I Thought I Would Laugh

It is 1998, and I am all of 40 years old. Patrick and I are lunching in Town Centre, Reston, Virginia. The atmosphere here, in these parts of the DC Suburbs, is sterile, prefabricated. Town Center was ostensibly constructed to resemble an old downtown in a prosperous town, except it looks like no downtown I have ever seen. The East Coast downtowns I’m familiar with have a felicitous blend of architectures, where newer buildings make no effort to copy the forms of the existing buildings. Thus you can see an 1800’s townhouse standing next to a 1960’s glass box, adjacent to a 1950’s brick tower, and they all work marvelously together because of their individuality. All the buildings in Town Center, Reston Virginia, in these part of the DC Suburbs, were built at the same time, religiously constructed and designed for homogeneity, and artificially quaint. I hate Town Center.

* * *

My first boyfriend, like so many who came after him, was a man separated from the Church. In his case, Patrick was a defrocked monk.

I don’t want to tell how I met this ex-monk, when I was only 40 years old, still married, and at the verge of a nervous breakdown. Each morning in those days I would drive to work in tears (tears which I did not understand), and obsession, a new found fascination in the idea (still then only an idea, not yet tried out by me) of having sex with men. With that fixation in my mind and in my loins, with the Washington Blade in one hand and a telephone on the other, I dialed the number of someone who advertised in the gay personals as “Masculine, witty and perverse. Call me.” It was Patrick.

* * *

Patrick is funny. As we eat, he has his legs wide open, and his right thigh rubs against my left thigh, as if it had happened accidentally. I’m intrigued by his unabashed sexuality. I know he is an intelligent man; he is a school teacher in the City, and his students love him (as well as he loves them). He devours books, able to read an entire saga in one night (contrasted to my slow methodical reading pace, mandated by my dyslexia). But what most intrigues me are his picaresque sexual adventures. I envy his liberty and sexuality, and it makes me laugh, his manner of talking cheers me, his way of being lightens me. I need to laugh, because every morning I cry and sometimes I think I cannot go forward like this.

* * *

Patrick was my first; my first boyfriend; my first male sexual experience; my first fun in the sun. All the time I was with him, I lived in fear of being caught, but not sufficient fear as would prevent me unzipping my pants. My organ happily enjoyed the delicacies to which Patrick introduced us. I was fascinated both by the sex with him as with his world, so different than mine. My background was one of obeying rules, staying within the boundaries, at all cost not acting like “un maricón.” Patrick, who was the youngest son in a military family of six boys, where testosterone and masculinity abounded, excelled in flouting the rules. His father was a general in the army, and to Patrick’s utter delight, they lived on a military base, full of rules and regulations but, most importantly, full of soldiers, male soldiers to be precise. Starting at the tender age of five, Patrick enjoyed observing the beauty of the male body, and of taking advantage of every situation for satisfying his sexual desires.

Initially, he was satisfied by making believe he was unaware of his surroundings as he conveniently played ball (by himself) in front of the communal shower. Conveniently, his ball would wonder next to the window to the showers, and Patrick would take a long hard stare inside, where the soldiers were bathing nakedly and unawares. “With my five year old eyes,” told me Patrick, “I saw the biggest, hairiest cocks I have seen my whole life. To this day I have seen nothing like it. Imagine my delight at salivating over those masculine bodies, well worked out, their skin glistening with warm water, their pubes dark and abundant, their tools delightful as they jiggled, up and down, while being rubbed by their own rough hands and soft white soap.”

“And your parents?” I would ask. “Weren’t you afraid they would find out?”

“It never crossed my mind,” would answer Patrick dismissively, as if this were an alien thought. He had no understanding of fearing one’s elders, fear of discipline.

* * *

We are lunching next to the faux (as in fake) beaux arts fountain, not made of bronze, copper or cement but reinforced plastic, incapable of cracking. It is spitting water into the wind, and Patrick’s heavily starched shirt is getting wet. He dries it with a napkin and crows with a grin. He is telling me one of his many tales of sexual conquest, which make me double up. “So, I did him anyway,” is the punch line to the story he has just finished telling me.

The lady wearing pearl earrings, sitting next to us, picking at her brown-bagged lunch, raises an eyebrow and shakes her head. My twitching hands drop mustard on Patrick’s big shoes, size 11 ½. He uses the napkin to clean this too.

Patrick chews, chews, deliberately and slow. He sips, loudly, and stares, blankly. His green eyes peek gently above the cup. “So,” he gasps. “Here we are.”

Two men, smoking next-too-close to us, stroke their tummy-bellies, which are large and round, not flat and rippled, like Patrick’s. I want to have him now, I want to make him hoot. “So,” he gasps again.

