A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to My Sexual Orientation

by Kage Alan

  As for sexual encounters of the college kind, the guys on my floor were particularly notorious for that sort of thing. All they had to do was look at a girl once, and they could tell what kind of night she was going to have. My notes on their pickup lines and nonverbal methods of communication are extensive.

  The lit class Dr. Lockman suggested I take turned out to be one of the best classes I could have taken to continue my interest in writing. The catalogue listed our professor's name as “Staff,” which of course just meant they hadn't assigned an instructor yet. The man who walked through the door that first meeting was a kindly gentleman in his forties who seemed very open to different interpretations of literature and writing. Much to our amazement, the name on the syllabus he passed out was, indeed, “Professor Staff", which meant he either had a sense of humor or that was actually his name.

  Either way, he had us all wondering, and I received my first look at his true colors a few weeks later when he was handing back our first papers. A group of us had been slaving over them for two weeks, helping each other as much as we could and really looking forward to seeing our grades. Wasn't that stupid?

  My paper was on William Wordsworth. The Professor, as he politely insisted we call him, passed my desk and handed me my paper with a twinkle in his eye. The moment had arrived, and considering the look he gave me, the prospects for a decent grade looked fantastic. There in my hand lay the fruits of my labor for the past two weeks. Here was where my writing would really take off!

  I took a long, deep breath and flipped to the last page. A few comments were written down ... blah blah blah ... There it was! Or, rather, there it was.

  I felt my stomach drop and my lip curl. B-minus. Wasn't that quaint?

  "Son of a bitch,” I muttered. My own mother would have been hard-pressed to hear me, and she'd had years of practice.

  "Andy?” The Professor was looking at me. “Why don't you stay after class, and we'll talk about your grade?"

  I couldn't believe he heard me! It was both unexpected and unsettling—mostly unsettling—and I thought about just how good a chemistry class would be right now compared to the horror of having been heard swearing by the man who made or broke my grade.

  Bile rose up in my throat on more than one occasion, and my stomach began doing flip-flops while I was waiting for class to end. The minutes passed by with my insides in agony until it was finally time to leave. Maybe I could play like I was stupid or an inbred child from the South here on a scholarship. Hey, they gave them to everybody else. Just the other day I'd seen a kid who couldn't even spell his name, and he had a scholarship.

  Of course, my roommate told me later the kid was dyslexic. Apparently, there weren't enough minority students enrolled at the university with that ethnic background. Still, just because he has a foreign heritage didn't mean he couldn't learn how to spell.

  "I take it you weren't happy with your grade?” The Professor looked at me with kind eyes. If he was upset or angry, it didn't show.

  "I was just kind of surprised. A group of us worked together pretty hard, and I thought I'd done better.” So much for the inbred act. “It, uh, probably wasn't the ideal paper for straight-up, cut-and-dried factual statements with appropriate ob-servations in the analytical style and accepted APA format, but that's because I hate writing something dull and didactic. I end up adding personal com-mentary but tried to keep it from influencing or hampering the general narrative structure too much."

  For God's sake, I was practically giving him the formula for glue instead of just telling him that I liked to make quirky little comments for no good reason other than for my own entertainment.

  "Well, I want you to know that I can appreciate that kind of writing, and I think commentary does liven up a piece, but you should also know that there are going to be instructors here who don't."

  He paused as if pondering whether he should say anything further. At least I felt like we were making some kind of one-on-one connection. How many students at Michigan State could say their instructors knew their name?

  "If you would like, I'd be willing to help you develop your writing skills for this and other classes so you could get away with what you're doing."

  I was starting to like him.

  "You have some talent in writing, but it's raw yet. You need to strengthen and hone it, though. If you want."

  I did.

  The rest of the conversation was uninspiring, but I left with a really good feeling. My stomach wasn't acting up like it had before our talk, and for the first time, I was starting to see the possibility of being adopted by someone who would act as my mentor and guide me in the strange and mystical ways of the Writer. Or whatever.

  It was back to beating chemistry again.

  * * * *

  I went from there over to the Commons, and after an extremely unsatisfying dinner to the campus library. I doubt I will ever forget how exhilarating it is to smell the scent of freshly thawed fertilizer wafting over the campus from the neighboring fields. Expressing my gratitude to Mother Nature for this unusually warm day wouldn't have come out very nicely.

  Then too, there is a saying in Michigan: “If you don't like the weather, just wait five minutes.” It's true, and at least I now knew the reason my roommate had asked me to look up some topic for him that he had to write a paper on. I think he was still probably enjoying his dinner at Burger King or wherever in Grand Rapids he went, wonderfully ignorant of what I was going through.

  Since the computer system in the library was probably the quickest and most convenient way of looking up my roommate's subject, I found a machine that wasn't occupied and sat down. I typed in “Youths in Asia,” and when the computer came back with “No Subject Found” I typed it in again anyway in case it was mistaken. It wasn't. I tried every single spelling combination I could think of until I was a smelly, sweating ball of frustration. Why was it so damn difficult? I mean, what the hell did Asia call its youth, anyway?

