Guilty Little Secret

by F M Land

  “Paul, why don’t you take Terry to your room and finish packing? I’ll bring your father there when he gets here.”

  Packing up my room was easy. I had two large suitcases, a smaller suitcase, a book bag, and a shoe bag. I planned to take my guitars, one large suitcase, the book bag, and the shoe bag to Terry’s. The rest could go home with Dad. The envelope with Avec Lui went into my book bag, as did my Dopp kit. We emptied my dresser drawers, my closet, and the drawers in my desk. I was amazed that I had collected so much stuff in a couple of months. Terry and I were still filling my suitcases when Dad walked in with Mr. Davis. I could see the disappointment in my father’s face, in his eyes, as he watched me close up a suitcase.

  “I’m sorry this didn’t work out, Paul,” he said. “I really thought you’d love it here, like I did.”

  I shook my head. “I don’t fit in here, Dad. There are no musicians --”

  “Of course there are! They have a nice music department here.” Dad threw his arms up in the air. He seemed really deflated.

  “Not my kind of music. Dad, I don’t fit in. I brought in Dizzy’s magazines, and I still didn’t fit in. The guys just made fun of me.” I pointed to the pile of magazines lying, untouched, on my former roommate’s bed. “I want to go home. I want to take my lessons with my tutor.”

  Dad sighed loudly. He turned to Mr. Davis. “Thanks for your help, man. I’m sorry this didn’t work out.”

  I left that awful school and resumed migrating from Valhalla to the Village and back again. But, I kept my secret to myself, too embarrassed to admit to anyone that I was gay. I tried to imagine people referring to me as a “fag” or “fairy” as Dizzy liked to call gay men, and frankly it scared the shit out of me. So uncomfortable was I with my self-knowledge that I couldn’t even share it with Terry. But, I had these urges, these desires, that made me sit in Washington Park, or on Terry and Drew’s doorstep, and watch men stroll by. I craved the touch of a lissome man, but settled for eye contact instead. I preferred short, wiry men, like Terry. Around Terry, I was like a pussy cat in heat. Pressing my body into Terry’s, preening in response to Terry’s caresses. The funny thing was that Terry didn’t even seem to notice the change in my behavior.

  I didn’t stay with Drew and Terry as much as I used to. Mostly because of Drew. I felt unbearably self-conscious around Drew, who stared at me with protracted interest these days. Once I confronted Drew about it.

  “Why are you staring at me, Drew?” I asked.

  Drew smiled broadly, nodding toward me as his smile spread across his face. He answered in French, which annoyed me. “You remind me so much of your Uncle Blaise, Paulie. I imagine that he was very much like you when he was your age.”

  “But shorter, huh?” I was just about six feet tall, at that point, an inch taller than Dizzy, and several inches taller than Ter. Uncle Blaise, I knew, had been a short man, standing about five and a half feet tall.

  Chuckling, Drew nodded vigorously. “Yes, much, much shorter! But, there’s something about the way you move, the way you listen to music, the way you look at Terry, all that reminds me of Blaise.”

  Like Uncle Blaise. I am more like Uncle Blaise than you think. Shit.

  Drew’s staring aside, THE confrontation also made me reluctant to spend much time in the Village with them anymore. THE confrontation had occurred earlier that month, after I went a little too far in my experimental sex play with Terry.

  I had been lying on the living room couch, with my head in Terry’s lap, watching TV. Drew was napping in his bedroom at the time, so I felt like Terry was all mine. As I lay across Terry’s legs, Terry ran his fingers through the hair on the back of my head, gently teasing out the tangles in my curly mop. Terry’s hands, instead of soothing me like they usually did, excited me savagely. I rolled over and gazed at Terry’s crotch, pondering the mysteries that were locked behind the zipper of his jeans. Encouraged by a surge of adolescent hormones, I began to nibble at Terry’s fly.

  “Hey, hey, hey!” Terry had objected, pushing my mouth from his crotch. “What do you think you are doing?”

  “I’m trying to nurse. I’m hungry,” I joked, trying to make light of it.

  Terry didn’t seem to think it was humorous. “Go root somewhere else, boy! My nipples are a bit higher up.”