I have yet to have sex with men other than Patrick, and even with him we have only slept five times. I can count then, I can remember each and every one of them. I am very interested in Patrick, and he in me, but I am afraid of being with him. He has so many years of experience, and I just now, at age 40, am entering the world of sex with men. Except for that one time, the one I never talk about.

* * *

While in his early youth, Patrick’s adventures were limited to watching men bathe (or undress, or urinate, or swim naked, or whatever other stage of nudity he could catch them in); but, as he grew older, he wanted more out of sex. His true training commenced at age 11, when he noticed that two rather handsome soldiers routinely excused themselves from the rest of the troops to take a walk together in the woods. Without knowing why, but knowing instinctively that the two men would divulge to him an Edenic secret, Patrick followed them one day. In the darkness of the woods, the two mouths of those young men sucked every bodily part which they eagerly exposed to each other. For the first time, Patrick’s penis not only got hard, it got wet; a white liquid rushed out of him and caused him to experience the most exquisite pleasure he had felt in all his young life. Patrick returned many times to those woods, and he met not only the same young couple but many other men as well, sometimes even in groups of three or more, giving themselves the Edenic pleasure to which Patrick was now addicted. He eagerly joined the fun.

“The first time that I saw a man put a dick in another man,” said Patrick to me, as we both laughed, “I thought to myself, THAT is what I want; THAT is what I want to be doing.”

“Giving or receiving?” I asked, innocently.

“Both things!” he screamed at me. “There’s no reason why one should discriminate among such pleasures.” We both laughed ferociously in response to Patrick’s camp.

“And how old were you when you finally learned the pleasure yourself, experienced a man inside you or you in him?” I asked, midstream an outburst of laughter.

“Twelve years old,” he answered, matter-of-factly.

I was no longer laughing. “And how old was he?”

“25 or 30 I suppose. I don’t know. Why do you ask?”

I don’t laugh. “Because I think you were a victim of a crime, sexually. A man has no right to do that to a child.”

“Maybe not,” answered Patrick, almost reflectively; and then, once more with his campy voice, “But he did nothing to me child, I did it all to him and with great pleasure!” and we starting laughing again.

* * *

I want to tell Patrick something funny; I want him to know that I can also be humorous, intelligent. I think that perhaps the story of my first adventure (the secret, the thing that I share with no one, not even with you dear reader), will be amusing to tell. I decide to do it.

“You know what,” I say to him, with a chuckle in my voice. “I have a secret to tell you.” Patrick’s eyes grow wide; I have captured his attention. “I have always told you that you were the first man I had sex with, but there was a kid in my youth with whom I did one or two things.” The chuckle is no longer in my voice.

“How old were you?” asks Patrick.

“We were young, both of us 12 years old; and at that age, boys are getting to know themselves. We showed each other our pee-pees, and then, instinctively, without it being necessary for any one to teach us how, we sucked each other.”

Patrick is not laughing. I don’t understand why. I had thought that this story would be fun. “Go on,” he says.

“Well, it was fun, and like a big fool I proceeded to tell Xavier and Gabriel all about it, bragging about my new found sexual pleasures. They, in turn, told Mother and Father, and the rest you can imagine.” My eyes start to tear, but I a force out a small giggle, badly acted.

* * *

What Patrick had as a child in addition to an incredible libido, was an incredible mind and a strange devotion to religion. After college, he joined the Benedictine order in a monastery in New Mexico. His mission would be to Ora et Labora (“Pray and Work”). He hoped desperately to exercise both his mind and religiosity, thereby squelching the libido; but the libido prevailed. It did not take long for Patrick to learn that both in and out of the monastery their was sex waiting for him at every turn.

“Poor me,” explained Patrick. “I was determined to change everything and to leave my sexual misadventures behind. On my very first day off, I decided to take a short walk and enjoy nature, everything that Santa Fe has to offer. I should put my mind in a place of tranquility, is what I said to myself. So here I am, walking the tree lined streets of Santa Fe, with my monk’s robe flapping in the air, and I stumble into a small park. What beauty, I thought. I go into the park, and you already know what I found there – a flock of homosexuals doing things to each other which even I had never done before. I lifted my skirts, exposing my very firm dick, and I let Tom, Dick and Harry give themselves some pleasure with the wafer I offered between my legs.”

* * *

Patrick does not laugh at my story of first sexual exploit. “What is it that happened?” he asks me. “Go on, you need to tell me.”

“Well, what happened is that Mother and Father confronted me with it. ‘Who taught you such things?’ they insisted. ‘How dare you! Shameless! ¡Es vergonzoso!’ And with that, the beating began.”

First with the hands. Then with the belt. They whipped me for what I believe must have been an hour. Perhaps even two. Xavier and Gabriel were witnesses; they screamed “Don’t hit him anymore!” But Mother and Father would not stop and Xavier and Gabriel ceased their screams, watching the beating, silently.

