said, picking at random a girl from my biology class. "Maybe Sheila Mullally." "A Catholic girl," Jack remarked. "Everyone says they're the easiest. I bet she'd let you go down her pants." As he said it, he slid his hand down my stomach to my underwear, mimicking what I might be able to do to Sheila. I held my breath, waiting for the awful moment when he realized I had a hard-on and pushed away from me.
His fingers touched the head of my dick and stopped. For a moment, Jack said nothing. Then he playfully squeezed my penis. "Looks like you already thought about that," he teased. He didn't let go. Instead, he slid his hand under the waistband of my shorts. His fingers closed around my cock and stayed there. I could feel him breathing behind me, but neither of us said anything. He began to move his hand up and down, slowly, still not saying a word. I felt the bulge at my back lengthen, and I knew he was getting hard as well.
"You can touch mine if you want to," he said hoarsely. He rolled onto his back and I onto mine, so that we were lying side by side. My hand trembling, I reached over and felt him. His dick was shorter than mine but thicker. My fingers barely met around the shaft. Our hands moved together, stroking gently, and neither of us spoke. I remember that Jack came first, but that even after his shuddering subsided he continued to pump me until I, too, had release. It was the first time that I can remember that he considered the needs of someone else once his own had been met. Neither of us said a word as we wiped our hands on whatever soiled clothing we had nearby, and neither suggested separating the sleeping bags. I remember falling asleep soon after, despite the thoughts racing through my mind, and waking up in the morning with Jack once again pressed against my back, arm around me, snoring gently. That was how it began. Although I expected there to be awkwardness between us that next day, there was none. Jack acted as if nothing at all unusual had occurred in our tent the night before. He went through the day as usual, devouring his morning pancakes with relish, taking his first shots with a rifle on the Marshall Island shooting range, and orchestrating an evening attack on the Jersey camp during which we pelted our unprepared foes with toilet paper and shaving cream stolen from the older scouts. And that night, when we were once more alone, he asked if I wanted to fool around some more. That's what we called it from then on—fooling around. It continued for the remainder of camp, and then when we returned home. Several times a week we would find ourselves jerking off, sometimes alone and watching each other and other times together, our hands moving in unison. We came to know each other's pattern of arousal, and were able to time our manipulations so that we reached orgasm at the same time, gripping one another tightly as we released in tandem. Jack never spoke about what we did other than to ask if I was interested in doing it. I didn't say anything either, afraid that if I did it would disappear, like the gold coins in fairy tales that turn back into coal as soon as dawn arrives to break the enchantment. Like so many relationships, ours was one that went undiscussed, each of us believing it to be what we needed it to be. But silence has a way of growing loud beyond bearing, and eventually this one became deafening.
CHAPTER 7
I once dated a man who blamed his lack of enthusiasm for Valentine's Day on the grounds that it is a made-up holiday invented by purveyors of greeting cards and confections. I now realize that his disdain was rooted more in his lack of enthusiasm for romance in general, and that the high-minded position he espoused for boycotting February the 14th was nothing more than a convenient excuse for not buying me flowers and taking me out to dinner. Sadly, at the time I was not armed with ammunition to counter what I believed to be a reasonable argument, and so spent the evening alone, watching Now, Voyager . Thayer, the very definition of a romantic, needs no persuading when it comes to celebrating the feast of St. Valentine, and so I rarely get the opportunity to use what I have come to know about the day in response to those who shun it. Since the date figures heavily into the course of Jack's and my relationship, and since I find in its evolution parallels to our life together, I think its history worth mentioning here.
