Red （1975） #2
I was lingering near the bus this afternoon, waiting for the line to thin so I could discreetly examine the offerings at the shabby newsstand next to the bus, which was also only open during picking season and which sold Spanish language newspapers and magazines and Playboy and a magazine called Blueboy, in whose pages last summer I’d seen my first naked man.
In the picture, he was wearing a polo shirt with horizontal stripes, chest hair peeking out of the shirt’s unbuttoned collar and…
nothing else. I’d been mesmerized but too frightened to buy it and too scared to steal it.
Ever since, I’ve wondered if that is what Rio looks like under his clothes; I wonder if I’ll ever find out.
Suddenly addressing me, without turning around, Juan said, “Take a picture. It’ll last longer.”
“Excuse me?” I said, stepping back. Had he seen me edging towards the magazine rack?
He turned around. “I said take a picture—it’ll last longer.”
“Huh?” I said, staring at him. I’d never been this close to him before. He was even handsomer than he looked at a distance.
“You’re always staring at me—”
“I—I—I’m not—” I was lying, and we both knew it. This close, I thought he might be handsomer than Rio.
He looked around, lowered his voice. “I know what you are, what you want.”
“I—”
“See the thing is, I don’t mind.” He watched me closely then said, “Follow me.” He led me deep into the orchard where all the fruit had already been picked.
Leaning against a tree, he unbuckled his jeans and pushed them to his knees; to my shock, he wore no underwear.
“C’mon,” he said roughly. “Have at it before someone comes along.”
I dropped to my knees as if I knew what I was doing.
In the act, in his touch, there had been tenderness, an occasional caress. After he tucked himself away and zipped up his pants, I stood and asked, “Can I kiss you?”
He looked startled, then displeased, then offered me his mouth.
After a few tentative pecks, his lips parted, and his tongue began to explore my mouth.
He relaxed and, sucking on my tongue, lapped up the taste of himself.
I barely registered the narcissism of those first kisses.
When we broke apart, he shoved me away from him so hard I stumbled and almost fell. Tears sprang to my eyes.
“Don’t,” he growled, “come near me again. You hear me? If you do, I’ll break your neck. In fact, don’t even look at me.” He turned and walked away.
As hurt and confused as I was by his sudden change in mood, kissing him had solved the riddle of me, finally. With that single kiss, I learned definitively who I am and what I want. The question now is, what do I do with this knowledge?
Saturday, September 13, 1975, Locust Hollow—As I’ve continued on with picking, I’ve been doing my best to stay as far away from Juan as possible, partly because the whole thing was kind of humiliating and also because I’m tired of getting hit.
So, I was surprised when I was leaving my shift today and spotted him smoking a cigarette at the orchard entrance.
I turned to head back into the thicket of trees to wait until he left.
“Hey! Wait up,” he called.
I froze. When he reached me, he reached out and squeezed my shoulder.
I flinched. He withdrew his hand. “Hey, man. Sorry about the other day. I didn’t mean what I said.
I never did anything with a guy before. I just freaked out a little.
It kind of scared me how much I liked what we did.
” When I said nothing, he continued, “C’mon. Let me make it up to you?”
“How?” I asked.
“Let’s go back to our spot and I’ll let you suck me off again. I’ll even let you kiss me if you want.” He grinned. This time, when it was over, he kissed me and caressed my neck.
Saturday, October 11, 1975, Locust Hollow—I turned sixteen today.
My grandfather didn’t remember my birthday was today.
Or maybe he felt it wasn’t worth mentioning.
After he found religion, after my parents died, he’s come to believe that unless you are Jesus Christ, you shouldn’t expect a fuss on your birthday.
In all fairness, I don’t know when his birthday is, either.
In Springfield, with Grampy Eddie, my birthday meant visits to the zoo and the toy department at Woolworth’s and once a trip to the circus.
But as he liked to point out, Grampy Eddie was a fan of “the grand gesture.” This meant two dozen yellows roses for Mommy on Mother’s Day and the tallest, fattest Christmas tree in Springfield each year, under which he’d place stacks of gaily wrapped gifts of every description.
I’ve pretty much resigned myself to the notion that my birthday is just another day, no more worthy of recognition than any other Tuesday or Wednesday.
So, I was surprised when at the end of picking, as it was growing dark, Juan wished me happy birthday.
Grasping my wrist, he pulled me back into the orchard.
Stopping, he pulled us to the ground against a tree.
When I looked at him quizzically, he said, “A lot of girls want me. You’re a cute guy.
I bet a lot of girls want you, too. But you only want me.
” He actually sounded proud. “I think that’s so hot.
Being with you makes me feel more like a man because girls want you, but I’m such a man, you want me. ”
I was confused by what he was saying. For one thing, I couldn’t imagine any girls being interested in me. I certainly wasn’t interested in them. But he was right—I did want him. When I reached for his belt, he pushed me back against the tree.
“Relax,” he said. “I’m leaving the day after tomorrow, and today is your birthday. Let me do it.”
Before I could ask what it was he wanted me to let him do, he’d unbuttoned my shirt and pulled one of my nipples into his mouth while pinching the other between his thumb and forefinger.
I thought for a minute I might pass out from the mix of pain and pleasure.
Next, he undid my belt and tugged down my dungarees and jockey shorts.
Almost before I realized where this was heading, he had me in his mouth doing to me what I’d spent most of that picking season doing to him.
He pulled away abruptly. “Don’t,” he admonished, “come in my mouth.”
I nodded weakly, astonished and confused. How had we come to change places? My hands found their way into his tumultuous hair; I’d never left anything so luxurious, except maybe his mouth enveloping me…
“Stop,” I shouted pushing him away. He rocked back on the balls of his feet as my come shot onto my chest and shoulder and chin.
“Holy crap,” he said. “Don’t ever fuck a woman. You’ll get her pregnant for sure!”
Happy sixteenth birthday to me.
Sunday, November 23, 1975, Locust Hollow—In church today, Reverend Jack told us as our Thanksgiving Fellowship dinner is fast approaching, we should reflect on what we are most grateful for.
I think I’m most grateful for Juan, who I miss.
Though, of course, I cannot say this out loud to anyone, let alone at the Fellowship dinner table.
If Rio first introduced me to myself, it was Juan who confirmed my suspicions and expanded my world view; it isn’t just Rio I want but a boy in general.
I’d thought my love, my lust for Rio was unique and special and limited to just he and I.
I thought Michel de Montaigne, one of the most significant philosophers of the French Renaissance, had expressed my and Rio’s situation perfectly; when asked why he loved his deceased friend Etienne de La Boétie so much, he’d simply replied, “Parce que c’était lui; parce que c’était moi”—Because it was he; because it was I.
It turns out to be something more diffuse, a more generalized proclivity. Something I don’t even have a word for.
But whereas with Rio, I dream of a future, a life together, my relationship with Juan, brief as it was, seemed temporary, transactional, and once he got off, the brief exchange of affection, if not altogether forgotten, was diminished, pushed aside, a youthful indulgence driven by hormones and accessibility.
Perhaps because I’m only sixteen, or maybe just because I’m so lonely, I’ve attached too much romantic significance to my encounters with Juan, for if there’s sex and a bit of affection in his touch, it must be love, right?
I wonder if it would be different with Rio.