* * *

Patrick, in spite of his sexual desires, was a reasonable man, and he himself realized he could not run around the streets of Santa Fe in a monk’s robe, looking for sex with men. That same day, when he returned to the monastery, he sought help from Brother Jacob, an elder monk, 40years old, who had been assigned as his spiritual mentor. I doubt that the following really occurred in this manner, but it is how Patrick told it to me as we both cackled hysterically.

Patrick knocked on the door of Brother Jacob’s room. Their was no answer, and after a few more knocks, each louder than the one before, just about the time Patrick was ready to leave, Brother Jacob answered in a slurred voice, “En----ter!”

Timidly, Patrick opened the chamber door, where he found Brother Jacob on his knees, in front of a crucifix, praying. I almost forgot to report that Brother Jacob, although 40 years old, was extremely attractive, a la mode of Sean Connery. The hair from his chest came out from under the neck of his robe, and the black hair of his arms, masculinely attractive, came out from under his sleeves to entirely cover the back of his hands and the knuckles on his fingers. He was an animal, but with a brain. Patrick happily fantasized whenever he saw Brother Jacob, thinking of doing the felicitously dirty sexual deed with that passionate furry creature. Next to Brother Jacob was a bottle of whiskey, and a glass with ice. He had been drinking.

“Patrick, come sit next to me. Would you like to pray with me? There is so much sin in the world for which we must beg forgiveness. It’s a task that never ends.” His black eyes, framed by his dark eyebrows that look like paint brushes, stared at Patrick with impure sensuality. (He is an animal, thought Patrick.)

“I must confess to you, Brother Jacob,” said Patrick. “I need your help.”

Brother Jacob kept praying. His animalistic eyes were now shut tight, like lids on a jar. His bestial hands were held up in prayer, fingers pointing towards the heavens. His lips rounded out the words to Psalm 23, but his voice uttered no sound. The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want. (mumble mumble mumble) He maketh me to lie down in green pastures: he leadeth me beside the still waters. He restoreth my soul: he leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for his name's sake. (mumble mumble, hiccup) Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they are next to me. . . (hiccup).

“They comfort me,” Patrick corrects Jacob. “Thy rod and thy staff, they comfort me. Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies: thou anointest my head with oil; my cup runneth over. Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life: and I will dwell in the house of the Lord forever.”

Brother Jacob does not smile. He stares at Patrick, with desire in his mind. He takes a sip of encouragement from his bottle “What do you wish to confess, Patrick?”

Patrick does not know how to proceed. He does not know if he should confess to this hirsute brute that today he has had sex in a public park, and that in all honesty (as far as honesty will go), he wishes to end all of that; or, should he confess to this sexual animal, repugnant though he is, that he wants to sleep with hairy Brother Jacob?

“Bless me Brother, for I have sinned.” That is all that he said, and all that Brother Jacob needed to hear. With those few words, Brother Jacob understood all.

“Come, kneel next to me.” Patrick is obedient. Side by side, Patrick’s youthful smooth skin, Irish white, glows next to Brother Jacob’s brutish arms, densely pilose. The older man took his chance, and unabashedly kissed young Patrick. They undressed. Just as Patrick had suspected, Jacob is pure hair, from neck to toe, from the back of his shoulders to the crack in his ass, from under his arms to the pubes around his member; and the member was enormous. The sensual beast forced Patrick to taste his organ, followed by other pleasurable abuses, entering inside Patrick many times that night. Patrick’s legs and muscles hurt for a long time after that, his throat and other orifices were inflamed from the deep penetrations. DRAMA! “But I loved it,” says Patrick. “I had found my heaven on Earth, and it was shaggier than I had imagined.” We laughed.

* * *

Everything seems to be taking place in slow motion. I can see the belt being raised slowly into the air, coming down towards me at the pace of a falling feather, then miraculously welting against my skin, with unexpected force and hurt. They left me wounded, black and blue all over. I think at some point they got scared because I stopped crying and simply laid there, empty of emotion, accepting the punishment. My silence was more terrifying to them than my screams. They stopped the beating.

* * *

The illicit relationship between Jacob and Patrick did not last very long, one year, perhaps 19 months. At first, Patrick would anxiously submit himself to fulfilling the sexual desires of his spiritual mentor, daily (or should we say nightly, under the black light and secretness of the night). But little by little, Patrick began to desire less of the hirsute sexual animal, and to take notice of those around him. And amongst those around him, Patrick came to know Jesús de La Cruz (Jesus of the Cross). Just like me, Jesús de La Cruz was Hispanic (except I’m Anglo-Argentine, Jesús is Mexican-Indian). Just like me, Jesús de La Cruz (who is exceedingly feminine, and I hope in this respect not deemed like me), was in complete denial of his sexuality. And, just like me, Jesús de La Cruz had his first homosexual experience with Patrick.

