(no subject)
For many of you, I suspect, the words "high school" evoke horror, sadness and an insatiable yearning for junk food made of viciously uncouth glutens. From what I remember, it wasn't a particularly onerous time for me. Some good friends, decent social life, and, if I recall correctly, a magical night far out in the woods, the fire a'blazing, the chipmunks chipping (or munking or whatever they do) and a fortuitous condom in my glove compartment helping to bring about the end of 15 or 16 years of celibacy. So I think as fondly on those years as I might on any portion of my life that I barely recall and have no particular desire to relive. As best I can tell, it was a time of waiting patiently for real life to finally get started.
This was a time when virtually all teen males were at least superficially homophobic. I don't exclude myself. The interesting thing here is that it never actually took root, thanks to the kind intervention of a jackass. I honestly think that was the first time I'd ever given serious thought to the issue. To wit:
It was the autumn of my freshman year of high school and I was sitting on the curb out front the school waiting for my dad to come pick me up after school. It was still the 80's (barely), a magical time when Michael Jackson had not yet fully pupated and the Madonna/Whore Complex would have been the perfect nickname for MTV. Max Headroom was enthralling us with a much cooler speech impediment than Elmer Fudd could ever hope for, David had just slept with Maddie, and Kevin and Winnie were about to make nostalgia for dysfunctional childhood relationships acceptable again. Oh, and a bunch of other stuff was happening all over the world, but damned if I noticed.
So I was sitting outside, my backpack filled crumpled paper, broken pencils and a three-week old smooshed Twinkie, a copy of The Little Prince in my hands. The afternoon sun descended toward the horizon on the other side of the school, so long shadows were creeping up to cover me. I had to bend over slightly to better read the small print, and thus engrossed, I failed to notice the approach of a quartet of young hooligans. (I did not, of course, think of them as "hooligans" at the time -- in my firm opinion, any 9th grader who uses the word "hooligan" in a non-ironic manner deserves to be beaten up, the damned dork. Bonus beatings for using "quartet" instead of "group of four,") The first I noted of them was their leader, a junior or senior who had obviously rehearsed this sort of scene many times in the comfort of his bathroom, said, "Hey there, what the hell you readin'?" He then flicked a cigarette in my direction, missing me by only a few inches
Keep in mind: at the time, I was only 14, so I wasn't yet the magnificent example of manhowd (a "manhood" designer knock-off, half the price but only trained sex service industry professionals can tell the difference at a casual glance) I am today. But neither was I inconsiderable -- I was certainly as tall and intimidating as the ersatz Snapple King in charge. I was perfectly capable of taking him on alone. But there were 4 of them, though the other three were of noticably smaller stature. Since I was new to the school and had no idea who or what he was, I made the basic assumption that if push came to shove, the others would have no compunction about joining in. Not an unreasonable assumption, given that he didn't strike me as the sort to challenge someone who looked perfectly capable of taking him down unless he had back-up.
So, deciding discretion was the better part of valor, I just glanced up and replied, "The Little Prince."
He grabbed the book from my hand and examined the cover, which was graced by a neebish blonde boy with beady eyes. He waved it about, showing it to his friends, before tossing it back to me. "That's so fucking gay," he announced with a pride that I assume came from finding all the proper syllables necessary to say 'fucking. "Are you like a homo or something?"
Now this was high school in the late 80's. It was not a politically-correct time and place. To call someone or something gay was as deadly an insult as they came. It implied all sorts of horrible things. Unspeakable things. The sorts of things that probably went on in your parents' bedroom when they though you'd fallen asleep. Going to church was kinda gay. Driving a station wagon was very gay. Disney movies were unspeakably gay.
Oddly enough, superheroes in skintight leotards weren't gay. Except maybe Batman, but even that was hotly contested.
"And the author sounds French or something. Double gay!"
And, I had to admit, the book itself wasn't a particularly vibrant example masculinity. It was filled with pathos and tender reverse pederasty, and I could come up with no cogent argument against his assertions. But I loved the book -- it was the first real book I ever read, at the age of 3 1/2. So, confronted with the very real possibility that my 250 page book was in some way homosexual, and that it might somehow infect me with queerness through some mystical viral properties inherent in the non-acidic paper (non-acidic paper, I would one day discover, was kinda gay in itself), I had no choice but to respond with my most devastating retort, one that combined profanity, homosexuality and British cigarettes: "Fuck off, fag."
Now, dear reader, can you figure out the logical conclusion of such an interjection in a discourse involving the carbon cycle of mantouching? Yes, I can see by your faces that you have already arrived at the response.
