All Over Him Page 3

  I almost couldn’t meet Troy’s eyes, but when I did, I could see them sparkling with an intense green. “You’re dangerous and full of surprises, Will. This may be a sophisticated school and all that, but you can’t just blurt out shit like that!”

  I felt my stomach churn at his outburst. “I don’t usually—”

  “Sorry,” he said. “Maybe you’re a good judge of people, because I don’t care. In fact, I support people like you. Like anywhere else, though, most people aren’t going to like that. You need to be careful.”

  “I am. But I doubt that people here can be any worse to us than they were back home.”

  “You might be right. How did you guys ever find each other? You did say it was a small town?”

  “Small and mean. But my Uncle Sean says Austin’s a lot more open minded. So you think it’s dangerous?”

  Troy nodded. He lowered his voice and told me about the uproar gays had caused a couple of years before when they tried to become a recognized group on campus. “You should have seen the hateful letters in the Daily Texan.”

  I’d seen the school newspaper. I was surprised by how big it was—a lot bigger and more full of news than the Lordsburg paper back in New Mexico. I told him how Lance had almost been castrated, and I could see his already pale face go even whiter. “But we stuck together, and so we got our rings. I’ve never taken it off.”

  “But you really shouldn’t admit that you’re in a relationship with a man. Just let them assume you’re married.”

  I shook my head. “I don’t mind letting people jump to conclusions. That was how we survived in the end back home. But I’m not going to lie if someone presses me about it, Troy. I’m not going to cheapen my marriage to Lance by lying about it.”

  Again, I think I stunned the little would-be professor, who jumped to conclusions as readily as the students did, just based on how I dressed. He sipped thoughtfully on his coffee. “Well then, how about livening up my class? I like to stir up controversy so students will be forced to think. I know they’re just freshmen, but I get so sick of reading themes full of clichés. They have to learn to look at issues from all sides. And right now, this homosexual liberation thing is pretty controversial. Maybe you could write about it in class.”

  “I could do that,” I said. I intended to definitely go to that GPA meeting. Again, I wished Lance was here, and as Troy got up and said he had to get some work done and we shook hands, I felt depressed all of a sudden. I picked up my books and threw our half-drunk coffee into the trash. All around me the long-haired, sophisticated students were engaged in lively talk, and I wondered how many of them were really as sophisticated as their costumes and their snobbery pretended.

  * * *

  Still, I wouldn’t have traded for anything going to university, here. I liked the hill country and all the rivers and streams. Every day of that first semester, I felt like my head was about to explode with all the new information I was cramming into it. My classes were just a repeat of high school, with history and math and English, with biology and chemistry. But the textbooks were big and thick and contained information of such depth, I could see that, even then, I was just beginning to scratch the surface about the world beyond the farm I grew up on—two-hundred acres of desert.

  The very first month I was there, I went to the GPA organizational meeting. I think I’ll write about the guys I met there a little later. It’s been a long time since I actually wrote in my journal, so there’s a lot of catching up to do. I intended to make good grades, but almost every moment my heart was heavy, missing Lance. Heavy, too, with what seemed like a cloud hanging over Uncle Sean’s life. Like me, he met gay men, though he didn’t want to mix with the university crowd, and I didn’t really want to join him when he went off to the gay night clubs. He didn’t talk much about that, but he came home every night and we had supper together, just him and me. He’d ask about school, and I’d ask about his job. Sometimes the phone would ring. If some guy was calling him, he would go into his bedroom and shut the door, so I knew he didn’t want to be disturbed.

  Still, I often felt I was imposing on Uncle Sean’s privacy by just being there. It wasn’t that he seemed distant to me, but I felt the chasm between our ages. It was more difficult than ever to find a bridge between us, something more than what we had in common just being gay. Although I didn’t have young-kid priorities anymore, I was still a student, barely over the drinking age of eighteen, and so I didn’t go with him to the same social functions, or even the gay bars he talked about with diffidence, not really liking them but not knowing where else he might find other men his age.

