They liked it that I finally had a friend who’d come home and hang out with me, and they liked Nate a lot. Understandably so. My guess is they would have been even happier if he actually had been my boyfriend, and were at least a little bit disappointed that he wasn’t.
I still didn’t tell them, though.
First of all, I didn’t want to give them the satisfaction. I knew they knew, and so why let them know they were right? Why let them play the role of the cool parents accepting the fact that their son is gay, and letting their friends and the rest of the family know how very cool they are for accepting their gay son? Letting me know it would have been “cool” if Nate had spent the night?
I’m stubborn that way.
And there’s also this. If I told them, they’d want to talk about it. All the time. Letting me know they still loved me. That they accepted me. That they were proud of me. That if I ever wanted to talk about AIDS and condoms and PrEP or if I ever wanted to bring a boy home or if I ever wanted to talk about anything, anything at all, they’d be there.
Screw that shit. They were the last people I could imagine wanting to talk about any of it with. Nothing against them personally, but… no. Just no.
So it was just Nate and me and our shared secret.
We did what we could. I painted the ring finger of his left hand black and he did the same for me, since we’d read somewhere online that it was a thing gay guys did as a kind of signal to other gay guys. But we also knew that if anyone asked about it, we could say it looked cool. Which it really kind of did.
We thought it did, anyway. Nate told me it was totally badass. Which was very much a Nate sincerely innocent kind of thing to say. The kind of thing that made me smile and love him all the more.
He was always so hopeful.
Of course nobody actually asked about it or probably even noticed. We weren’t the kind of guys who others paid much attention to. People weren’t exactly taking their style and fashion and how-to-be-cool cues from us, if you know what I mean.
But that was as far as we went, as far as we dared to go. We were too scared, too shy, too… afraid of what might happen if we went any further.
There was a line we couldn’t cross. Or wouldn’t cross. Were afraid to cross. Didn’t dare cross.
Finally it got to be too much. If we couldn’t admit to being gay where we lived and with people we more or less knew, we’d have to go somewhere else where no one knew us. We knew what we’d have to do and where we’d have to go.
We’d go to the big city.
We’d go into Houston.
Chapter Four
DEPENDING ON traffic, which around here it almost always does, Houston should only be around a thirty-minute drive from Piney Oaks. But when you live out in the burbs, when you live, as they say, “outside the loop,” it feels like and really is a totally different world.
Like you really are outside the loop. In every sense of the phrase.
As we learned from way too many hours spent researching things online, there are gay bars in Houston. Lots of them. There are gay clubs. Lots of those too. Places to drink and dance and meet guys and where you can be… gay without pretending not to be. Places where you can look at a guy and not have to quickly turn away hoping he didn’t notice. Hoping you won’t get a glare or even a “What are you looking at, faggot?” thrown back at you.
There are entire streets filled with nothing but gay bars. Streets where boys aren’t afraid to walk around holding another boy’s hand.
Sometimes they even kiss. Really.
I’ve seen the pictures.
It was, we told ourselves, the place where our fantasies could, or maybe would, come true, like some sort of gay teen Texan Emerald City. We talked about where we would go when we were there. What we should wear and then what we would wear. What kind of guys would be there and would they like us and would we like them? What if it turned out nobody was interested in us? What we would do if Nate met someone and I didn’t, or if I met someone and Nate didn’t, or if we both met someone and… well, our fantasies didn’t go very much beyond that.
Nate was worried, though.
“What happens if you meet someone and I don’t? You know that’s what’s going to happen. You’re going to turn on that smile of yours.” Here he gave me a shy grin and refused to look me in the eye. “And I’ll be left alone. As usual. What happens then?”
“You won’t be, I promise you,” I said. “Guys are going to be all over you. But, whatever happens, I won’t leave you. I promise. We’re in this together, okay?”
And with a look of relief he said, “Okay.”
“It’s going to be a great night, I swear.”
Nostradamus I’m obviously not.
There was still one problem, though. We were both underage. Seriously so.
But help arrived, thanks to a guy everyone calls Ziggy.
Here’s the thing.
Nate’s older sister, Kristen, had figured out that he was gay probably way before he did and, after promising over and over not to tell their parents, convinced him to tell her the truth. Which he did. He told her everything about his friendship with me and how much we wanted to go—hell, how much we needed to go to Houston and see what being gay was like for ourselves.
And she was totally there for him. For us.
She knew we needed to be with what she called “our” people.
So she took it into her own hands to make it happen. Her boyfriend, Ziggy, knew somebody who knew somebody who knew somebody else who could hook us up with fake IDs.
Two weeks and a hundred bucks later, we had them. I was Dwayne Kendricks; Nate was Ben Jackson.
“Here you go, guys,” she told us when she handed them over.
“You know,” she said, laughing, “I got my first fake ID from a friend in high school back in the day, so I’m happy to be able to do this for you. And Collin of course. I know it’s been tough for the two of you living out here, and, Nate… I know that you know that I know what Mom is like, so… isn’t this what big sisters are for?
