Chapter 13

We arrived at school, without speaking another word, about 15 minutes early. Timothy suggested we go sit in the auditorium, which is where students typically congregated before class started (at least if they weren’t the sort to hang around outside the school entrance smoking, a fairly large contingent in those days). We sat in an empty area, in adjacent seats, and our uncharacteristic silence persisted.

Ordinarily, sitting together here, we would have been in animated conversation about any number of interesting topics. Today, I thought, there could be only one topic to talk about, and neither of us was up to it.

Finally, Timothy said, hesitantly, “Rob...” I looked at him expectantly. He looked straight into my eyes as if searching for something there. “Hey, man,” I said. “I’m glad about ... about, you know. I liked it.” He looked relieved, but also as if he hadn’t found exactly what he was looking for in my reply, or my eyes. “I mean it,” I continued. “I hope we can see each other again soon.”

Timothy turned his head up almost, I realized, as if he were expecting a kiss, which shocked me. What did he think, that I was going to kiss him here in the auditorium, in front of hundreds of people? But I saved the moment by clasping one of his hands in mine. He looked happy, put his other hand over mine.

We sat there for the remaining time, holding hands, out of view of the crowd. Even the slight physical contact felt good. I moved my arm so that our forearms were touching, remembering the many times before that I’d felt a little excited by that slight, accidental contact, and even contrived to make it happen more often. Well, that sure panned out, I thought. Finally, I said, “Well ... better get to class.” We let go, gathered up our backpacks, and trudged up to the stairs to our classes on the third floor.

At lunch, hanging out with the usual crowd at the Ambrosia, Timothy was quiet and leaned up against me the whole time in the booth. I had the impression he wanted me to put my arm around him, but I couldn’t imagine doing that in front of all of our friends. It wasn’t that I was ashamed of being affectionate with Timothy, I reasoned. It’s just ... the others wouldn’t understand, that’s all.

In our social group couples frequently made out in public, and I’d even seen two boys, although not in our circle, who were “out of the closet” as gay, kissing in the auditorium. We were all sophisticated 80s New York City teens on the Lower East Side — we knew what being gay was, we knew gay people, it wasn’t a big deal, even if we joked about it sometimes we would never hold it against anyone.

And yet, and yet. I wasn’t gay, this was different, even if I was attracted to Timothy, even if I liked him a great deal, even if we had given each other orgasms just a few hours ago ... I tried to rationalize why I felt uncomfortable even with Timothy leaning against me here as we drank our Cokes. It was a private thing, that was all. It was none of the others’ business.

And yet ... as we walked the two blocks back to school, lagging a little behind the rest of the group, Timothy’s hand brushed mine repeatedly. I knew he wanted to hold hands and in the end, just before we got there, out of sight of the rest of our friends who had just turned the corner, I thought what the hell and clasped his hand. It gave me a weird and slightly excited feeling, as if I were being very transgressive with this insignificant little act. I could feel myself getting aroused. Nevertheless, I let his hand go to catch the door as we arrived at the building, and didn’t take it again when we were inside.

That afternoon we met after school, on Timothy’s suggestion, to hang out a little. I called my parents from a payphone to say I’d be home later than usual; they were a bit miffed that I hadn’t called before staying over the night before, but didn’t object. (When I look back with today’s eyes it seems surprising that our parents were so casual about my not calling for so long, but that was what it was like in the 80s. They’d known I was with a friend the previous night; that was apparently enough for them not to worry, although they would have preferred that I call.)

Timothy and I walked over to the Village. At some point he reached for my hand and I allowed him to take it. The streets seemed anonymous enough, and besides there was nothing strange in that neighborhood about seeing two people of any combination of sexes holding hands. It felt a bit like when Lily and I had come down here to shop and, afterwards, walked around hand-in-hand like a couple: then, too, it’d seemed somehow safe, because it was unlikely we’d be seen by anyone who knew us as brother and sister.

Of course, the chances that someone would recognize Timothy and me here downtown, not far from school, were much higher, but, mentally, I shrugged: que sera, sera, as my mom would say. Timothy looked happy and I was enjoying the little bit of contact too. It was nothing like walking with Lily, but I liked Timothy, liked walking hand-in-hand with him, liked that it evidently made him happy too.

As we walked down Broadway, passing Canal Jeans, I thought about that recent excursion and the disaster that, indirectly, it had precipitated. It had been several weeks since the “catastrophe,” as I’d started to think of it, and I’d spent much of that time feeling hollowed out. Of course Lily and I had stayed as close as we could; we’d sit side by side on the living room couch after school, pressing our bodies together as much as we dared, talking in a low voice, and flinching guiltily away from each other if we heard footsteps.

At night, before we went to our rooms, we’d hug each other tight in the hallway, and sometimes we’d dare to risk an open-mouthed kiss for a few seconds if our parents were in the kitchen or living room, far enough that we’d hear them coming. And once Lily, fresh out of her bath and wearing a long bathrobe, let it fall open in front of me, and I looked at her naked body for what seemed like an eternity frozen in time, then quickly kissed her breasts and hugged her, my arms around her waist under the robe; as we embraced, I lifted my t-shirt up so as at least to feel a few brief moments of close contact.

But it didn’t help. Years of sleeping in each other’s arms every night had made it the central fact of my life. Sure, giving each other orgasms had been wonderful, but I’d been able to bear losing that, had returned to masturbation (and assumed Lily had done the same). Now I had even found an outlet with Timothy. (I realized I’d been getting hard, thinking about Lily naked, holding Timothy’s hand.)