  “It’s worse than San Francisco,” he said, meaning the gay clubs here. “The men are more furtive, careful of exposure. They don’t want to tell you where they work, and sometimes not even what kind of work they do.”

  Several times I had wanted to ask him why he had left San Francisco, then. I knew he had been hurt there. But it seemed like he was cutting himself off from the possibility of finding another boyfriend by coming to a place that was less, not more, likely to fulfill his desire for a mate. I’d not yet worked up the courage to tell him how sad he looked all the time, though it was really written all over his face.

  I loved and admired Uncle Sean, but his mood was still as heavy as it had been the last time he had come through Hachita on the way here. So even though we were living in the same apartment and saw each other every day, I felt isolated, too. Until I thought about Lance.

  In a way, he was more isolated than I was, so I never could quite feel good about him being off in San Francisco by himself when the rest of his family—meaning my family—were here. Except for May. She was still living in the Boot Heel of New Mexico, but whenever we talked, she sounded almost manic with happiness. As for Lance, I usually heard the loneliness in his voice when he called me.

  “How’s Trinket?” he asked one night when we were talking on the phone. I told him she was going to junior high in Dripping Springs, just outside of Austin. “Does she ask about me?” he asked, and I could hear a near sob in his voice. In a way, I think he loved Trinket best of all my sisters.

  “Of course she does, honey! She’s got that painting you did of her in her room. I made her a frame for it. In fact, she’s got it over her desk.”

  “What about Mama?”

  My heart nearly burst when he called Mama that, because when we were all at home in Hachita, he’d called her Arlene. But now that we were out here and he was out there, and the home we all shared was probably being lived in by ranch hands who worked for Old Man Hill, Lance was trying to keep the feeling alive to himself that we were his family. So I told him that Mama asked about him all the time. “You do get her letters, don’t you?”

  He laughed a little. “Yes, Angel, I do. But she’s not much for writing lengthy letters like you. I get the weather report, what kind of furniture she’s bought for the house, and a lot of questions about how I am. But it’s not the same as getting up in the mornings and seeing her across the table at breakfast in our old kitchen.”

  Tears were leaking out of my eyes as Lance talked, his voice that beautiful, deep, languid New Orleans accent, like a cello playing the low notes of a plaintive song; the strings he pulled the bow across were those of my heart.

  “How’s school?” I asked, changing the subject.

  “I’m learning a lot, Angel. Not only technique and form and composition but art history and the various movements across the centuries.”

  At this, his voice picked up an enthusiastic note, and I was glad for that. Is it worth the separation? I wanted to ask but didn’t. In the end it would be worth it. It had to be.

  “Have you sold any nudes?” I asked this because it was one of the first ideas that Uncle Sean had given him about how he could make extra money there in San Francisco.

  I could hear him whistle, like he was surprised about something. Then laughter. “Speaking of that,” he said, in response to my question, “I just opened a l
etter from that rich guy I met. Remember? I told you about him, because he zeroed in on me at that club. The one Taz, Guy, and I went to, on Castro? Anyway, once he found out I was going to art school he invited me to an exhibition he was having in his house. Invitation only. Then he sent me this letter.”

  Lance had talked about the party for weeks and caused a lump in my stomach, because he said it turned into a drunken bash by the end of the evening, saying that men were having sex all over the house and that he finally had to get a taxi home, because Taz, Guy, and another man were in a three-way in one of the bathrooms. I had bit my lip, wanting to ask him if he had, too, but as soon as the idea came into my head, I knew it was wrong to even wonder. He didn’t have to tell me about the orgy. More than ever I understood what Uncle Sean had been talking about when he came through Hachita on his way to Austin—that there in San Francisco, apparently, men were out to have as much sex with one another as they could. The idea of an orgy both enthralled and appalled me.

  “So what happened?” I asked, about the letter he just got.

