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AFTER MY LAST ENCOUNTER with my little brother, I thought that he would have given up on finding me a wife. I should have known better. I should have known by then that all the stars and planets were aligning, conspiring with the universe, to get my underwear off. It was time.
I must say that Ryan’s indomitable spirit was one of the qualities I liked about him. When I was a child I always hoped that my mom would have another child after me. I even used to daydream that one day someone would leave a baby boy on our doorstep. But that was the substance of soap operas and I had seen too many of them as a teenager.
I was not close to my other siblings for once they hit puberty they had become preoccupied with their own peers and their own interests which did not include me. I found solace in the radio, in books and in television. I played games solo, like tennis against the wall of my house, or occasionally I went swimming or cycling or did some other solitary activity. Outside of school, I never saw my friends for my favorite ones lived a good distance away and my mom did not encourage me to visit them. “Stay out of other people’s houses,” she would harp on.
Though I had one stepfather for a few years, my mom never really settled down with anybody since she left my father. My father, on the other hand, had a host of ladies, most of whom I could not tolerate. One of them did produce a son, my brother, Ryan who was now playing matchmaker for me.
“Bro, you have an admirer,” he whispered to me the afternoon that his mother was hosting nearly two hundred children from the neighborhood at the community center’s annual children’s day festival.
“What have you done now?”
A thick, fair-skinned woman who filled out her jeans nicely came across to where we were standing.
“Hi,” she said extending her hand. “I’m Katherine.”
“Nice meeting you, Katherine. I’m Clay.”
We smiled not knowing what else to say to each other. Luckily someone called to her. “Excuse me, please.”
My eyes followed her across the grass as she carried a tray of refreshments. Katherine had a gentle aura; her whole demeanor was that of one who was confident and at peace with her world.
“What do you think?” Ryan asked.
“She’s nice.”
“She’s everything you told me that you wanted in a woman. She is a good girl, no kids, she’s twenty-eight, and has a good job. Do you want her number?”
Ryan himself was so cool with the ladies: he was well built, charming and good-looking. Though we bore some resemblance, when we went out I could see the women focusing on him. Luckily he did not let it go to his head – not often anyway.
“I don’t know. I mean, I would prefer to let it happen, know what I mean? If we go out on a date it would seem so forced. We’ll be putting on an act for each other.”
“I don’t believe you. You’re always putting some roadblock in the way.” He fled and I followed him behind the building.
“Buddy, I appreciate how you’re looking out –”
“I don’t want to hear you.” He was angry; one of the few times I actually saw his anger. The other time that came to mind was when his girlfriend accused him of cheating on her.
“Ryan –”
He turned to me. “You know, if you can’t find a woman to please you, maybe you should get a man.”
I punched him in the stomach. He absorbed it and we looked at each other for a long moment. He was shocked that I had struck him and I was horrified at what he had said. Without another word he disappeared.
How the hell could he say that to me? Who does he think I am? Does my little brother whom I value more than my own life really think I’m gay?
As I lay in bed that night my mind raced back to incidents I had long tried to bury. The first incident occurred when I was in secondary school and the steel-band leader propositioned me. The thought made me sick. Was that how people viewed me? Was it just because I wasn’t macho? No rough games, no excessive consumption of alcohol, no chasing after the girls? I had a few choice words for the band leader, some of them obscene, some referencing his mother, and after that he never spoke to me again.
Another incident took place in my early twenties when I had gone to Venezuela with a group of about thirty young people from my church on a missionary project. We used local songs, original mimes and, of course, our national instrument the steel pan to share the message of Jesus Christ with our Hispanic neighbors. I could not sing to save my life but I stood in the choir anyway, changing the key on every other word of the Spanish songs. It did not matter. I loved the South American culture and I wanted to communicate that to them.
My forte was drama and I gave my soul to those three-minute mimes on the streets as if I were on Broadway. But what I wished I had done was learn to play the only new musical instrument of the twentieth century – the steel pan – which drew the crowds.
“How could such sweet music come from steel drums?” they would ask, wanting to try it. Since I was one of the few in the group who spoke Spanish, I was very happy to chat with them, easily shifting the conversation away from pan and to God.
But in one Venezuelan restaurant at the bus depot, I was showing off by ordering a late lunch for the folks at my table. I did not realize that I was drawing attention to myself. When we finished the meal, I waited in line at the restroom. Our waiter, who looked as if he had swallowed an entire watermelon, passed by me, shaking his ding-a-ling, taking his cool time to zip up his pants. It did not register then. Shortly afterwards he passed close to me, allowed his hand to slide down the front of his pants. His intent became clearer when I was at the urinal and he came again, making eye contact with me, shaking his ding-a-ling again as though it were some sort of enchantment designed to put me under his spell.
I dashed out of the bathroom, grabbed my bag from the table and headed straight for the bus. I sat there, cold and trembling with my jacket pulled over me, and I said nothing to anyone for the rest of that night. Sleep was elusive. It was then I had a revelation of how painful rape really was for its victim. That summer a daytime soap opera was dealing with the issue of date rape and I understood how one of the main characters felt as a victim.
The next day I spoke to one of the guys in the group and he reassured me. “You don’t have to be sending out any ‘gaydar’ signal for a man to solicit you. It has happened to me already.”
