gay skins. For kids sleeping on the street,
there are showers and food, as well as
an Internet café and ways to have
fun, including movies and games.
Not all YouCenter clients are homeless.
Many have parents, the majority of whom
have no clue how to talk to their kids
about what it means to be gay.
Some of our teens haven’t yet confessed
their sexuality to anyone beyond
these walls. They come, looking for
answers, but more often, they come
in search of communion with people
like themselves. People like me, and
most of the staff. The great thing for
me is, I’m actually building friendships
with gay people who aren’t bartering
their bodies to survive. I almost feel . . .
Dare I think it, let alone say it out loud?
It’s only when I’m here, not at David’s,
not while sitting in a bar, waiting for
a “date.” Only here. Normal. There.
Thought it out loud. The last time I felt
anything close to this was so long ago
I didn’t know enough to consider myself
different. Once I did, however, it became
pretty much all I could think about.
I’m different. I’m weird. I’m damned.
One Excellent Thing
About volunteering at the YouCenter
is it doesn’t bother David at all, so not
only can I come here at will, I can also
use it as an excuse when Lydia calls.
Today, however, I’m really at the center,
and currently playing a game of pool
with Charlie, aka Charlene, who is not
only one pretty cute lesbian, she’s also
kicking my butt. “Hey, man. Who taught
you to shoot pool? I think I need a lesson.”
Bam! She sinks another one. My dad.
Back when we still used to talk. And . . .
Ka-blam! In goes the eight ball. Game
over. She looks up, smiling. Had enough?
“Hell, no. Rack ’em up, woman.
But I get to go first this time.”
Sure. Like it will do any good. She dances
around the table, collecting balls from
the pockets. “I don’t talk to my dad, either,”
I tell her, drawing a bead on my break.
You don’t talk to him, or he won’t talk
to you? She watches me spectacularly
miss the shot. Don’t choke up on the cue
so much. You shoot like a girl, by the way.
That makes me laugh. “I want to shoot
just like you do, and you’re a girl.”
Some people would argue with that
observation. And don’t change the subject.
“Fine. My dad kicked me out last year,
two months before I graduated, in fact.
So instead of finishing high school,
I ran off to Las Vegas with my partner
at the time. . . .” No need to confess
the lurid particulars. “Now, Dad refuses
to talk to me. I’ve tried calling several
times. He asks if I’ve decided I’m straight,
and when I can’t tell him yes, he suggests
a heart-to-heart with God, and hangs up.”
I’m sorry. My parents, at least, will let
me stay until graduation. We don’t converse
much, but we quit talking before I came
out. You’re not from Vegas, then?
I shake my head. “Indiana born and
raised right there on the farm . . .”
The last word lifts a cloud of nostalgia.
Were the crops good this year? I tilled
the fields right before I left. Did Dad
get the harvest in by himself okay?
I have to stop thinking about home.
“But is anyone actually from Vegas?”
Charlie raises her hand. Yup. Believe
it or not, one or two of us came into this
world right here in Sin City. It’s funny,
because everyone assumes anyone living
here must be liberal and morally bankrupt.
Well, they haven’t met my dad, who’s about
the most conservative asshole who ever
lived. Not one hundred percent sure
about his morals, but I think he’s got
at least a few left intact. How about you?
What Is She Asking?
“How about me, what?
Do you mean, am I liberal?
Or morally bankrupt?”
Her answer is a massive shrug.
Okay, then. I have to think
about how to respond. Let’s see.
Gay? Makes me a liberal,
at least in Indiana, where
leaning left is not exactly
celebrated. Gun rights? Used to
go hunting with my dad, and
target shooting with a black
powder rifle kind of turns me
on. Probably conservative.
Enjoys a good buzz?
Could go either way.
“Politically, I suppose I’m
a white line kind of guy. . . .”
Oops. Freudian slip. “Uh,
meaning middle of the road.
Call me an Independent, I guess,
not that I’m registered to vote.”
She bristles. You are eighteen,
yes? Because, left, right or
“middle of the road,” you have
a voice, and damn it, we need
more queer voices shouting
that we won’t be ignored, and while
we might be underrepresented,
we’re no less consequential
than all those straight, white
evangelical voters who somehow
believe they matter more than
anyone who doesn’t look or think
or dissect biblical scriptures
exactly the way they do. Get it?