  “Well,” Lance said, drawling, and there was a note of pleasure in his voice. “I’d shown him some of my figure work because he really did seem interested in what I was doing.” He laughed, “at least more interested than he was in me. I fought him off at the party after he’d had a few martinis.”

  “Anyway…” I coaxed.

  “He just wrote to commission me to do a mural in his office at home.”

  “And…?” My heart was beginning to pound because Lance was putting himself into a position where, if he did do the mural, he’d be spending lots of time at the rich guy’s house, and I didn’t know if I liked that. Trust, I reminded myself.

  “He’s offered me two-thousand dollars. Will, I could put a good down payment on a car with that kind of money! What do you think?”

  I have to admit I was breathless at the money, but choked with jealous fear. At that price, this guy might think Lance owed him more than the painting. “I’d take it, honey,” I said, squeezing my eyes shut, gripping the phone, wanting to tell him the guy was buying him. “But I’d keep it very business-like. Uncle Sean says whenever you discuss money with someone, you should get it down in writing.”

  There was silence on the other end. I guess Lance was thinking about it. “The letter should be all I need, Will, because he spells out exactly what he wants.”

  * * *

  That was in March of 1974. Since then, Lance’s fame among the rich gays in ‘Frisco had escalated. The guy who had bought the mural had shown it to numerous friends, and soon Lance was doing portraits and nudes, and he laughed about some of the oldest, fattest guys, who insisted that he do them naked. “They want hunky bodies and big dicks! They don’t want art.”

  “And you’re handling all this temptation?” I asked, then cringed, because I knew it was a faithless question.

  “Just as well as you say you’re fending off the guys you talk about in that GPA group!” Lance’s voice had suddenly gone higher, with a note of outrage in it.

  I apologized, but Lance sounded hurt. “I’ve never taken off my ring, Will, not even to shower. Nobody here holds a candle to you. Just remember that!”

  “I will, Lance. I do. I’m sorry. I trust you, honey. It’s just that ‘Frisco sounds like a crazy place, and I miss you so badly!”

  “Me, too!” he said. “Now you’ve made me cry, Will. G’bye.”

  Chapter Three:

  The GPA

  Back in January, I went to the organization meeting of the Gay People of Austin. I didn’t know what to expect, but after my meeting with Troy, my English teacher, and being zeroed in on as a hick, I searched through my closet and found the most worn out Levi’s I had (ones with holes in them) and an old sweatshirt. My hair was still short, so there wasn’t much I could do about that, but I had bought myself a pair of sneakers so I wouldn’t be wearing boots to the meeting. Uncle Sean got a kick out of seeing what I was planning to wear. And he laughed even harder when I rubbed the sneakers in the dirt, then wet them down, and poured coffee on them.

  “What are you doing, Will? You’re ruining a perfectly good pair of shoes!” It was the night before the meeting, and he was off for the weekend. He was home for the evening too, rather than going out to the bars and was lounging around our apartment in a pair of Levi’s, house shoes, and a T-shirt. He’d joined me at the sink, where I was destroying the sneakers. I glanced at him. He looked as good as he always did, especially when he was laughing, because whatever emotional pain he carried around disappeared.

  “Well,” I drawled, “people on campus have pegged me as a hick, and put me in a box about it—or worse, they just think I’m dumb. So I’m dressing like they do.”

  “You don’t have to worry about how you dress,” he said, echoing his earlier advice when I’d been complaining how the other students thought I ought to go to Texas A&M instead of UT, how I didn’t fit in.

  “I don’t, Uncle Sean, honest. But this is special. There’s this group of gays organizing for campus recognition, and I want to blend in at the meeting.”

  He chuckled some more. “You’d cause more of a stir if you went in full cowboy drag, you know? Gay guys love costumes, and cowboys are high on their fantasy list.”

  “The last thing I want, Uncle Sean, is to turn anybody on.”

  He nodded. Understanding furrowed his brow. “Still, you can have fun. It’s legal. Lance isn’t going to mind, you know?”

