Guilty Little Secret

by F M Land

  “This is Jeff Levin,” I told Terry. “And this is Brian Sokolov.”

  “We’re in a band together!” Brian told Terry, still dancing and jiggling his butt to the music.

  “Nice to meet you,” Terry said, looking at each boy carefully, sizing them up. “Mind if I borrow your pal here for a while?”

  The looks of astonishment on Jeff’s and Brian’s faces were priceless. I wished I’d had a camera. In their eyes, I had scored big. Really big. Shit, in their eyes, I’d picked up Terry Walters. Shit, this was not the night I’d been dreaming about. This was a nightmare. The look on my face must have communicated my reluctance to go with Terry.

  “I can come with you, if Paul doesn’t want to.” Brian smiled radiantly at Terry.

  “Oh, I prefer big men,” Terry responded, reaching up to put his hand on my shoulder.

  Brian recovered from Terry’s rejection quickly. “I know,” he purred, putting his arm around Jeff’s waist. “I like big men, too.”

  Terry led me to the other side of the room. I could feel my friends’ eyes on my back. I tried to glance casually over my shoulder at them.

  “Yes, they are still watching you,” Terry said, his voice close to my back. “Let’s get away from them so we can talk.” Terry led me around the corner into the next room. It was crowded with dancing men, and the music was very loud. Flustered, I turned my face to Terry’s. To my surprise, Terry’s eyes were welling with tears.

  “What are you doing here?”

  That was the question I had been expecting. I shrugged. “I was invited. By Tom.”

  “Do your parents know?”

  “No.” I looked away, too uncomfortable to meet Terry’s gaze. “I lied. I told them I was spending the night with you.”

  “You are now.”

  “Yes.” Bummer. All those fantasies about mysterious, beautiful men, what a waste!

  Terry shook his head, disbelief clouding his gorgeous face. “What does this mean, Paul?”

  “What?”

  “What does this mean? About you? Do you think you might be gay?”

  I smiled, feeling calm for the first time all night, dangerously calm. “I know I’m gay.” I raised my gaze to look into his eyes, unashamed, unafraid.

  To my surprise, Terry burst into tears. “No, no, no, what will they think?”

  “Drew knows already,” I told him.

  “What?” Terry’s voice came out in a squeak. “You told Drew, and you didn’t tell your Terry?”

  “No, I didn’t tell Drew. Drew picks up on everything, that’s the way he is.” Impulsively I threw my arms around Terry’s neck and hugged him close. “Jesus, Terry, will you please stop acting like a fucking fag? It’s unnerving, it really is!”

  Terry jerked back in surprise, caught the look in my eye, and started laughing. I joined in his laughter, delighted that Terry wasn’t angry at me. We laughed so hard that we had to hold each other up. When our laughter was finished, we hugged each other tightly.

  “I love you,” I whispered into Terry’s ear.

  Terry nodded, smiling up into my eyes. “I love you, too, Paulie. But why couldn’t you tell me? I thought you didn’t keep secrets from me.”

  I gazed at Terry sadly, unsure how to answer. I had been afraid to tell him, ashamed to tell him, but I couldn’t find the words to say this to him. I shrugged. “Let’s go home, Terry. I want you to take me home.”

  As we climbed the stairs to Terry’s third floor apartment, Terry turned toward me giggling.

  “What?” I asked him.

  “‘Will you stop acting like a fucking fag?’” he mimicked, giggling harder.

  I began to giggle. “Fag!” I taunted and pushed Terry against the railing. The reefer had really gone to my head.

  “Fag!” Terry threw back at me and laughed harder.

  We stood outside the apartment door, giggling like children, while Terry searched his pockets for his keys. We must have been making a lot of noise because Drew opened the door before Terry got his key into the lock. He didn’t seem surprised to see me.

  Terry stopped giggling for a moment, said, “Look who I met at Tom’s party,” and burst out laughing again.

  “You fucking fag,” I mouthed at him. I leaned against the open door, giggling uncontrollably.

  Drew didn’t seem to think it was funny. “That’s good,” he told us quietly. “Davy and Justine are on their way into the city right now. They expected Paul to be here earlier this evening.”