“Jeez, Charlie, catch your breath
before you turn blue. I know
you’re right. I just haven’t gotten
around to it, but I promise I will.”
Passionate
That word describes Charlene
Tate, and it’s only one reason
I like her so much. Maybe
the biggest one is because
she likes me, and has zero
ulterior motive for palling
around with me. It’s been a long
time since I’ve had a friend, and
now I second-guess myself. “Hey,
Charlie. We’re friends, aren’t we?”
She glances up from the table,
confused. Well, sure. Why?
You’re not going to ask if you
can borrow money, are you?
“Do you have any?” God,
she’s funny. “Just kidding.
No, I was just thinking how
nice it is to make a new friend.
Then it struck me that you
might not feel the same way.”
Especially Not
If she actually knew everything
about me. Which brings us back
to moral bankruptcy. Who am I
really? Indiana Seth, or the Seth
I’ve forced myself to become?
I realize suddenly that Charlie
is standing there, waiting, hands
on her hips, as if I missed something
important. “I’m sorry. Lost in
my thoughts. What did you say?”
I said friends are hard to come by,
so I’m happy we met, as long as you
r
ealize I’m pretty much always broke.
So . . . what were you thinking about?
I retreat again into half-truths.
“Unlikely friendships. Chance
meetings. Getting my butt whupped
at pool by a girl. And home.” That
is the complete truth, and I know
I’ve got to try harder to reach Dad.
Unlike Charlie
My wallet is comfortably fat,
so I invite her to get a bite with
me, which turns out to be a good
thing because by the time I get home
the Friday night festivities have already
kicked into gear. This time, the party
is relatively small—mostly the cast
of David’s new show, I’m guessing,
plus significant others and hangers-on.
Immediately, I climb out of my “regular
gay kid” disguise, move into the role
of party boy. As usual, David holds court
poolside. I grab a drink from the bar,
head over to say hello, working hard
to look like I absolutely belong here
after questioning that idea for the past
several hours. David’s entourage
consists of dancers—men and women,
and all stunning. Handpicked as much
for beauty as for the talent they must
possess to have made it this far
in such a cutthroat market.
The show’s producer is also here,
so David is distracted, entertaining
his moneyman, and that’s all good
by me. I let him know I’m home,
withdraw to a quiet Adirondack chair,
away from the revelry, where I can
better meditate with my bourbon.
I’m looking up at the auburn night
sky, wondering where the hell the stars
are hiding, when a husky voice behind
me inquires, Want some company,
or would you rather be alone?
He materializes from the shadows,
and I think he must be a Greek god,
with copper skin and topaz eyes
and soft waves of burnt-sienna hair.
“Please.” I gesture toward the adjacent
chair. “Make yourself comfortable.
I’m Seth.” I offer my hand, and
when he accepts it, we both smile
at the exchange of energy. Great
to meet you, Seth. I’m Micah. You
sure I’m not interrupting communion
with the universe or something?
“Nothing as lofty as that, and I’m
happy to have someone to talk to
besides God, who I’m pretty sure
disowned me a while ago, anyway.”
Oh, I doubt that. God tends to favor
the most beautiful of his creations.
I’ve never before experienced
instant mutual attraction, but I’m
pretty sure that’s what this is, unless . . .
I don’t want to sound paranoid.
How do I ask? “So, how do you
know David? Are you in his show?”
I am. I’m a principal. There’s pride
in his voice. What about you?
We Talk
Until the party breaks up—hours.
Micah’s twenty, and from California,
where it’s mostly okay to be gay.
He’s confident. Strong. Straight-up
gorgeous, and for whatever reason,
he’s impressed by me, despite
the fact I have no real direction.
You’re only eighteen. You don’t have
to know where you’re headed yet.
Maybe I can help you find your passion.
Little doubt about that, at least
if we get the chance, and I’m certain
we will. The chemistry between us
is palpable. I’ll have to be careful
that it escapes David’s notice. I wait
for him to go inside before inviting
Micah back into the shadows.