“Have fun, be careful… and… if either of you ever tell Mom I got these for you… you’re both dead. Got it?”
And with that, we were both instantly legal.
More or less.
We made plans to go to Houston that Saturday night.
I spent the afternoon in my room, fixing my hair, refixing my hair, refixing what I’d already fixed, and spending way too much time looking in the mirror making sure it looked just right. Trying on every piece of clothing that I thought looked even remotely hot before finally settling on my usual jeans and a tight T-shirt. Underneath, I put on what I thought was a totally sexy jockstrap I’d bought online months earlier. Just in case.
Since it was summer in Houston, I applied an extra-heavy layer of antiperspirant, just in case. And probably too much cologne, even in places I’d never used cologne before. Again, just in case.
In my wallet, I was also carrying two condoms that I’d lifted from Dad’s nightstand. Again, just in case.
Yelling at Mom and Dad that I was going to a party with Nate and would be home late, I climbed into the used F-150 I’d gotten for my sixteenth birthday and sped off to pick him up. He was already waiting in the driveway when I got there, wearing pretty much the same thing I was, including too much cologne, and he climbed in with the biggest nervous grin I’d ever seen from him.
“Are you sure?” he asked. “Are we ready for this? Are you sure?”
“It’s time,” I said. “You know it is.”
And with that, we drove off, listening to Beyoncé, passing a joint back and forth between us, nervously laughing and talking and heading off for the big city hoping to find…. Honestly, I’m not sure what it was we were hoping to find.
But we were both sure that whatever it was, we’d find it.
Chapter Five
PARKING IN the city is a bitch, and after driving around for what seemed like forever, we finally found a spot and walk
ed over toward Harvey Milk Avenue.
Houston’s gay central, the main drag, the center of gay life in Houston.
Our own yellow brick road.
As we got closer, my heart started beating faster. There were guys of all ages, some hot, some not so much, all walking in the same general direction. There was something going on that I couldn’t quite put a name to, but I felt it.
Whatever it was, there was an energy that was making me excited. And, I admit, horny.
Nate looked over at me with a nervous/excited/scared/horny look on his face, and I knew he felt it too.
Although it might have been more scared/nervous than anything.
We’d already decided, after way too many hours of discussion, that before we went all in, our first stop would be Adam’s Place, a bar described as a friendly neighborhood hangout. Supposedly chill AF.
And suddenly, we were there. Looking at the dark window. At the door. This was it.
I looked over at Nate; he looked at me. We nodded, and without a word and before we lost our nerve, opened the door and walked in.
We were now in our first gay bar. Ever.
It was filled with… regular guys. Guys like you’d see anywhere, walking down the street, at the grocery store, at the movies, even living next door.
Just guys. All gay. All looking to meet other guys or to just hang out with guys like themselves.
And it felt perfectly normal.
It felt right.
We walked quickly over to the bar and ordered Bud Lights (one of the few beers on display that we’d actually heard of), trying hard to be cool, to make it seem like it was something we’d done hundreds of times. The hot guy behind the bar, with muscles for days, asked us for our IDs. After a brief panicked look between us, we handed them over. Mr. Hottie standing there in his tank top and very tight jeans grinned, looked at them, grinned again, said, “Yep, those are definitely IDs all right,” and gave us our beers.
Since I drove, Nate bought the beers. I left the tip.
Drinks in hand, we turned from the bar to check the place out.
And it was clear we were being checked out as well.
Because it was a local neighborhood hangout, almost everyone there knew everyone else. Or at least seemed to.
We were new and unknown.
All eyes seemed to be on us.
We were, as they say, fresh meat.
And suddenly, we were both nervous as hell, not sure what to do. Should we smile at anyone we thought was hot? Go over and say hi? Wait for someone to come over to us?
Why wasn’t there some sort of guidebook or handbook or something on how to be gay?
So we did nothing. We drank our beers, whispered to each other, pointed out guys we thought were cute, and waited for something, for anything, to happen.
Nate, I think, was kind of freaking out about being there, about the reality of what we were doing, and he whispered to me that he thought maybe we should leave.
Finally, though, someone made the first move.
His name was Mike. An older guy in his thirties, pretty good shape and a great smile.
“First time?” he asked.
I could feel my face turn bright red…. Was it that obvious?
“It’s cool… everyone has to have a first time,” he said with a smirk on his face. “Let me buy you guys a beer.”
Nate shot me a look that showed me he wasn’t feeling this at all, but couldn’t say no to another round, so after I gave Nate a look meant to reassure him and we quickly downed the beers we already had, we went back to the bar with Mike. There, Mr. Hottie muscle bartender gave us a raised eyebrow look that let me know he thought Mike had scored. With both of us.
That wasn’t going to happen. Not in a million years.
But fortunately, instead of an invite back to his place, Mike offered us advice.
“Look,” he said. “I know you’re probably not legal. And I know this is your first time out. It’s written all over your cute little faces, but I’m not about to ask you home”—I could feel Nate’s tension ease up a bit—“so don’t worry about that.