  That was all Terry said to me, but he must have said a whole lot more to Drew. I was flipping through a Rolling Stone magazine at the desk in my bedroom when I heard them talking, in their bedroom. I couldn’t make out what they were saying, but I could tell from their rising voices that they were arguing. I strained to listen, but only picked up the angry cadences, first Terry’s alto whine, then Drew’s growl. Then a door opened and slammed shut, followed by the front door opening and closing. I recognized Terry’s footfall. I knew I was alone with Drew.

  After a while, I emerged from my bedroom to get something to drink from the fridge. Drew was sitting at the kitchen table, sucking on a cigarette. He stubbed out the smoke when I entered the room. His eyes followed me to the refrigerator. I could feel Drew’s eyes burning through the back of my head.

  When I stopped at the counter to retrieve a glass, Drew pounced on me, grabbing the front of my jeans with his left hand while his right hand lightly cupped my genitals. “These,” he said, forcing me to meet his eyes, “are called ‘privates’. They’re called your privates because that’s what they are: your private property. Hands off!” He snatched his right hand from my crotch, dramatically. “You don’t mess with people’s privates, Paul, unless you want to get hurt!”

  “You touch Terry!” I shot back at him. “I’ve seen you!” I tossed my chin and scowled into his eyes.

  Drew looked into my eyes for a long time, without responding. His left hand released my jeans so quickly that I nearly fell over. Running both hands through his thick, graying hair, Drew replied, “Goddammit, you remind me of Blaise! Sometimes it’s just unbearable!” That was all he said. He left the kitchen and went back to his bedroom, closing the door behind him.

  At that moment, more than ever, I feared Drew. Only Drew could make me feel like a little kid. I was afraid that I could never trust Terry again.

  So, I stayed away from them, visiting only when I wanted to hang out in the Village. Like that afternoon in late June, I needed a base for operations, someplace where I could leave one of my guitars. I wavered between bringing my Gibson acoustic or my electric Strat. With some misgivings, I grabbed my Strat and headed out the front door.

  “Going so soon?” Terry called. “Where ya headed? Want some company?”

  I shook my head. “No,” I replied, businesslike, “I’m going to hang out in the park.”

  “With your electric guitar?” Terry and Drew exchanged surprised looks.

  “That’s right,” I answered, and left them.

  Once in the park, I decided to sit on the wall near the western arch. There was a lot of pedestrian traffic past my perch. Lots of men to oogle. A few smiled and said “hi!” to me. A few looked me over as if they were considering a purchase. I sat there for a while, my left elbow propped on my guitar case.

  I had no idea what I was waiting for until they came along, two boys about my own age. The shorter of the two was carrying an electric guitar case. I raised my hand in greeting.

  “Hello!” I called to them, hoping they’d stop to chat.

  The shorter boy halted, the taller one pinched his elbow to urge him to keep moving.

  “Hi,” the shorter one replied, ignoring his companion.

  I nodded. “What kind of guitar do you have?”

  “A Fender.” The boy patted the case affectionately. “What about you?”

  “This is a Stratocaster.”

  Both boys smiled at me. The taller guy stopped walking and turned to face me.

  “Do you play in a band?” I asked, eager to keep them talking.

  “Yeh,” replied the taller guy, “we’re trying to get one together.”

  “Me, too. Who do you
have?”

  The tall one continued the conversation. “Me and Brian, here. We both play guitar.”

  I smiled. “Well, I play bass, and I have a drummer,” I lied, thinking of Terry. “My cousin, Robbie, plays keyboards, but he’s in California now.”

  Brian, the short one, returned my smile. “We’re going to Jeff’s to play right now. Wanna come, too?” He looked at Jeff for approval.

  Jeff nodded tersely. “Yeah, come along. But, wait, that’s not a bass.”

  “No, I left my bass at --” I hesitated for a moment, trying to decide how to refer to Drew and Terry’s apartment. “—home.”

  “Go get it and then come to my place. I live with my mother.” Jeff quickly gave me the address. He lived on West 11th Street off Fifth Avenue.

  Almost numb with disbelief, I stumbled back to Terry’s place for my bass. Fortunately, I’d left a bass there the last time I stayed with Drew and Terry. It was Maman’s old Hofner. And it was a collector’s item, worth a small fortune. I snatched the Hofner and headed for the door again, hoping to avoid Drew and Terry.

  Too late. Drew barred my exit through the front door.

  “Where ya going?” he drawled, his eyes searching mine.

  “Out.”