"I ain't no fag, so stop saying you want to fuck me."
My heart sunk as I realized the enormity of my verbal error. All seemed lost. My mind flailed and the book slipped from my fingers. Just as I was about to concede this epic conflict, sudden inspiration hit me. Yes...that would do it....
"Why are you trying so hard to impress your 'little buddies'?" I asked, impregnating the last couple words with as much sweetness as I could muster. "I never make that effort for, you know, other guys."
His face screwed up with a terrible rage, one that couldn't possibly have been helped by the fact that I then added: "But I respect your choices, my friend."
And, surprisingly enough, I really did. I realized that, for all I knew, he could actually be gay, and I didn't care. But he was definitely an asshole, and that I cared about.
It looked like a fight was inevitable. The tension -- not particularly sexual -- grew, and his friends began to circle around behind me. Being young, foolish and invulnerable -- all at the same time! I was talented! -- I felt confident in taking out a couple of them. But not all 4. But my honor was at stake, to say nothing of the honor of my book. It might have been gay, but dammit, it was a fucking butch gay who'd knock his addled brains out if I didn't hold it back and take its place of the field of battle. I loved my gay little tome, and damned if I was going to let some homophobic jackass hurt its feelings. So, without thinking, I lashed out and knocked him back with a single punch to the face. He stood there, stunned, for several seconds before yelling something undeniably offensive and advancing toward me again as his compatriots shook off their surprise at how quickly I'd taken the first swing and began to close in as well.
The heavens trembled, and a mighty roar filled my ears...which turned out to be my dad driving up in his car, which desperately needed a new muffler. He came to a stop and the others, realizing that my father could just drive over them, backed off.
From time to time, I saw El Loco Bilko around school, but his taste for the fight seemed to have faded. Perhaps my punch had awakened some new desire for lovely gay S&M. Or perhaps, in predictable fashion, he'd forgotten about the gay books that had tormented his past.
Me? I actually figured that if giving up stuff I liked to read was the price of homophobia, then I wanted no part of it. I was, and am, as straight as they come. But I'd be damned if I was going to stop wearing assless leather chaps my pinkie ring. So that was how I learned to stop worrying and love that fabulous bomb, sweetcheeks.
(A year or so later, I had my ears pierced. A friend of mine pointed out that gay men pierced their right ears. I just shrugged, smiled, and pinched his ass. He jumped three feet in the air and made me promise to never do that again on pain of him telling my girlfriend on me.
I winked at him.
As near as I can recall, he turned out to be a decent, tolerant guy in the end.)
x-posted
This was a time when virtually all teen males were at least superficially homophobic. I don't exclude myself. The interesting thing here is that it never actually took root, thanks to the kind intervention of a jackass. I honestly think that was the first time I'd ever given serious thought to the issue. To wit:
It was the autumn of my freshman year of high school and I was sitting on the curb out front the school waiting for my dad to come pick me up after school. It was still the 80's (barely), a magical time when Michael Jackson had not yet fully pupated and the Madonna/Whore Complex would have been the perfect nickname for MTV. Max Headroom was enthralling us with a much cooler speech impediment than Elmer Fudd could ever hope for, David had just slept with Maddie, and Kevin and Winnie were about to make nostalgia for dysfunctional childhood relationships acceptable again. Oh, and a bunch of other stuff was happening all over the world, but damned if I noticed.
So I was sitting outside, my backpack filled crumpled paper, broken pencils and a three-week old smooshed Twinkie, a copy of The Little Prince in my hands. The afternoon sun descended toward the horizon on the other side of the school, so long shadows were creeping up to cover me. I had to bend over slightly to better read the small print, and thus engrossed, I failed to notice the approach of a quartet of young hooligans. (I did not, of course, think of them as "hooligans" at the time -- in my firm opinion, any 9th grader who uses the word "hooligan" in a non-ironic manner deserves to be beaten up, the damned dork. Bonus beatings for using "quartet" instead of "group of four,") The first I noted of them was their leader, a junior or senior who had obviously rehearsed this sort of scene many times in the comfort of his bathroom, said, "Hey there, what the hell you readin'?" He then flicked a cigarette in my direction, missing me by only a few inches
Keep in mind: at the time, I was only 14, so I wasn't yet the magnificent example of manhowd (a "manhood" designer knock-off, half the price but only trained sex service industry professionals can tell the difference at a casual glance) I am today. But neither was I inconsiderable -- I was certainly as tall and intimidating as the ersatz Snapple King in charge. I was perfectly capable of taking him on alone. But there were 4 of them, though the other three were of noticably smaller stature. Since I was new to the school and had no idea who or what he was, I made the basic assumption that if push came to shove, the others would have no compunction about joining in. Not an unreasonable assumption, given that he didn't strike me as the sort to challenge someone who looked perfectly capable of taking him down unless he had back-up.