The creation of a day devoted to all things amorous cannot, as my unromantic former beau believed, be blamed on Hallmark or the entrepreneurial Quaker Stephen Whitman and his chocolate samplers. Rather, the fault—as it does for so many things—lies with the Romans. On this historians agree. Wher
e they cannot come to an accord is on the precise evolution of the tradition. Oh, to be a pagan in the days of the Caesars and their brethren, with gods and goddesses for every occasion and spirited rites to accompany their worship. In this instance, the deities in question are Juno Februata and Lupercus, the goddess of the "fever of love" and the god of the fields respectively. Both are named as the originators of what we now call Valentine's Day, and with good reason. Juno Februata, patron of marriage and women. Lupercus, lusty avatar of Faunus, horned god of the woods. On the 14th day of the second month, Juno was remembered. On the 15th day fell the Lupercalia, a commemoration of the raising by a she-wolf of Romulus and Remus, twin sons of the war god Mars by his rape of the Vestal Virgin Rhea Silvia. Two dates, two deities, but one tradition shared by both. On this date (whichever you choose, it hardly matters) the names of unmarried young women were written on slips of paper and placed in a box. These slips were then drawn, one at a time, by unmarried young men. The resulting couples were symbolically joined for a period of one year, during which they could enjoy one another's company as they saw fit. Although these mock marriages sometimes resulted in the real thing, primarily it was a lovely excuse for sexual exploration of all kinds. One can, without much effort, see the appeal of such an annual rite. One can also imagine its vexatious affect on Valentine, the Christian bishop of Interamna, who not only found the pagan gods troublesome, but who was further inconvenienced by the proclamation of mad emperor Claudius II abolishing marriage, which he believed made men unfit for battle. Undeterred, Valentine encouraged young lovers to come to him to be wed in secret, earning him a reputation as a defender of love and a visit to the court of Claudius in the year A.D. 270. A conversation between the men, both equally convinced of the rightness of their convictions, ended regrettably for Valentine when he was clubbed, stoned, and, finally, relieved of his head.
But all was not for naught. Legend has it that during his imprisonment prior to his martyrdom, Valentine fell in love with the blind daughter of his jailor, eventually using his divine powers to restore her sight. On the eve of his execution, he reportedly wrote a farewell message to the girl, signing it "from your Valentine." It is not recorded whether he also presented her with a box of sweets for her troubles, but for her sake we can only hope that he did, seeing as how the girl and her father were later executed for accepting Valentine's other gift, the redemptive love of Jesus Christ. When, in A.D. 496, it was decided by Pope Gelasius that it was time to once and for all stamp out the lingering pagan customs of the land, a replacement for Juno Februata and Lupercus was sought. Gelasius was wise enough to know that the Romans would more readily accept a substitution than an abolition, as they had when their winter solstice celebrations calling for the return of the sun and its light were retooled as the birth of the Christ child. He found a ready candidate in Valentine, with whose feast day he replaced those of the Roman deities. He also attempted to replace the drawing of girls' names with the drawing of the names of saints, whose lives the selectors were urged to emulate for the following year. This proved unpopular, however, and eventually Gelasius settled once more for the choosing of names, albeit omitting the sexual overtones of the celebration.
The rest, as they say far too casually, is history. Valentine the saint became valentine the missive. The slips drawn from the box soon became love letters, usually in verse, sent to young ladies by their admirers. The first known valentine, preserved today in the British Museum (where Thayer and I saw it on our tenth anniversary trip to London), was sent by Charles, Duke of Orleans, to his wife, Bonne of Armangac, in 1415, while the duke was imprisoned in London's White Tower following the Battle of Agincourt. I would urge all those gentlemen who find purchasing a card for their true love a burden to consider the lengths to which poor Charles had to go to send his valentine, which ought to put a 10-minute trip to the drugstore in perspective.
Considering the Roman beginnings of the tradition, I like to think that Julius Caesar, once famously described by Curio as "every woman's man and every man's woman," received some small token of affection from his most well-known valentine, King Nicomedes of Bithynia. Sadly, the sending of valentines between men is a largely unexplored avenue of romantic history, so whether Caesar ever received one we will never know. My own experience with such things, I can recall with awful clarity, began with Valentine's Day of 1966.
I gave it, of course, to Jack. We had exchanged them before, but always they had been of the sort that had Mighty Mouse or Donald Duck on them, and they were given along with the others we brought for all of our third-and fourth-grade classmates, stuffing them into
tissue-paper-heart-decorated shoeboxes before being rewarded with pink-iced cupcakes. That year, however, I took great pains to make Jack a card. I'd looked for one at Woolworth's, but they all had verses clearly written with girls in mind, and reading them made me blush with embarrassment. Jack wasn't my sweetie or my honey. I didn't even have a word to describe what he was. All I knew was that I felt something for him and wanted to let him know.
I ended up making a card from red construction paper. Inspired by our one real childhood fight, I glued to it images of Superman and Batman cut from my collection of comics. I positioned the two superheros standing side by side on the moon, holding hands and looking at one another. Behind them I drew a galaxy, complete with stars and planets and a comet. Inside, I wrote "To my Superman. Happy Valentine's Day." I signed it "Bruce," as in Bruce Wayne, Batman's true identity.
