Remembering Mike R.
Remembering Mike R.
(As this blog is Google searchable, I'm not including any last names.)
Mike was the first “out” gay guy my own age I ever met. And he scared the shit out of me. He was sweet, naive and a little scandalous. This is the Mike I knew at 17 and 18:
I first met him we were both 17. I’d basically run away from home for a summer. Him and a few other friends were squatting in a large, vacant apartment and invited me to share space. There were showers, but we had to be quiet and we couldn’t be there during the day. I sensed very limited tenancy for myself and only slept there 3 or 4 nights. Their numbers increased and they became bolder. I think they were in that apartment for a couple months until the law threw them out.
A few of the squatters got another place. Actually Mike did. He had a big heart and often let people take advantage of him. By the time I got there, we were 7 in a 2-bedroom apartment. I thought his being 17 and having his own place was pretty cool. I felt sorry for him having a bunch of freeloaders there, some of them kicking down rent sporadically. I pictured him coming from an impoverished background, stuggling to make a decent life for himself. That wasn't quite the case.
I found out Mike’s family lived in an upscale neighborhood called Las Encinas and that he hadn’t come from poverty or anything like that. I asked him why he left home, “why do you think?”( I did get to know his sister later when she became my landlady.)
Mike was a hard worker, frugal, and was always able so sock away a little money. At 16, a Taco Bell fryer with a defective wheel fell onto him, boiling grease burning his torso. The description of the accident was both tragic and hilarious, Mike always laughing when it came to the part of him getting out of his uniform, stripping naked in record time. He had a gnarly scar covering one side of his rib cage. If I remember, he’d probably been part of the Jack-In-The-Box crew...Shirlee, Billy, Mark and Lori, and of course the exotic, gorgeous T**** brothers, David and Tracy.
One night I answered the door and an OLD man was standing there, asking for Mike. In retrospect, he was probably 40. He was balding, had a paunch and drove a beautiful maroon Jaguar XJ6. His name was Rodney. When Mike came in MUCH later, I asked him how his date went. “He was gross,” he said.
When I finally left home for good, March of my senior year in High School, his place on Sombrilla Avenue was taken over by stoners. I guess technically I was one of them, although I only stayed a month and provided lots of pot. My “room” was the dining area, a Porsche poster defining my space with nothing but a sleeping bag on the floor. I kept everything else in the trunk of my black lowrider. I looked forward to the times Mike would make a guest appearance in his own place. The atmosphere didn’t seem complete without him and I preferred his company to that of anyone else’s.
My own sexual confusion was more obvious to others than I thought. Apparently it had been discussed at length in the group, Mike assuring them I was probably gay. Our friend Shirlee told me all this later. One night, everyone was gone from the apartment. I later decided this was deliberate as the place was NEVER empty. As soon as I walked through the door, Mike put on Janet Jackson’s “Control” and did a whirling dervish dance, using the whole floor. I remember him shaking his ass in perfect rhythm to “got-to-have-a-lot.” Needless to say, his efforts at “getting me” as he’d told everyone else he was going to do...failed. He reported this to everyone else, who reported to me that he’d reported it. He still insisted I was gay. He was of course right. Even if I’d wanted to, I knew if it happened he’d tell everyone. I wasn’t ready for anything like that.
The group sent another creation called Thomas, from Santa Maria to “get” me. Thomas said I had a gay man’s voice. I’m not exactly a truck driver but...I never thought my sandpaper baritone was queeny. Thomas did. Shirlee said “he’s never been turned down.” Wore more makeup than Little Richard. I remember pounds of white pancake and what was basically a Boy George dress. Compared to Thomas, Mike was scrumptious. Not to say he wasn’t cute, because he was. Did I fuck Thomas? God no. Although I didn’t want either one, I sure as hell would have picked Mike over Thomas.
A week or so after Mike’s failed seduction, me and one other resident burned his gay porno mags in the sink. I apologized later, saying they weren’t mine and I had no right to burn them. He accepted my apology. I didn’t know how else to deal with what had, and hadn’t happened. I felt like it was a dent in my own masculinity that he’d even tried.