So, deciding discretion was the better part of valor, I just glanced up and replied, "The Little Prince."
He grabbed the book from my hand and examined the cover, which was graced by a neebish blonde boy with beady eyes. He waved it about, showing it to his friends, before tossing it back to me. "That's so fucking gay," he announced with a pride that I assume came from finding all the proper syllables necessary to say 'fucking. "Are you like a homo or something?"
Now this was high school in the late 80's. It was not a politically-correct time and place. To call someone or something gay was as deadly an insult as they came. It implied all sorts of horrible things. Unspeakable things. The sorts of things that probably went on in your parents' bedroom when they though you'd fallen asleep. Going to church was kinda gay. Driving a station wagon was very gay. Disney movies were unspeakably gay.
Oddly enough, superheroes in skintight leotards weren't gay. Except maybe Batman, but even that was hotly contested.
"And the author sounds French or something. Double gay!"
And, I had to admit, the book itself wasn't a particularly vibrant example masculinity. It was filled with pathos and tender reverse pederasty, and I could come up with no cogent argument against his assertions. But I loved the book -- it was the first real book I ever read, at the age of 3 1/2. So, confronted with the very real possibility that my 250 page book was in some way homosexual, and that it might somehow infect me with queerness through some mystical viral properties inherent in the non-acidic paper (non-acidic paper, I would one day discover, was kinda gay in itself), I had no choice but to respond with my most devastating retort, one that combined profanity, homosexuality and British cigarettes: "Fuck off, fag."
Now, dear reader, can you figure out the logical conclusion of such an interjection in a discourse involving the carbon cycle of mantouching? Yes, I can see by your faces that you have already arrived at the response.
"I ain't no fag, so stop saying you want to fuck me."
My heart sunk as I realized the enormity of my verbal error. All seemed lost. My mind flailed and the book slipped from my fingers. Just as I was about to concede this epic conflict, sudden inspiration hit me. Yes...that would do it....
"Why are you trying so hard to impress your 'little buddies'?" I asked, impregnating the last couple words with as much sweetness as I could muster. "I never make that effort for, you know, other guys."
His face screwed up with a terrible rage, one that couldn't possibly have been helped by the fact that I then added: "But I respect your choices, my friend."
And, surprisingly enough, I really did. I realized that, for all I knew, he could actually be gay, and I didn't care. But he was definitely an asshole, and that I cared about.
It looked like a fight was inevitable. The tension -- not particularly sexual -- grew, and his friends began to circle around behind me. Being young, foolish and invulnerable -- all at the same time! I was talented! -- I felt confident in taking out a couple of them. But not all 4. But my honor was at stake, to say nothing of the honor of my book. It might have been gay, but dammit, it was a fucking butch gay who'd knock his addled brains out if I didn't hold it back and take its place of the field of battle. I loved my gay little tome, and damned if I was going to let some homophobic jackass hurt its feelings. So, without thinking, I lashed out and knocked him back with a single punch to the face. He stood there, stunned, for several seconds before yelling something undeniably offensive and advancing toward me again as his compatriots shook off their surprise at how quickly I'd taken the first swing and began to close in as well.
The heavens trembled, and a mighty roar filled my ears...which turned out to be my dad driving up in his car, which desperately needed a new muffler. He came to a stop and the others, realizing that my father could just drive over them, backed off.
From time to time, I saw El Loco Bilko around school, but his taste for the fight seemed to have faded. Perhaps my punch had awakened some new desire for lovely gay S&M. Or perhaps, in predictable fashion, he'd forgotten about the gay books that had tormented his past.
Me? I actually figured that if giving up stuff I liked to read was the price of homophobia, then I wanted no part of it. I was, and am, as straight as they come. But I'd be damned if I was going to stop wearing assless leather chaps my pinkie ring. So that was how I learned to stop worrying and love that fabulous bomb, sweetcheeks.
(A year or so later, I had my ears pierced. A friend of mine pointed out that gay men pierced their right ears. I just shrugged, smiled, and pinched his ass. He jumped three feet in the air and made me promise to never do that again on pain of him telling my girlfriend on me.
I winked at him.
As near as I can recall, he turned out to be a decent, tolerant guy in the end.)
x-posted