In agonizingly small steps, Patrick befriended Jesús de La Cruz. Jesús was hesitant to accept Patrick’s friendship, for he knew what it entailed. Patrick, however, prevailed, and in six months he had bedded him. At the same pace, moment by moment, Patrick withdrew himself from his relationship with Jacob. It was inevitable that everyone in the monastery would learn of the loving relationship between Patrick and Jesús. “We were not very discreet” admitted Patrick. “As you know, I have an appetite that is never satisfied. When I saw my petite Jesús walking the hall one day in his robes, with the skirt caressing his round cheeks. . . . I ask you, who would not do what I did, right there and then?” He plowed Jesús in the halls, where all could see.

* * *

That night after the beating, once in bed, I shivered incessantly, unable to stop my legs and arms from twitching. They probably should have taken me to the hospital. Mother came to check on me, putting her soft hand (which smelled of blue carnations perfume) up against my burning forehead. “Are you alright?” she asked. I did not answer.

* * *

The investigation into Jesús and Patrick’s affair was quick and the decision decisive. Jacob and a Father Murphy, the priest for the monastery, were put in charge of escorting Patrick and Jesús out of the building.

“After almost three years in that God awful place, they put us out on the street with nothing other than the few dollars we had in our pockets. I remember waiting for the bus with Jesús and, wouldn’t you know, the cliché is true: it was raining. We did not even have an umbrella. Soaked, like wet paper, we got on the first bus that came and started a new life, Jesús and I.”

* * *

I can’t go on telling my story to Patrick. These are memories that I choose never to remember; memories which I have told no one, ever. I thought that Patrick would see the humor in all of it, and that the two of us would have a good belly chortle at the conclusion of my story. Instead, I commenced to cry, first slowly then torrentially, letting escape a wail that had been in me for 28 years. A howl that does not end. I weep like a child, in front of the whole world. In front of the lady wearing her pearls. In front of the two men smoking cigarettes. I don’t care, I cannot stop crying. Patrick consoles me, giving me his hand.

* * *

Patrick and Jesús were together for two months after their defrocking. After they broke up, they never saw each other again. “But darling,” explained Patrick, “Don’t get sad about that! In our new city I found many other parks and the stories I could tell you about those adventures will leave you wet.” He told me all of them.

* * *

“My first was really something too,” I say on cue. He nods and I continue. “The folks found out, and beat me blue.” I thought we would laugh. But I cry. Patrick pats my legs with his hirsute hands. He draws me near, without fear of the glares and the stares. He kisses me gently, to conclude: “Life’s a bitch, ain’t it.”

­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­-____________________________________________________________________-

What I Chose to Remember

In February 1967, when I was nine, my parents took us to Córdoba (Argentina) for summer holidays. We packed into our Jeep, and drove 600 miles from Buenos Aires to the country’s heart. We traveled through the plains of El Chaco, monotonous, flat, planted only with sunflowers. Butterflies swarmed the roads. I chose to lie on the floor of the car, where all I could see out the window where white clouds and blue skies. When we arrived to Córdoba, the radiator of the Jeep was covered with dead butterflies. “Martyrs of the road trip,” my mother called them. My brothers, Xavier and Gabriel, and I peeled their silky wings off the radiator, and added them to our make believe collection.

Gabriel and I were the first to run inside the hotel. The desk clerk, an albino, wanted to know how long we would stay. Her eyes were pale, unfocussed. Her hair was straw-like, brittle. Gabriel and I stared at the albino, examined, wondered. Afterwards, Mother gave an account of the woman’s condition. “They can’t go in the sunlight,” she explained, which sounded like a child’s truth, fantinformation. An albino clerk, half-human, half vampire, forced to work in a dark hotel lobby, protected from the sun.

The next morning we packed a picnic, slipped into our bathing suits and drove to a nearby river. The waters were rapid. Perhaps not strong enough to carry adults, but fast enough for Xavier, Gabriel and me. Our small bodies felt like clouds, tossed carelessly, freely into the waters. We had no fear. We laughed, even though the currents occasionally sucked us in and covered our heads. Father looked on. Anxious? I don’t know.

After taking our fill, we slipped out of the river, shivering. Gabriel pointed at my stomach, and shouted, frightened. “¡¿Qué te pasó?!” (What happened to you!?) All three of us were covered with leeches, front and back. I shrieked like a little girl. Mother drew us to her carefully laid out picnic blanket, calmly reached for the salt shaker, and carefully removed the leeches (one by one) by pouring salt on their backs. Each left a small reddish mark behind (its bite) as it was pulled off the skin. When the de-leeching (de-lousing?) was done, we snacked (delighted), on picnic food, hard boiled eggs with salt and warm tea served out of a picnic thermos.

To this day, I can savor the aroma of that tea.