I was shocked at his admission for Christopher was big and strong and tall and no one in his right mind would think that he was the type to bend over for the servicing of his rear end. I felt better but was constantly on my guard for the rest of the trip. I was civil with the male patrons of our shows only if they were accompanied by a gorgeous Latina and only when the couple appeared to be madly in love. With the señoritas I was in my element.
But of all the incidents where I had a brush of homosexuality, the one of which I was most ashamed was the one with Waldo. He was a young banking professional who had joined my martial arts class to lose his excess pounds. The class was recreational for him whereas for the rest of us it was about competition and moving up the ranks. I did not take to Waldo; he was a slave to fashion as I could tell from the designer clothing and the accessories he wore and the Mercedes Benz he drove. He spoke with a hint of an American accent which he had acquired after four years at Notre Dame; he never lost the accent after returning home ten years before. Stay far away from him, my mind told me, and that is just what I did.
One day, out of the blue, Waldo called me on my telephone at home. I did not remember having given him my number. What he had to say over the next hour was a lot of hot air that inflated his ego but did nothing to impress me. The guy had accomplished a lot but his character was empty, or rather, he was focused on material things which did not impress me. Still, because it was a slow afternoon, I accepted his invitation to go to the movies to see one of the installments of a popular slasher film. He paid for the tickets and I paid for the overpriced popcorn and cola.
Somehow Waldo got the idea that we were now bosom buddies and he called regularly. He got me a present for my birthday. He just wanted to be a part of the celebrations, he said. But I did not invite him to my birthday dinner with my friends. He invited me to his home, claiming that he was a gourmet chef, but I found creative ways to refuse.
“I have to take the cat to be neutered.”
“I have to take my grandfather to the pool for his therapy.”
“I have a ton of papers to mark.”
Waldo never took the hint. I got direct.
“Waldo, why me?”
“Why you, what?” he answered an octave higher than I was happy with.
“You’re trying hard to be my friend. What’s up with that?”
He giggled. “Man, you certainly are direct.” He fished for a suitable response. “Clay, I’ve been observing you at class, and you’re one of those individuals who are highly disciplined. You say what you are going to do and you do it and I admire that in you. You strike me as an honest guy and I think a friendship with you is something I can profit from.”
I nodded, but my guard was still up. It crossed my mind that I might have misjudged him and I owed it to him to let the friendship develop. Big mistake.
One lazy Friday afternoon I took him up on his invitation to his home. Of course it was palatial and I got the grand tour. I was not impressed by his fine art collection nor by his wine collection, nor the aquarium of exotic fish or any other collection that he pointed out with obvious pride and the nervous giggle of someone who is desperate for approval.
After dinner of lobster, potatoes and salad he challenged me to a show of strength.
“Waldo, I’ve been in the martial arts class longer than you have. Don’t you think I just might whip your butt?”
“You underestimate me, Mr. Powers. I used to be in track and field in college. You have no idea how strong I am.”
After incessant taunts I eventually gave in, but we had to use the spare bedroom as he did not want any of his priceless treasures in the living room to fall to pieces. What was supposed to be a martial arts contest deteriorated into a wrestling match and Waldo was right: he was strong, stronger than I had imagined. It was hard to keep his nearly two hundred pounds of fat pinned long enough for us to finish the ridiculous match and I was getting tired.
Then he pinned me; he straddled me just below my waist and, while making small talk, moved his butt back and forth over my mid-section. I said nothing. I managed to push him off and we went again for I was not a good loser.
“Two out of three,” I panted.
He nodded, smiling, sweaty. Inside I cringed.
I was able to take him down even quicker than he had taken me down the first time, and it seemed as though he allowed me to straddle him, in much the same that he had done a few minutes before, but as I held his hand above his head, he pushed his waist up, supposedly trying to get loose. I was uncomfortable with the way our pelvic regions came into close proximity.
“Winner takes all,” he said as we got ready for the final round. In a flash, he lunged at me and took me down on the bed. I was using all my strength now as if my life depended on this silly contest, but it was only my pride at stake. We tumbled over and fell on the floor with Waldo on top of me. He held my arms and as he tried to trap me with his legs I felt his erection and knew that was the end of any friendship that he had been hoping for.
As we lay on the bed catching our breath I said, “Waldo, there is something I need to know.”
“Let’s not talk now, Clay.”
“But I –”
“Let’s not spoil the night.” He jumped up and went to the kitchen.
I left that night convinced that Waldo was indeed trying to make a move on me. I never returned his phone calls after that and when he did eventually catch up with me after class and asked why, he could not believe my response.
“I just decided that I did not want to be in touch with you anymore.”
“Are you serious, Clay? Why?”
“I’m sorry. I thought I could tell you, but I’ll tell you one day, just not today.”
“All right.” I felt sorry for him for I knew I was hurting him and I hated it that feeling. “Or maybe I will e-mail you...”
He stormed off.
But I never did call nor e-mail Waldo. How could I tell him that I just was uncomfortable with a friendship with someone who was homosexual? I knew people who were homosexual but I never went out with them for I was afraid of being guilty by association. That’s the way it was on the island and I was not highly evolved enough to not let others’ opinion of me affect what I did and did not do.
I got up from the bed and went in search of Ryan. I needed to apologize to him and I needed to explain, but I could not find him anywhere.