At the same time, I envied him. For all the taunting and degradation, he had balls of steel and held his head high, being exactly who he was, not a pussy like me who hid behind a veil of drugs and feigned heterosexuality. I admired him for that. Often, when his name was mentioned, the word “fag" accompanied it. I hated those people for it. I also joined them a few times and hated myself for it. Mike was exactly who he was, making no effort to hide it. He was someone who didn’t know how to be any other way.
He did “get” a friend of mine, someone I’d been very close with, unnaturally close. “They booty busted in a tree house, ask Mike.” I did and he confirmed it. Apparently he’d told everyone who would listen but it was old news when I came along.
One day, Mike showed up in a bright orange Ford Escort with matching orange plaid interior. He’d gotten his Taco Bell settlement! He also announced he was moving away to become a “Stewardess.” He told me he was excited to “get out of this town” and start a new life. I’d never seen him happier. I told him I wished he could take me with him. That was 1987. With 30 or 40 grand in his pocket (I think it was something like that) he headed off to (city I don’t remember) to become a flight attendant.
I’m not one of those people to claim allegiance to someone because they’ve passed on. We weren’t good friends but we instantly bonded. He knew what I was and there was no way I could hide it from him. I denied it, which was insulting because we both knew I was gay. Although he didn’t know it, he was my first step. “Kids nowadays” don’t have it as difficult as we did.
As brazen as he was sometimes, he was also sweet and naive and harmless. His effervescence was contagious, bringing life into the room when he entered. He was one of those people you really missed when he wasn’t there, enjoyed his company, and knew that if he was gone a while, he’d always pop up. And we'd always pick up wherever we left off. The great thing with Mike was I didn't have to explain myself. After I got through his...initiation, I always breathed a sigh of relief hanging out with him.
It hurts to think of Mike enduring prolonged suffering. To me, he’ll forever be 18, the cute blond boy who’d struck out on his own. I hope between then and the end he had some fun. I wish I would have had the chance to see him again, saying "you were right, I'm a big fag." I would have liked that. Although we weren't technically close and I didnt know him for years and years...I loved him.
(As this blog is Google searchable, I'm not including any last names.)
Mike was the first “out” gay guy my own age I ever met. And he scared the shit out of me. He was sweet, naive and a little scandalous. This is the Mike I knew at 17 and 18:
I first met him we were both 17. I’d basically run away from home for a summer. Him and a few other friends were squatting in a large, vacant apartment and invited me to share space. There were showers, but we had to be quiet and we couldn’t be there during the day. I sensed very limited tenancy for myself and only slept there 3 or 4 nights. Their numbers increased and they became bolder. I think they were in that apartment for a couple months until the law threw them out.
A few of the squatters got another place. Actually Mike did. He had a big heart and often let people take advantage of him. By the time I got there, we were 7 in a 2-bedroom apartment. I thought his being 17 and having his own place was pretty cool. I felt sorry for him having a bunch of freeloaders there, some of them kicking down rent sporadically. I pictured him coming from an impoverished background, stuggling to make a decent life for himself. That wasn't quite the case.
I found out Mike’s family lived in an upscale neighborhood called Las Encinas and that he hadn’t come from poverty or anything like that. I asked him why he left home, “why do you think?”( I did get to know his sister later when she became my landlady.)
Mike was a hard worker, frugal, and was always able so sock away a little money. At 16, a Taco Bell fryer with a defective wheel fell onto him, boiling grease burning his torso. The description of the accident was both tragic and hilarious, Mike always laughing when it came to the part of him getting out of his uniform, stripping naked in record time. He had a gnarly scar covering one side of his rib cage. If I remember, he’d probably been part of the Jack-In-The-Box crew...Shirlee, Billy, Mark and Lori, and of course the exotic, gorgeous T**** brothers, David and Tracy.
One night I answered the door and an OLD man was standing there, asking for Mike. In retrospect, he was probably 40. He was balding, had a paunch and drove a beautiful maroon Jaguar XJ6. His name was Rodney. When Mike came in MUCH later, I asked him how his date went. “He was gross,” he said.