  “Out?” Drew’s eyes widened as he tilted his head. “Where, out?”

  I began to feel panicky, anxious to join Jeff and Brian before they forgot about me. “I met these guys at the park. They’re trying to get a band together. I told them I could play bass.”

  “What are their names?”

  “Jeff and Brian.”

  “Jeff and Brian? Do you know their last names?”

  “No, but I have Jeff’s address.” I blurted the address out for Drew.

  Drew’s eyes narrowed. “Do you know their telephone number?”

  A lump settled in my throat. I struggled to swallow past it. “No.”

  “So, big fellow, you’re taking your mother’s valuable guitar to some kid’s house that you don’t even know? That doesn’t sound very smart to me!”

  Terry came up behind Drew and draped his arm around Drew’s waist. “Let him go, Drew,” he said quietly, his eyes on mine. “He’s 16. What were you up to when you were 16?”

  Glaring first at Terry, then at me, Drew directed me, “I want you to get the phone number and their last name, and I want you to call me within fifteen minutes. If I don’t hear from you, I will call the police. Do you understand me? What is the address again?”

  I nodded and repeated the address, grateful for Terry’s intervention. Then, with a final wave to Terry, I left with Maman’s bass. To my relief, Jeff and Brian were waiting for me outside Jeff’s building. It was an older apartment building. Maman would call it logement ouvrier.

  “Hi!” I greeted my new friends.

  “Hi,” Jeff responded. “Our buzzer isn’t working. I forgot. We were waiting for you before we went in.”

  We entered the lobby. A funny smell, like overcooked broccoli, assailed my nose. Someone had stuck a sign next to the elevator. It read, “The incinnerater is broke again.” Jeff and Brian chuckled at the sign. I shrugged, not understanding the joke.

  “Can’t you read?” Jeff asked me.

  I studied the sign. Was “incinnerater” spelled wrong? I took a bit too long to respond.

  “What school do you go to?” Brian asked.

  “I don’t go to formal school,” I replied, not sure what “formal school” meant in English. “My family travels a lot. I have tutors who come to my house to give me lessons.”

  Brian laughed. “What kind of lessons?” he inquired scornfully.

  “Obviously not reading lessons,” Jeff put in. He and Brian chuckled at that.

  I shrugged off their taunts with good humor. I was no scholar, not like Dizzy, and I wasn’t ashamed of it. After all, Dad had been a poor student, too, in high school. I knew that I was musically gifted, and I took great pride in my artistic ability. Dizzy could be a bookworm if he got off on it, but I couldn’t be bothered with books.

  Jeff unlocked the door to his apartment and waved us in. “My mother is working today,” he told me. “So we don’t have to worry about the noise, too much anyway.”

  As we filed into Jeff’s bedroom, I remembered Drew’s order. “Hey, I’ve got to call my folks and give them your phone number.”

  Running his index finger up and down his long nose, Jeff studied my face for a moment before speaking. “Yeh, the phone is over there. The number is on the dial.”

  “Thanks. Uh, what’s your last name? My folks want to know.”

  Jeff shot me a look of exasperation. “Levin.”

  “Thanks,” I muttered again. “My parents are real protective.”

  While I dialed Drew’s number, Jeff and Brian stepped into Jeff’s room and shut the door. I was impatient to join them. Damn Drew, I was thinking as I waited for someone to answer the phone.

  “Allo?” It was Drew.

  I quickly gave Drew the phone number and Jeff’s last name.

  “Be home for dinner,” Drew growled. “By 6:00, understand?”

  I assented, then hurried off the phone. Anxious to play some music with my new friends, I headed straightaway to Jeff’s room. To my surprise, the door was locked. I knocked lightly, a bit perturbed. “Hey, can I come in?”

  A few long moments passed before Jeff opened the door. Brian was standing near the bed, his eyes on Jeff. They made no excuses, leaving me to my active imagination. I warily entered the room, suddenly relieved that Drew knew where I was.

  As I lifted my bass from its case, I turned to Brian. “What kind of music do you like?”

  “Disco,” Brian answered. “Great dance music!”

  My heart sank. I really was more interested in more serious forms of rock and roll. Perhaps Jeff-- “How about you?” I asked Jeff.

  “Rock. Progressive rock. Elvis Costello. Talking Heads. What about you?”

  Nodding, I smiled at Jeff. “Yes! I’m into them, too. Stones?”