  It followed that Asians would be found in Asia, not like that entire Canada/Canadian thing a friend played with my mind about. Because of her, I could never keep them straight. Basically, she told me that if I went to Canada the people there would be called Canadans. Consequently, if I was among Canadians, wouldn't I have traveled to Canadia?

  This is one of those reasons my parents tried to dissuade me from drinking at college. They knew that, with the friends I had, my young and naive existence would be confusing enough without alcohol.

  I ended up leaving in disgust and headed back to my dorm.

  * * * *

  Why some parents ever complained about guys and girls living together in the same dorm building is beyond me. It wasn't like we were on the same floor and sharing showers and bathrooms or anything like that. Large metal doors separated the two sexes at all times.

  Granted, that never really seemed to matter when it came time for the two sexes to partake in a little sex, but that's beside the point for the moment.

  Guys and girls living together created a balance. One floor smelled like old sweat socks mixed with Old Spice and the next like perfume and potpourri room fresheners. One floor looked like the remnant of a World War II battlefield and the next the Rainbow Bridge. The whole thing evened out, and I came to think of it as like the collegiate version of yin and yang. Of course, the guys were constantly trying to stick their yang in every girl's yin.

  Then too, many of the girls were using their yin to get all the cute guys’ yang. This effectively cut me out of the entire rat race, as I was neither interested in any girl's yin nor good-looking enough, in my opinion, at least, to attract one. I was also resolved to ignore any impulse towards any guy's yang. Again, it was a strange balance.

  The lobby of the dorm was a flurry of activity when I walked in. Going on were some intense study groups in one of the well-lit alcoves, drug deals being made in the dimly lit one, three guys bragging about a recent female score and realizing they'd all had the same girl one right after the other,
a resident assistant complaining to the building manager about a dead rabbit found impaled on his door with a hunting knife, two people bitching about the latest music review in the paper, seven people trying to get the combination locks undone on their mailbox and one girl on the phone bragging to her friend that she had just slept with three guys one right after the other and, unbeknownst to them, given them crabs.

  I didn't know how I wanted to remember my college years, but this definitely wasn't it. There was no way I could blend in with these people, at least not at this stage of my life. Hell, I was still a virgin, and it wasn't as if I wanted to be one. It's just that I never went out of my way in the past to make myself physically desirable, like Fabio, so why should I do it now?

  It had occurred to me that if someone was going to like me, then they should like me for who I really was. While I thought that was a very solid and honest philosophy to live by, it certainly didn't get me many dates or even much interest. In fact, it made me wonder whatever happened to my charm, or at least the persuasive nature I'd had in grade school through the first part of high school. Of course, that was with guys, and that time of my life was forever over with.

  Truth be told, I guess I was still a bit curious about other guys but decided to keep it to myself, since that kind of curiosity was no longer considered innocent. Hell, it could get the crap kicked out of me, and that thought alone was enough to make me continue burying my feelings. Weren't there people out there who remained curious, too? Was I the exception to the rule in still being who I was while having these feelings?

  I certainly didn't resemble in any way the kind of stereotypical “fag” used as the butt of a ton of tasteless jokes, so I couldn't be one. This was fine by me because I liked being who I was, the type of person I had potential to become; and there was no room in my life to be one of those limp-wristed, lisping, feminine-looking and acting queers laughed about and resented so openly. If that's what being gay was all about, then I wanted no part of it.

  I didn't want any part of it anyway. I might not yet know exactly who I was, but I did know who I wasn't. My uncertainty about sex merely stemmed with never having been with a woman. Once that happened, I would come to my senses. It was just that simple, or so I thought.

  My head hurt, and I wanted a shower more than anything else. I wanted to step under the rush of hot water and feel all the negative thoughts and energy wash from my body and disappear down the moldy drain on its way to the Commons. There was too much negativity in the world. Society needed to be a little more nurturing, a bit more caring. People needed to be a little kinder and respectful to each other.

  "You smell like shit,” Todd, my Neanderthal and negative roommate informed me matter-of-factly when I unlocked the door and stepped into the small dorm room.

  "Oh, bite me."

  Todd laughed and tossed me a bag of cold onion rings from Burger King. Actually, he wasn't so bad, and I'm not saying that just because he brought me food. Most of the time, one never knows what kind of person he or she will be paired up with in a dorm. I lucked out because Todd respected my privacy and the items I had brought with me from home as I respected his. We got along well enough, too, since we were different enough to make for some interesting conversations and alike enough not to argue over what to watch on TV. Sometimes I proofed or wrote some of his papers, and he paid for a movie in Grand Rapids or bought me a CD. He got what he needed, and I got what I wanted. It was a beneficial arrangement. The food he brought didn't hurt my opinion of him, either.

  "I hope you earned the onion rings,” he wondered out loud and pointed to my backpack. “What did you find?"