  Marshall (1982)

  My parents took it quite well, actually. Dad’s smoky eyes reflected a distant glitter, perhaps an echo of an old memory, as he processed that his youngest son was gay. Initially, Maman reacted with her characteristic gesture of alarm, her hand raised to her mouth. But, she recovered herself quickly and raced across the room to hug me, murmuring endearments into my ear in French.

  I loved my parents intensely at that moment. I basked in the warmth of their sincere acceptance. Why had I been ashamed to admit my homosexuality to them? Or to Drew and Terry, for that matter? But there was still Dizzy. How could I tell Dizzy? I asked my father, who seemed to be an expert on Dizzy.

  Shaking his head sadly, Dad responded, “I don’t know if now is the right time. Why don’t you wait until you feel the time is right? You know how uptight Dizzy is.”

  “And straight,” Terry added. He and Dad exchanged a long look.

  “You,” Dad said with mock sternness, pointing toward Terry, “you are responsible for this!”

  “No, he isn’t!” Drew and I said in unison. We turned toward each other and smiled.

  “I’m responsible for my feelings, no one else.” I moved closer to Terry on the sofa and threw my arm across his shoulder protectively. “In fact, I’ve put a lot of distance between Terry and myself the past year. I felt so guilty about my feelings for men. And I was afraid Terry would be blamed.”

  “No one is blaming Terry,” Dad assured me.

  On the other hand, my parents did not take kindly to my lying to them about the party. They pressed me to tell them the details of my relationship with Brian and Jeff. It was clear that they disapproved of Brian’s promiscuity.

  “He’s asking for trouble,” Dad said, gazing at Drew. “Don’t you think, Drew?”

  Drew shrugged. “It’s a crazy world out there. I’m glad I’m not a youngster anymore. Who knows what kinds of diseases are out there today.” He turned toward me. “Just stay out of the baths, boy. And, don’t take drugs from strangers.”

  “Don’t take drugs at all!” Maman admonished. She turned to glare at Drew.

  Drew shrugged again. “He’s a musician, Justine. Of course he’ll experiment with drugs.”

  I sat up straighter in my seat next to Terry on the couch. Drew had called me a musician. I was a musician. If Drew said I was, I was.

  “You know what this means, son?” Dad asked me sternly, pulling me away from my happy thoughts. “You will not be allowed to hang out with these boys anymore. We can’t trust them, and we can’t trust you when you are with them.”

  Despite my protests and promises, my parents refused to budge on this issue. I was forbidden to associate with Jeff and Brian. Dad and Maman threatened to move permanently to Europe if I disobeyed them. When I asked them what I was supposed to do for a social life, they pointed to Terry.

  “Terry,” Maman said, in her heavy French accent, which made it sound like she was saying “Te-hhhee”, “you know some nice men, eh? You will introduce Paul to them?”

  “Shit, Justine, he’s only 16. He’s not exactly legal,” Terry replied, shaking his head.

  “I just want to play music,” I muttered dejectedly. “I don’t care about the sex stuff. Not really. But Jeff and I, well, we really sound great together.” I gazed entreatingly first at my mother, then at my father. When they didn’t respond, I shifted my gaze to Terry. “You should hear us.”

  Terry studied my face for a long moment, his eyes coming to rest lovingly on my p
outing mouth. “Listen, Paulie, there are lots of people to play music with in this city. People much better than Jeff. You’re good enough to play with the best, Paul. Let me introduce you to some good folk.”

  Dad and Maman nodded, satisfied with this arrangement. I was to stay away from Jeff and Brian. Terry would find musicians, nice people, for me to play with. Even Drew thought it was a good idea.

  I was elated. I got Terry to promise to take me out the next day, Monday. If I couldn’t play music with Jeff any longer, then I didn’t want to waste time doing nothing. I wanted to hang out with other musicians. But, in my heart, I knew that I would miss Jeff. Brian, too. But Jeff was the person I’d miss most. Jeff was really an excellent guitarist. I wouldn’t forget about Jeff.