  “Yeh, but I like their old stuff best.”

  Brian nodded exuberantly. “Yes! I love Terry Walter’s stuff.”

  All of a sudden, I felt like I was suffocating. I tugged at the collar of my teeshirt. “Yeh, me, too.”

  “And Posso,” Brian added, his eyes shining brightly.

  “Ahh, you’re just in love with Drew Carelli,” Jeff teased. “He’s also into Blaise Morgon’s stuff.” A look of understanding passed between Jeff and Brian.

  Then it struck me. Drew was still a legend in the gay community. In the early sixties, Drew had been a god to young musicians on the street. He had risen from the back streets of the Village to play with Blaise Morgon’s band. He’d been Morgon’s amoureux, at least that was the legend. He’d played drums with Posso on their three best albums. And, here, now, in 1982, Drew was still hot stuff to kids like Jeff and Brian.

  The same Drew who told me to keep my hands off Terry. The same Drew who told me to be home by six for dinner. If only Brian and Jeff knew. I was glad that I’d been smart enough to keep my mouth shut about my identity.

  Unfortunately, Jeff didn’t have a bass amp. In fact, there weren’t enough amps to go around. Jeff plugged my bass, to my horror, into the amplifier of his stereo. My bass sounded muddy and weak. Nevertheless, without any warning to Jeff or Brian, I began the driving bass line to Terry Walter’s “Bitchin’.”

  Jeff caught the stride and played the guitar part quite proficiently. I was pleased. Jeff knew how to work a guitar! From “Bitchin’” we went into “Le Boss” without any prearranged signals and into “Buzz Town.” We were cooking. We were steaming. Jeff and I could really jam together.

  I glanced over at Brian. Brian was another story. He didn’t seem to know what to do with his guitar. He certainly couldn’t keep up with Jeff and me. In frustration, he threw down his Fender and sprawled on Jeff’s bed, watching us.

  Spying Brian’s discarded guitar, I put down my Hofner and seized the Fender. I tuned i
t quickly, something Brian hadn’t bothered to do. Anything had to be better than that stereo amplifier. With two amplifiers blaring, Jeff and I sounded really great. We smiled at each other as we ripped through some quick Posso numbers.

  Even our voices were well-matched. Jeff had a deep, raspy voice. My tenor had quite a high range, like my father’s. Jeff remarked about that.

  “Hey, you know, you sound a lot like Davy Koster! You’ve got that great falsetto!”

  I didn’t respond except to smile. If only Jeff knew. I stole a look at Brian, who was still lounging on the bed. Brian returned my look with a nod that was loaded with meaning. I grasped that meaning and felt my zizi twist and harden in response. Suddenly my interest in music waned. My mind was besieged by taunts from the deeper places in my brain that craved other kinds of pleasure. I wanted to throw myself on the gorgeous boy on the bed. But, instead, I continued to play Brian’s guitar and sing falsetto harmony to Jeff’s lead.

  Six o’clock got there in no time. I was sorry to have to leave, and my two new friends seemed reluctant to see me depart. We made tentative plans to play music together the next day. Jeff’s mom, a department manager at Macy’s, was working the whole weekend. I promised to call in the morning.

  I barely tasted my dinner as I wolfed it down at the table with Terry and Drew. They were eager to hear about my session with Jeff and Brian.

  “Jeff’s quite good,” I told them, licking garlic butter from my fingers. “He’s got real talent. I mean, real talent, real potential. Almost as good as me.”

  Terry laughed at that. “What about Brian?”

  “Well, he has no talent. But he’s cute,” I added quickly.

  Drew’s eyes watched me intently, with that stare that unnerved me so. I could feel Drew’s eyes boring straight through my skull. Looking down at my plate, I could feel my face flushing. Shit, Drew knows. At least I think he knows. I was tempted to glance up at Drew but was feeling too self-conscious. So I turned my attention to Terry, who was chuckling.

  “Hey,” Terry remarked, “sometimes good looks can get you places that talent can’t!”

  “Yeh.” I went back to thinking about Brian, about how delicious he looked lying on Jeff’s bed. About his wide eyes and little pug nose. About his thin lips and the tongue that resided between those lips. To get my mind on less unsettling thoughts, I changed the subject. “There was no bass amp! I had to plug my Hofner into Jeff’s stereo amplifier. God, it was awful!”