Chapter Text
I wanted to be a writer. And writers all have stories to tell. This is mine.
It was the summer of ‘84. I was heading off to a Scout camp in the Sierras. It was August, maybe. I remember school was starting soon and that I’d been cooped up inside all summer, that I couldn’t wait to get far, far away from my parents.
I had started doing scouts because my father had wanted me to. It was something to get my nose out of a book, to pick up skills he deemed worthwhile, or at least more masculine than reading. I didn’t really enjoy it, but it was a brief breath of fresh air, of independence and freedom. I got to go somewhere where I could make my own decisions and be more myself than I could at home. I don’t think I would have made it this many years without those desperate seconds with my head above water.
I should have done this sooner, the story’s getting fuzzier and fuzzier as time passes. But I’m not the only one who remembers it, so at least there’s that.
I don’t remember the drive, except for the heat of my mother’s car. The windows were down but driving through Fresno in the summer was a special kind of hell. I guess that was an omen of what I had ahead of me.
It got cloudy, then sunny, then cloudy again. Never trust the weather forecast when you’re up in the mountains; I learned that from that summer mostly, but also from him. It was cloudy and warm when we arrived, the air thick with moisture. I got out, gave my mother a monotoned goodbye and didn’t watch her leave.
I’m pretty sure our troop’s site was called Navajo. It was at the very edge of camp, because of course it was, but it was nicer than I thought it would be. There were actual bathrooms and canvas tents on wooden pallets instead of the ground. I was glad to set my backpack down, the thing was heavy. I packed my own pots and pans and dishes, or rather my dad told me to pack them, and I wouldn’t ever say no to him. I didn’t need them; food was gonna be in a mess hall, so they just clattered around, useless and noisy.
I believe I was unrolling my sleeping bag (a twenty-year-old, poorly insulated one) or maybe I had already done it at that point. But then He came up, knocking on the tent flap with that look on his face.
It’s coming back to me now. Everything around him has been always so clear, always in focus. I have a hard time picturing what people look like anymore, let alone sound like. But I remember him. I’ll always remember him. I don’t think I could ever forget.
“Is there anyone bunking here?” He asked, canvas duffel bag slung over his shoulder.
Immediately, my mind was filled with images of him and me and us. Drawing up immediate fantasies like some sort of psychopath. Staying up late and talking in hushed voices by lantern light, trying to put my astronomy badge to good use, pointing out planets and constellations, leaning forward to kiss him. Here it was. The blessed seed sown in toxic soil.
“What?”
“Can I bunk here?”
“No. I mean, it’s fine. There’s no one here.” I stumbled over my words as he threw his stuff in and crawled in.
I was warm, warm all over. Prickling heat goosebumps up and down my back. The sun beating down on the tent only made it worse and I tried. I really did try to keep my eyes off him but he was like a magnet. That needle in my chest pulled away from true north and towards a stronger source of magnetism.
He was the kind of boy that played football or baseball or some other thing I wasn’t interested in unless my dad was watching. He had green eyes, because of course he did. Because I knew that only 2% of people in the world had them and therefore that would make him special. Ring on his finger, necklace against his chest. Dark blond hair cut close to the scalp, so close it almost looked like he was going off to the military. One thing I noticed, completely against my will, was that he ran his hands over it almost compulsively, like it was new and he just hadn’t gotten used to it yet. The mold of his face was so distinct, delicate but sharp, with hollow cheekbones and strong brows. The line of his nose was endearingly crooked, and his lips were pink: cupid drawing his bow.
I think I forgot to breathe. Forgot to blink. Just kind of went into shock, staring blankly. There was this sudden weight to my body, this feeling of gravity, like my blood had turned to molten lead, flowing thick and slow enough that my heart had to beat faster to move it through my veins.
He turned away from me, started unpacking. I did something to look occupied. He moved like, God I don’t know. There was a certain grace to it. He was bowed over his bag, searching for something. The muscles of his arms moved under his skin, tightening and relaxing, and his t-shirt (Dark brown, Troop 233, my troop, on the back. I had never seen him before, so he must’ve been new.) barely seemed to keep him inside. The material stretched over his shoulders and the columns of his back and I was itching to touch that spot where his skull met his neck.
I looked away, eyes fixed on my bag. My breathing was heavy, felt like my heart was beating irregularly. I didn’t know the word for them then, felt like a panic attack, and he caused it. He still does, but for different reasons now. Stupid ones that make me want to hit him upside the head after I’m sure he’s alright.
I got the hell out of there. Felt like I was being strangled by a boa. I found a tree away from the tents, leaned back against it, hugging myself and gripping my arms so hard they left purple marks. Those images were flashing through my head rapid-fire. Tiny details like the hair on his forearms and how thick his eyelashes were. Other things too, like how I wanted to peel that shirt off him like the skin off a fruit.
I felt some kind of darkness aching deep in my chest: evil and monstrous and destructive. I wanted to devour him, wanted to take and take and take. That feeling, it was like claws digging into my flesh, like some thing that was all teeth and tongue and lips, swallowing me up. Inch by horrible, desolate, desirable inch.
I was shaking, had to bite into my fist for my heart to slow down.
This wasn’t right. I didn’t feel like I was supposed to. I wasn’t my father’s son I was— (an abomination, a freak, an affront to the natural order, a motherfucking queer—) different. I knew these things. I knew that blood tastes like rust in the mouth. I knew that you can smile and punch someone in the ribs and gain some respect. I knew how to survive, because I hadn’t met him yet. Because I thought that This—whatever This was—wasn’t something I was capable of feeling. And I didn’t know that it could feel like this: like a white-hot blade drawn fast across the skin, like a whip of black leather, glass and nails, that sharp gasp of pain and surprise and that deep-settling ache of want that comes after. To take the whip into your own hands, to give and take the lashes yourself.
That was the beginning. Things didn’t get better after it.