  By now I had soaked the shoes in a combination of dirt and coffee. They came out looking new but dirty, so I figured I could scuff them with dirt and wear them that way. “I know,” I said. “And I hope Lance is enjoying himself, too.” My feelings were still raw. We’d only been separated for about three and a half weeks back in January, and I just dropped the shoes in the sink, about to cry.

  “Come here,” Uncle Sean said, holding out his arms. So for a couple of minutes he held me and I squeezed my eyes shut over his shoulder so he couldn’t see me fighting back tears. His arms felt good around me, and I hugged him tight. We hugged quite a bit, and sometimes, I have to admit that I was a little turned on by him, and I think he was aroused too. It was something we would never admit, so when we pulled apart this time, we didn’t meet each other’s eyes.

  “You feel better?”

  “Yeah. I promise I’ll have a good time. Okay?”

  * * *

  So I wore my costume of raggedy clothes and my newly trashed new sneakers and showed up at the meeting, which was being held off campus, above a drug store in a big, cold room. There looked to be about twenty people, mostly men, but a few women there, too. I think three of the guys were kind of famous gays in Austin, from what I overheard as people were arriving. “Oh, there’s John Watson and Bob Cooper!” said one. “You should have known those girls would be running the show!” said another. The one who led the meeting and did much of the talking was John Watson. I learned that he and his two friends, Bob Cooper and Dennis Milam, had started another organization a couple of years before; they gave us a short history of the ‘Gay Liberation Front’ of Austin. My mind was stretched a little more that night. I have to admit I didn’t know much about the ‘State’ they kept referring to and how we had to become activists and such. It sounded a lot like the civil rights movement I’d heard about on TV in the past years, though I was too young to have paid much attention. And when John said we had to be political, I didn’t really follow.

  Most of us were sitting on this really old carpet, and half the room was filled with boxes. It was probably a storage room for the drug store or something. Anyway, I didn’t cause much reaction with my costume, so I was comfortable about that, but as I looked around at the others, I was kind of surprised at the dress of some of the other men. Like this one guy who was wearing makeup and had on these high heels. I thought he was kind of pretty, but I wasn’t sure what he was getting out of the meeting, because when John said we should be political, this sissy-guy kept talking
to one of his friends who was also wearing more flashy clothes. At one point, when John had asked us what we thought we should do for activities, the sissy-boy said we should have a dress-up ball.

  One of the women groaned aloud. “That’s fine for you drag queens,” she said, “but we’re looking for something a little less sexist.”

  She was echoed by a couple more women, and the dressed-up guy smiled. “Just remember, honey, it was the drag queens who fought the cops at Stonewall. We fired the first shot in the revolution.”

  Other people mentioned ‘Stonewall,’ too, but I was too shy to ask what that was. The best I could understand it was some kind of gay club that got attacked by the cops.

  And then people talked about the APA, which I finally figured out was some psychiatrist group somewhere that said homosexuals were not mentally ill. I never thought I was. It never even occurred to me to think that. But I did see how it made some of the others feel good. I remembered about Dick Lamb and Casey and me and Lance finally hanging out together back in Animas. We each had a difficult time finding out about one another, and so I was feeling kind of good that Austin was a place where a new student like me could meet a whole bunch of other gay people all at once. Only it seemed like they bickered a lot during the meeting. It kind of made me uncomfortable, and most of the bickering seemed trivial to me, or over my head. So I sat quietly, wondering if this was the kind of group I had much in common with.

  Then they did an odd thing at the meeting. Everybody had to introduce themselves and say a little bit about who they were. I listened to the others. Some people were short and to the point and others were motor mouths. I was sitting next to a guy I’d seen around campus, though I couldn’t place exactly where, until he introduced himself, saying he recognized me from math class. His name was Charlie Greenwood, and he was one of the best looking guys there. It took me a minute to remember him from the math class, though, because it was huge, like most of my other classes. So, it came time for him to speak, and he seemed nervous.