“So let me give you some advice from an older, well, um, slightly older guy who has been where you are now. Don’t go home with the first hot guy you meet. Or even the second one. Don’t drink too much and do not do drugs with anyone, or you’ll end up doing things that you’ll regret with guys you’ll definitely regret doing them with. But… when you know it’s right, go ahead. And watch each other’s back. Keep each other close and safe, okay?”
We nodded in agreement.
“And finally, before I let you guys go”—and I have to admit that the more of the second beer I drank, the better he looked—“this isn’t the place you want to be. It’s too quiet, the music is all wrong, and, well… most of the guys here are too old for you. Go down the street to Pacific Coast. It’s what you’re looking for. You need to dance and get sweaty and be with guys who are at least closer to your own age. If Jesse is at the door, tell him I sent you—my name is Mike, by the way. He’ll waive the cover charge and not look at your IDs too closely.
“Have fun, you two, and look me up in a few years… but now… get out of here before I say or do something I’ll be sorry for.”
We looked at each other and laughed. I thanked him, gave him a hug—Nate didn’t—and we headed out and over to Pacific Coast.
The Houston Times
Shooter Attacks Houston Gay Club, 29 Dead, Unknown Number Wounded
By Amy Brenner
IT WAS just another warm and muggy summer night in Houston. And on Harvey Milk Avenue, at the heart of the heart of the city’s gay scene, it was just one more laughter-filled evening of drinking and dancing and flirting and drag shows.
But at approximately 1:00 a.m., at the popular gay nightclub Pacific Coast, when the drinking and flirting and dancing were at their peak, it was not just another evening.
That was when suspect Richard “Rick” Michaelson, age twenty-five, walked out onto the dance floor, pulled out a 9mm Glock 17, and started firing into the crowd for a total of forty rounds, a nonstop explosion of death as Michaelson seemingly tried to kill everyone he could before finally turning the gun on himself.
By the time the shooting ended, twenty-nine people, including the shooter, were dead, and countless others wounded, some critically.
Police officer Lamar Travis, who arrived on the scene just moments after the shooting ended, described the scene:
“It looked like something in a war movie. There was blood and bodies everywhere… just everywhere. The wounded were holding on to those who had died. Those who weren’t wounded were trying to help those who were. They were so young…. I never want to have to witness a scene like that again, ever.”
The names of those wounded and killed are being withheld from the public until their families are notified.
Chapter Six
SO… HERE’S the thing.
For a couple of days after… after it happened… I went back and forth, in and out of consciousness, in and out of focus, waking up briefly before going back to sleep.
I kind of knew where I was and I kind of didn’t.
I kind of knew what happened and wished I didn’t.
I’m not sure whether I was sleeping because I needed to or if I was sleeping because I didn’t want to be awake and think about what happened. Or if all the painkillers I was on were doing a number on me.
Or any combination.
But after three days, I woke up with a start.
Eyes wide open.
To everything.
And when I did wake up, Dad was there. And from the exhausted look on his face, I saw he’d been there the whole time.
Dad was holding my hand when I was finally and completely awake, and I saw him looking at me. “Hi, Pup,” he said, using the nickname he used when he was feeling particularly warm and loving, and then ruffled my hair. “Welcome back.”
From the look on his face, I could see he was
trying not to cry. I’d never seen him cry before.
I was trying not to cry myself.
I was still hooked up to all kinds of machines and stuff. I’d been hit three times. No, actually, technically speaking, I was shot three times. Once in the shoulder, a flesh wound as they call it. Once in my side. The bullet entered and then came out, fracturing a rib as it did. And once in the leg.
Bang. Bang. Bang.
It hurt like hell. Like nothing I’d ever felt. Or ever wanted to feel again.
I tried to smile back at Dad, but everything hurt too much and I was just too tired. So I squeezed his hand back. It was the best I could do.
He told me that I was going to be okay. That I should be out of the hospital and back home in just a few days. That there’d be no permanent injuries.
I knew, I absolutely knew that there were a lot of things he wanted to ask me, and I was grateful that he didn’t. At least not yet.
I looked up at the TV Dad had been watching, which was over the bed. The news was on. And they were talking about it. They were showing footage outside the club, where people were hanging out and crying because they wanted to show they were sorry about what had happened and had no other way to do it.
Dad quickly turned it off before they showed anything I wasn’t ready to see.
I silently thanked him. I wasn’t ready to see any of it.
There was one thing I needed to know. Even though deep down I already did.
“Nate?” I asked.
From the look he gave me, I knew. I just knew.
Honestly, I think I already knew. I’d been there. I’d seen what happened. I knew. There was no way I couldn’t know.
But I didn’t want to think about it. I couldn’t think about it.
And I really didn’t want to talk about it.
So I shut my eyes, hoping it would all go away, hoping I’d fall back to sleep and wake up and find out it was all a horrible dream. But I didn’t. I couldn’t.
What Happens After Page 2