I was sure that Jack would like the card. Although we had been playing our sexual games for almost six months and still hadn't given what we did a name, I knew he felt about me the way I felt about him. I saw the valentine as a way to finally put into words what was between us. I suppose what I really hoped was that it would encourage him to tell me what was in his heart. I gave him the card on the way to school, handing it to him when we reached our first corner and had to wait for a passing car before crossing. He looked at the cover, opened it, and then looked at me. "What the hell is this?" he asked, his voice angry.
"What do you mean?" I said, startled at his reaction.
"What do you think I am, a girl?"
I shook my head. I didn't know what to say, so I said nothing.
"Look, I'm not a queer," Jack said, looking around to make sure that no one was listening to our conversation. "And neither are you. Got it?" He thrust the valentine at my chest, letting it go so that it fell to the ground, where the snow smeared the ink and stained the ground red. Then he turned and started to cross the street. I looked at the card, crumpled at my feet, then bent to pick it up. Jack was already on the other side of the street, walking quickly away from me. He turned and looked back. "Are you coming or not?" he called out. I tucked the valentine into my notebook and ran after him. Neither of us said another word as we finished the walk to school, and when we walked home that afternoon, Jack seemed to have forgotten all about the incident. Alone in my bedroom, I took the valentine out, tore it into as many pieces as I could, and deposited it in the wastepaper basket beside my desk. A minute later the phone rang. When I answered it, it was Jack, telling me that he had asked Mary Shaughnessy to go to the movies that night, and that I was taking her friend Bernice Kepelwicz. He would pick up some cards and candy for the girls. All I had to do was be ready to go at six. Defeated, I did as he told me. At the appointed time, I arrived at his house, where he handed me a red envelope and a small box tied with a pink ribbon. "You can give these to Bernice," he instructed me. He had slicked back his hair and applied aftershave. The smell, as it always did, reminded me of being next to him in bed. I felt my heart tremble, but was able to control myself as we walked downtown to the theater. It wasn't snowing, but the air was bitterly cold, mirroring the chill in my soul. Mary and Bernice were waiting for us in the theater lobby. Jack handed Mary her card and candy, accompanying it with a kiss on the cheek. Bernice looked at me expectantly, and so I did the same, adding, "Happy Valentine's Day." The girls looked at one
another, exchanging smiles, while Jack scanned the marquee to see what was playing.
"How about Fantastic Voyage ?" he suggested. "I hear it has great special effects." Mary screwed up her nose. "I don't like science fiction," she said. "Bernice and I want to see the Singing Nun , don't we, Bernice?"
"Debbie Reynolds is the best," Bernice agreed. Jack rolled his eyes at me behind the girls' backs, but walked to the ticket window and plunked down two dollars for tickets for himself and Mary. I did the same, handing Bernice her ticket. Then Mary meaningfully suggested that popcorn and Cokes would be nice, so Jack and I waited in line at the concession stand while the girls went to find seats.
"Man, this movie is going to suck," Jack said.
"Why are you pretending to like Mary?" I asked him, suddenly angry.
"What do you mean?" he said. "I like Mary all right."
"Since when?" I demanded to know. "You just invited her this afternoon."
"So?" said Jack defensively. "Maybe I didn't think of it until then."
I bit my lip to keep from accusing him of anything else. I knew full well why he had suddenly decided to arrange Valentine's dates for us. He knew, too. But neither of us would say it, not in a crowded theater. Maybe, I thought, not ever.
We got our popcorn and sodas and joined the girls, who had artfully arranged themselves so that they were seated together and Jack and I had to sit on opposite sides, as far from one another as possible. Mercifully, the lights dimmed soon after, and we settled into silence as the movie began. It was, as Jack predicted, monumentally dull, despite the catchiness of the hit song on which it was based. Only Agnes Moorehead, who I recognized from my Thursday-night viewings of Bewitched , provided any amusement in her role as a cranky nun.
When, halfway through, I felt Bernice lean against me in an invitation of affection, I dutifully obliged. Upon placing my arm around her shoulders, I found my fingers come into contact with Jack's, who had his own arm around Mary. To my surprise, he left his hand where it was, even going so far as to hook one finger around mine, linking us together across the barrier of the girls. We remained like that through the rest of the film, none of which I can remember.