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.