  True to his word, the next night Terry escorted me over to a club off West Street where, Monday through Thursday, musicians had nightly jam sessions. The style of the music ranged from blues to jazz to rock, depending on the musicians. I nervously clutched the handle of my guitar case as I followed Terry, drumsticks protruding out of his back pocket, into the club.

  Terry led me to a clipboard bearing a sign-up sheet at the front door. He wrote his name, Terry Walters, and “percussion” next to it. Taking the pen, I scrawled my name and “bass” beside it. I grinned apprehensively at Terry.

  As soon as we turned away from signing in, we were surrounded by friends of Terry’s.

  “Hi, Terry!”

  “How’s Drew?”

  “Who’s your young friend here, man?”

  Looking at Terry’s face, I could see he was beaming. Terry was actually getting off being seen in the company of someone as young and good-looking as me. I smiled at him encouragingly. I loved Terry. There was no one I loved more. I didn’t care if everyone knew it. Terry and I exchanged a long, happy look.

  Terry placed his hand on my shoulder, signaling that I was not available. “This is Paul Koster. He’s a chip off the old block.”

  “God, Davy’s kid?”

  “Looks a lot like the old man.”

  Nodding to his cronies, Terry steered me to an empty table near the center of the room. “Wait ‘til you hear him play. It will take you back!”

  Enthralled, I listened to the musicians on stage. Every fifteen minutes or so, one musician would leave the stage to be replaced by another musician who played the same instrument. A waiter consulted the sign-up sheet periodically, then tiptoed off to tap the next musician to play. The music was great, the musicians jammed really well.

  The waiter came up to our table, winked at Terry, and told him, “You’re up next, Terry. Have a great time!”

  Terry drained his drink, a vodka martini, and stood up, stretching seductively. I watched him, yearning to run my hands across Terry’s chest and down his belly. Instinctively, I repressed these desires. Instead I smiled brightly at Terry and wished him well.

  “See you soon,” Terry said to me, stopping to kiss my ear. “Up there.” He pointed to the stage. Then he hurried to join some friends at the side of the stage.

  Before I knew it, I found myself onstage, surrounded by six or seven other guitarists, percussionists, and brass players. Because Terry was onstage, we played a number of his old tunes, which I knew well. This was heaven, I decided. I sang my father’s falsetto harmony to Terry’s “Le Boss.” I drew quite an applause for that. We moved into some blues standards that I could fake, then into some really old Robert Johnson tunes. When Terry left the stage amid cheers from the audience, the musicians on stage began to jam on some old Posso songs. The lead guitarist motioned for me to take the mike to sing Dad’s leads on the 1950’s and ‘60’s numbers. The audience went wild.

  That night at Ziggy’s Club was a triumph for me. If I’d had my way, I would have returned every night to jam with that rowdy assortment of musicians. But Terry believed in remaining scarce, only showing up once or twice a week, at most. And I was allowed out at night only when accompanied by Terry.

  So, I lived for those nights when Terry would look up from his dinner plate and ask if I wanted to go to Ziggy’s that evening. I really enjoyed those September nights at the club. Quickly I began to recognize some of the musicians and to know their quirks, who played blues, who bogarted the mike, who was good, who to avoid. I felt accepted there at Ziggy’s. And, best of all, I was building a reputation for my driving bass and my “Koster” voice.

  One night Drew accompanied us to the club, causing quite a ruckus when he was recognized. Drew waved shyly to some patrons that he knew, but kept his gaze focused on Terry and me. The waiter brought the clipboard with the sign-up sheet to Drew. I had never seen that before and was impressed at the attention that Drew commanded. When Drew climbed onstage, the crowd went wild, stamping and shouting his name. Drew, in response, hitched up his trousers, which tore down the house. It was several minutes before the music was audible after that.

  That evening, like most others, I sat close to Terry, with my arms thrown around Terry’s neck. From time to time, I’d lay my head on Terry’s shoulder and nuzzle his neck. Terry lightly caressed my neck and face, in response.

  Drew watched us for a while then leaned over to say, “The boy needs a lover, Terry.”

  I couldn’t see Terry’s face, but I could feel Terry’s back stiffen in protest.

  “He’s still a child, Drew. Don’t rush things!”

  “He hasn’t been a child for a long time, dear.”