When I finally left home for good, March of my senior year in High School, his place on Sombrilla Avenue was taken over by stoners. I guess technically I was one of them, although I only stayed a month and provided lots of pot. My “room” was the dining area, a Porsche poster defining my space with nothing but a sleeping bag on the floor. I kept everything else in the trunk of my black lowrider. I looked forward to the times Mike would make a guest appearance in his own place. The atmosphere didn’t seem complete without him and I preferred his company to that of anyone else’s.
My own sexual confusion was more obvious to others than I thought. Apparently it had been discussed at length in the group, Mike assuring them I was probably gay. Our friend Shirlee told me all this later. One night, everyone was gone from the apartment. I later decided this was deliberate as the place was NEVER empty. As soon as I walked through the door, Mike put on Janet Jackson’s “Control” and did a whirling dervish dance, using the whole floor. I remember him shaking his ass in perfect rhythm to “got-to-have-a-lot.” Needless to say, his efforts at “getting me” as he’d told everyone else he was going to do...failed. He reported this to everyone else, who reported to me that he’d reported it. He still insisted I was gay. He was of course right. Even if I’d wanted to, I knew if it happened he’d tell everyone. I wasn’t ready for anything like that.
The group sent another creation called Thomas, from Santa Maria to “get” me. Thomas said I had a gay man’s voice. I’m not exactly a truck driver but...I never thought my sandpaper baritone was queeny. Thomas did. Shirlee said “he’s never been turned down.” Wore more makeup than Little Richard. I remember pounds of white pancake and what was basically a Boy George dress. Compared to Thomas, Mike was scrumptious. Not to say he wasn’t cute, because he was. Did I fuck Thomas? God no. Although I didn’t want either one, I sure as hell would have picked Mike over Thomas.
A week or so after Mike’s failed seduction, me and one other resident burned his gay porno mags in the sink. I apologized later, saying they weren’t mine and I had no right to burn them. He accepted my apology. I didn’t know how else to deal with what had, and hadn’t happened. I felt like it was a dent in my own masculinity that he’d even tried.
At the same time, I envied him. For all the taunting and degradation, he had balls of steel and held his head high, being exactly who he was, not a pussy like me who hid behind a veil of drugs and feigned heterosexuality. I admired him for that. Often, when his name was mentioned, the word “fag" accompanied it. I hated those people for it. I also joined them a few times and hated myself for it. Mike was exactly who he was, making no effort to hide it. He was someone who didn’t know how to be any other way.
He did “get” a friend of mine, someone I’d been very close with, unnaturally close. “They booty busted in a tree house, ask Mike.” I did and he confirmed it. Apparently he’d told everyone who would listen but it was old news when I came along.
One day, Mike showed up in a bright orange Ford Escort with matching orange plaid interior. He’d gotten his Taco Bell settlement! He also announced he was moving away to become a “Stewardess.” He told me he was excited to “get out of this town” and start a new life. I’d never seen him happier. I told him I wished he could take me with him. That was 1987. With 30 or 40 grand in his pocket (I think it was something like that) he headed off to (city I don’t remember) to become a flight attendant.
I’m not one of those people to claim allegiance to someone because they’ve passed on. We weren’t good friends but we instantly bonded. He knew what I was and there was no way I could hide it from him. I denied it, which was insulting because we both knew I was gay. Although he didn’t know it, he was my first step. “Kids nowadays” don’t have it as difficult as we did.
As brazen as he was sometimes, he was also sweet and naive and harmless. His effervescence was contagious, bringing life into the room when he entered. He was one of those people you really missed when he wasn’t there, enjoyed his company, and knew that if he was gone a while, he’d always pop up. And we'd always pick up wherever we left off. The great thing with Mike was I didn't have to explain myself. After I got through his...initiation, I always breathed a sigh of relief hanging out with him.
It hurts to think of Mike enduring prolonged suffering. To me, he’ll forever be 18, the cute blond boy who’d struck out on his own. I hope between then and the end he had some fun. I wish I would have had the chance to see him again, saying "you were right, I'm a big fag." I would have liked that. Although we weren't technically close and I didnt know him for years and years...I loved him.
Comments
Post a Comment