Free Boy Crazy: Coming Out Erotica by Unknown Page A

look down at the body beneath him, I can see who it is. It’s me. I see my own face. And I know now as I did not know then, couldn’t know then, that boys like me can love.
     

ARMY BRAT
     
    Dale Chase
     
     
     
     
     
     
    M y closet stretched from Texas to Germany to Oklahoma to Virginia and so many other places that it often seemed more like a net than a closet, trapping me while letting me see what I couldn’t have—and who I couldn’t have. I learned early on not to fight the net, to keep to my given role, knowing one day I’d be set free.
     
    Standing guard was my father, the Major. Determined to make a man of me, he ignored my musical bent, my love of books and dislike of sports, and went into a tirade when I chose college in L.A. instead of going to West Point. The scene to end all scenes, it was my first open defiance, Mother crying in the background as I told the old man I wanted no part of the military.
     
    He was essentially a good man but narrow in both mind and body so he saw my choice as betrayal. That he sank to name-calling was no surprise, and I stood like one of his soldiers and let him deride my quiet nature and cello playing because insults were nothing new. It was when he called me a little faggot that I broke into a smile.
     
    “Wipe that grin off your face, mister!” he commanded.
     
    “But sir, you’ve finally gotten something right.”
     
    My comment was so far afield he couldn’t understand at first, and even when he started to consider the reality, I saw him hastily attempt to reinforce his crumbling certainty. “Don’t you tell me that shit. I won’t have it,” he bellowed while I kept smiling. Confidence sprang to life in me, net suddenly gaping wide, all because of what he’d said.
     
    “It’s true,” I told him. “I’m gay.”
     
    Already flushed, he went a deeper shade of red and zeroed in on me like something in his rifle sight. “The hell you are!”
     
    “I don’t ask you to accept it,” I said, “but it is what it is. And I am what I am.”
     
    His hand drew back into a fist because insolence wasn’t tolerated, but he stopped himself, probably because I stood my ground. I was empowered now, Superman ready to fight for truth because it was out there and he couldn’t put it back inside.
     
    “Get out!” he said through clenched jaw.
     
    Mother let out a wail. “Shut up, Frances,” he yelled. “Your precious son is a fucking faggot and I won’t have him in my house!”
     
    I gave him a salute, clicked my heels, and walked out into the rest of my life.
     
    He knew nothing of my musical scholarship to UCLA. Mother had been sole parental respondent to inquiries from the Goodman Foundation, which was pretty much the pattern for my entire life. She was the one who encouraged me to follow my interests, who shared my successes and consoled me through my failures. I think she suspected I was gay because I hadn’t dated but she never pressed, probably fearful of the scene she had just witnessed.
     
    I slept in my car that first night, out along a deserted stretch of highway far from the base. Curled into the backseat, I felt only relief because the worst was over. Next day I went back for my cello and my stuff, packed the car, said good-bye to Mother, and left.
     
    I spent the summer making my way west, keeping much to myself but still enjoying freedom from the Major’s command. Along the way I saw the sights and a couple of times was offered sex by unappealing guys at truck stops. As much as I wanted to pop my cherry, I wanted a hottie to do it.
     
    So I saw the Grand Canyon, the Colorado River, the Imperial Valley, and the Mojave Desert before landing in Los Angeles with its freeways reaching out in all directions. Driving along, it seemed like the good life went on forever.
     
    I soon made my way to the beach, where I zoned out for a few days, then took in the sights: downtown, Hollywood, West L.A., and finally Westwood. This little community