I haven’t kissed a boy, lips on lips,
since Loren. But I’m kissing one
now, and it’s soaked with promise.
A Poem by Kyra Lang
Into the Shadows
That’s where Whitney
needs to fade,
like the vampire she is.
People might think
it cruel that I can find
no
sympathy for the sister
who was once my playmate,
if never quite my friend.
But, while I do
hope
she can claw her way
out of the pit she jumped
into, eyes wide open,
I see little need
for
offering my hand,
only to have it bitten
again and again and again.
Whitney’s
a hungry bloodsucker,
willing to drain this family
dry in her misdirected search
for love, and any expectation of
redemption
dissolves like a rainbow
in burgeoning sun
when I look into her eyes.
Whitney
One Thing About Rehab
You’re pretty much guaranteed
to meet new dope connections,
in case that happens to interest
you, considering why you’re here.
The funny thing is, if you want
illicit substances, you don’t have
to go very far. They’re on-site.
Rumor has it they come in with
one or two members of the staff,
but more often on our weekly
Sunday visiting day. And when
they arrive that way, they might
be hidden in flower wrappers
or the hem of someone’s skirt.
Mostly they’re pills, but I hear
every now and again the Lady
will make an appearance. I can
leave the pills alone, but I’m afraid
if I see heroin I’ll give in to temptation.
Of course, I’d need money, at least
after the first time, and I have no
available cash. So maybe I’ll be
okay. I really don’t want to take
that ride again, but I’m not the strongest
person in the world, and just thinking
about dropping down the shaft
into purgatory makes my mouth water.
I’ve Tried
Talking to Naomi about it,
in fact asked for a meeting
today to discuss it specifically,
but she can’t bring herself to
agree that there could reasonably
be a problem. Her response:
Have you actually seen drugs
in this facility? No? Then I suggest
you keep quiet about that possibility
until you do. We work extremely
hard to maintain a drug-free
program, and even a hint of
impropriety could make our job
a lot more difficult. Understand?
“Sure.” I say it, knowing that’s
what she wants to hear. But when
her expression turns smug, I change
my mind. “It’s just, I’m worried
if someone offers me powdered
goods, I won’t be able to say no.”
That’s why you’re here—to learn
how to say no. What happens
when you leave? Do you think
all drugs will magically disappear?
You have to want to stay clean,
and you have to reach deep down
&
nbsp; inside to find strength of character.
Let’s give you some tools to do that.
A Half Hour Later
I’ve got “tools in my recovery
toolbox,” as Naomi put it.
They sound pretty basic to me,
and I’m relatively sure I could
have written this list on my own:
One: Find a trusted acquaintance
I can confide in, especially
when I feel like backsliding.
Programs like Alcoholics or
Narcotics Anonymous would call
this person my “sponsor.”
Two: Join one or both said programs.
Three: Avoid old friends who might
tempt me down the rabbit hole.
Four: Make new, wholesome friends,
who’d never, ever use and abuse.
Five: Work very hard on rebuilding
relationships with my family.
Six: Keep in mind the times I’ll
be more likely to succumb—when
I’m tired, lonely, hungry, or angry.
Seven: Find fun in simple things.
Dancing. Biking. Swinging.
Singing. Long walks on the beach.
There Are Problems
With all seven tools.
One: Who the hell might
that be? I don’t trust one single
soul on this pathetic planet.
Two: Sit around confessing
my history and feelings to strangers,
most of whom are just as messed
up as I am? Not going to happen.
Three: If I do that, I won’t have
any friends at all. Everyone
I’m comfortable around hangs
out through the looking glass.
Four: See three.
Five: Rebuilding relationships
is a two-way street. Only Mom
seems interested in reconstruction.
Six: Even if I force myself to
eat three massive meals every
day and get the requisite eight
hours of sleep, I’m almost always
lonely, and regularly pissed off.
Seven: Long walks on the beach
will forevermore remind me
of how very much I miss Bryn.
Not Sure
How it’s possible
to miss the person
who brought me down
in such a profound way.
He lied to me, and not
only that, but he lied
about loving me, and
that is unforgiveable.
He used me, almost
all the way up. Pimped
me out for his own
selfish purposes. Hurt