  On another night, I was surprised to see Drew, Dad, and Maman traipse into Ziggy’s when Terry and I were there. I don’t know why, but I was even more surprised by the raucous response from the audience. I didn’t think this young hip, gay crowd would recognize Dad and Maman. Again the waiter brought the clipboard to the table for my parents and Drew to sign. Again I learned something new: Dad circled their names and printed “together” next to them. I never understood until that night why groups of musicians sometimes took over the stage. That evening Dad, Maman, and Drew took over.

  With Dad at the keyboards, Maman on bass, and Drew on drums, the musicians ripped through some Posso numbers, a few Blaise Morgon pieces, and even some of Maman’s stuff from “Reconnaître.” It was fantastic. I felt intensely proud of my parents that night, the way they worked the audience, really turning up the energy at Ziggy’s. I’d never seen them play in front of an audience before, except in old film clips. At one point, Dad asked Terry and me to join them.

  Half-exhilarated and half-flustered, I seized an electric 6-string and bounded onstage. Terry did the same. As we tuned our guitars together, Terry caught my eye and winked. His smile dissolved my nervousness. Dad led us through some Gabe Edgeworth tunes, stuff that he wrote with Gabe decades ago, and ended with some of Terry’s music. It was a night I would never forget, trading vocal harmonies with Dad, Drew, Maman, and Terry, playing rhythm guitar, and exchanging smiles and nods with the other musicians as we handed off leads.

  As I became more or less a regular at Ziggy’s jam sessions, I received many invitations to parties every week. But, I knew better than to broach the subject with Drew. Halloween weekend, however, a couple of guys from Ziggy’s were planning a huge house party on Houston Street. There was going to be a lot of jamming, and I really wanted to go. I brought up the subject with Terry who, to my surprise, seemed to think it was a good idea. Drew reluctantly agreed that Terry could take me to the party, although he wanted no part of the action. I hugged both men with a burst of vivacity, then I raced to my bedroom to jerk off. Life was very sweet for Paul Koster.

  At the party, the first people I recognized were Brian and Jeff. Brian was making eyes at some young stud who hauled him off to the dance floor, leaving Jeff to stand alone at the fringes of the party. I released Terry’s hand, which I’d been clutching in panic at finding myself in a crowd of strangers, and hurried toward Jeff.

  “Jeff!” I called. “Levin!”

  Jeff turned and spotted me. A wide smile spread across his pock-marked face. Poor Jeff, his acne problem was wor
se than ever. I wondered if anyone would ever cruise Jeff. It didn’t matter. I loved Jeff. And Jeff was a talented musician. The world would learn that one day, I was sure of it.

  We embraced. I languished in the embrace, happy to be reunited with my friend. I smiled into Jeff’s eyes. “Hi, buddy!”

  Jeff kissed me on the lips. “Hey, are you still seeing Terry Walters? I saw you walk in with him!”

  “Jeff, listen, I need to tell you something. I live with Terry. I’ve lived with him for years, since I was a baby.”

  Jeff’s eyes widened. “Yeh, right,” he said uncertainly.

  “No, really, Jeff, listen, he and Drew Carelli are my guardians. That’s why he made me leave the party at Tom’s, you know, the last time I saw you --” I let my voice trail off. Suddenly I was ashamed that I hadn’t even sneaked a call to Jeff during the past two months.

  His nod was perfunctory, but Jeff’s eyes were glowing warmly. “You haven’t called,” he admonished.

  “I know. They wouldn’t let me. I’m forbidden to hang out with you.” I hugged Jeff again. Tightly. “But I’ve missed you,” I whispered in Jeff’s ear. “I’ve missed playing music with you.”

  This time Jeff’s nod was more enthusiastic. “Yes, I know! Me, too!”

  “Man, listen, I’ve been playing in jam sessions at Ziggy’s. It’s great!” I went on to describe the set-up and the music we played.

  “You’re bullshitting me now, man!” Jeff pushed me away. “You’re too young to get into a club!”

  That was true, I realized in that moment. The only reason I’d been allowed into Ziggy’s was because I was with Terry Walters. I was Terry’s personal little pet monkey. I flashed a terrible glare in Terry’s direction.