  "You may want them back.” I offered him the bag. “Because I couldn't find a thing."

  He declined.

  "The computer didn't have anything on them."

  "Them?” Todd looked at me, confused. “What do you mean them?"

  "Well...” I rolled my eyes. “...the youth in Asia or youths in Asia. Hello?"

  Sometimes, he was a bit slow.

  "I mean, I tried every combination, but it either told me there was nothing to be found or that I needed to narrow my search."

  "Youths in Asia?” He was staring at me in disbelief.

  "Uh, I think I just said that.” I didn't feel so bad about eating his onion rings now. Sometimes I had to talk very slowly and in small words to get him to understand something. “Which part didn't you understand?"

  "Which part didn't you understand?” he countered. “I said euthanasia."

  "Youth in Asia, youths in Asia, what's the difference? I still came up empty."

  Todd put his hand up to his forehead in a mock gesture of surrendering to an idiot.

  "What?"

  "E-u-t-h-a-n-a-s-i-a.” He spelled it out for me.

  "Euthanasia?” I spoke the word out loud, and he nodded. “Well, what the hell is that?"

  "That...” Todd smirked at me. “...is what I needed you to find out. Didn't you ask one of the librarians for help?"

  "Huh?” Was he kidding? I stared at him and shoved two more onion rings into my mouth. It was hard to tell at this point which one of us was the bigger moron. At least neither one of us knew what euthanasia was, so in my mind, that made him the more moronic. From his view, I suspected, I should have known what it was, since I generally prided myself on knowing more than he did. That, in his mind, made me the more moronic one.

  The only thing we would agree on is that we would disagree, so it was stupid for either of us to continue the conversation.

  "You had a call earlier. Some girl.” His voice was even, as if relating events that occurred regularly.

  "Really?” It was a rather unusual occurrence. A girl calling me? It had a nice ring to it. There was a girl in Professor Staff's class named Tina who was pretty cute—blonde, nice green eyes, pleasant voice, great body, vacant look on her face, perfect sorority material. What the hell would she be doing calling me? “What did she want?"

  "Just to say that your latest music review sucks, Roxette sucks and, according to her, you do, too.” He paused as if in deep thought. “She didn't leave a name or number."

  It definitely wasn't Tina.

  * * * *

  Classes came and went daily, and homework took up a sizable chunk of time during the week, but that was mostly because I didn't want to do any of it on the weekend. I probably should have saved some of it because I tended not to do much on the weekend anyway.

  My writing really started showing signs of improvement, and I was aching to try my pencil at some short stories and maybe even a novel. My other classes went well, and I knew that I was in no danger of being on academic probation again. The dean might not know my name yet, but the expulsion committee wouldn't, either. It was a fair trade. All I had to concentrate on now was finals.

  Todd's finals finished on a Tuesday and mine that Wednesday. He was moved out an hour after his last exam but came back the next evening so the two of us could get drunk together before moving on to “greener pastures.” He called it that because he was from the west side of the state and really was moving back to fields and pastures and all that farmer stuff.

  That last night I spent with Todd was very special. He was extremely patient and gentle with me, especially since it was my first time—getting drunk, that is. When I could no longer feel my legs, he let me put my arm around his neck for support while I puked. When I could no longer feel the rest of my body, he held my head up so I didn't make a mess on the floor.

  My parents arrived the next morning, but Todd had already left. I vaguely recall through my stupor a death threat if I ever became a writer and wrote about him unless it was published in Penthouse.

  Mom and Dad were both happy to see me and glad I was confident I hadn't flunked out of school and wasted all their money. Aside from inquiring about my exams, the only questions they had were why I insisted that they speak very quietly and why they had to leave the “damn” curtains closed.

  After all my stuff was
safely packed away in the van, I went back upstairs for one last look around the room. So much had happened and changed since I'd first arrived. God only knew what would happen in the fall, but before I could get to that, I had to survive the summer.

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  2

  Most people my age love the summertime. I hate it! I never went away and vacationed in some distant foreign country where scantily dressed women offered to buy me drinks, take me for romantic walks on the beach, watch the sunset and finally accompany me back to a room to have wild orgasmic sex on a hammock. It never really appealed to me, for one, and I couldn't afford it anyway.

  Besides, I'd probably throw my back out on the hammock and end up in some third world hospital. To add insult to injury, I'd also leave with something worse than I'd gone in there with.

  Aside from the one perk of maintaining my health, summer vacations tended to give me too much time to think about my life. Reality could be such a stupid place, and mine was rapidly closing in. It started after I closed the van door, and we headed for home.

  It wasn't the most pleasant journey in the world, mostly because it was time to start thinking about what I would do for a summer job. I really did have to think about it because I was asked about it ten minutes into the trip. Some people I knew were going off to work on boats in Alaska, others to Cedar Point or their parents’ companies, and still others abroad to foreign countries to help sooth the woes of those worlds. The woes of my world began with working at Kay-Mart, an experience in itself. Working for that company period is actually a bit of a joke.