Educating Simon (36 page)

Two weeks. It's been two whole weeks since my last journal entry. I'm not sure whether exams at St. Boniface seem more horrendous than they ever did at Swithin because this is my last year before uni, or because it's a more rigorous programme. I'm unbelievably glad I got extensions on those papers that I'll need to work on over the Christmas holiday.

I had an acceptance letter this morning from Princeton. It's good news, of course, though my hope is that I'll be in England again in a matter of months. I truly feel that's where I belong.

Arria is a pet in every way she can be. Everyone loves her, although she seems not to be terribly fond of the housecleaners and hides from them whenever they appear. She's a sweet cat, and on some level she knows how good she has it now. Persie is lots of fun to watch as she approaches cat stewardship so earnestly. I have to say, she can offer a cat the one thing it values most after food and comfortable shelter: consistency. They're great together.

 

I called Kay every day after her suicide attempt, until I'd seen her again and was convinced she was out of the woods. Her mother was as good as her word, and Kay's been very nicely dressed in gender-appropriate clothing each time I've seen her. Her hair is getting longer, and yesterday she informed me she'd been to a “real” stylist. The cut looked great on her.

Her mom hired a replacement for Colleen, a formidable woman in her fifties who wants to be called Mrs. Fife. She's not the friendliest person, but she treats Kay well and seems to accept Kay's situation completely, which makes her just fine in my book.

Last week when I went to work with Kay, she was far from her usual bouncy self, and she was doing so badly at spelling that I finally asked her what was wrong.

“I might have to change schools.”

“Why is that?”

“The other kids are being really awful. They're teasing me, and they won't call me by my right name. Even Andrew won't talk to me anymore.”

“Your teacher doesn't protect you?”

“No one can protect me, Simon. No one! There's even a problem over which bathroom I can use. They told me to use the boys', but when I try the boys push me and tear my clothes.”

I could see tears welling up in her eyes. “What if you use the girls' room?”

“I tried. But the other girls screamed, and I got in trouble and had to stay after school. They made Mommy come and get me.”

“But—doesn't the girls' room have booths? No one actually sees anything, do they?”

“It doesn't matter. They still won't let me in.”

Honestly, this seemed to me like much ado about nothing. What on earth were they afraid Kay would do in the girls' room, break down the door of an occupied booth? And then what?

“Mommy's trying to get them to designate one of the restrooms for transgender kids, but no one else there is like me. I don't think they'll do it. And it won't help anything else.”

Visions of the boys taunting Kay on the playground, and of the girls forming a militant cadre to keep her out, jostled for attention in my brain.

“So if you went to another school, how would that help?”

“At least they wouldn't ever have known me as Toby. I could use the girls' room, and no one would know.”

“Have you talked with Dean or anyone from one of the support groups?”

“Mommy's talking to people.”

“What's the status of the hormone-treatment route?”

She brightened visibly. “Mommy set up an appointment for January ninth. I can't wait!”

“And they'll be able to tell you when you might start, and what the process will look like? How long it will take, that sort of thing?”

“Well, first they make you talk to a psychologist. I've been reading about it. They want to make sure you know what you want before they start the treatments. And they start with reversible things first. It's going to take a while.”

What was going through my mind, and what I didn't dare say aloud, was to wonder how the hell this could happen to someone. How could nature have gotten it so screwed up? Why should anyone have to go through this just to be who they are?

I know that my own biology supports my sexual orientation. I can't force a natural sexual response to women any more than straight guys can force themselves to be attracted to me. Doesn't mean I couldn't have sex with a girl if I wanted to, but it would be completely unnatural for me.

Once again, I tried imagining myself trapped in a female body and just couldn't get there. The thought of not having a cock and balls, the idea of a hole where there shouldn't be one, the feeling of having breasts where my chest is flat—it made me shudder. My mind refused to let me go there, even in my imagination. What must this profound disconnect be like for Kay?

It made me want to throttle anyone who would ridicule her, who would make this horrible, horrible situation even worse. And all I could do was pray that this process would be complete enough for Kay in time for her to take physical ed for girls when she got a little older, where she'd likely have to deal with open changing rooms and gang showers. Though I had no idea what the surgical options were like. Whether she'd lose her male equipment that soon.

Before I left, we exchanged Christmas gifts. She gave me a book on Scottish fold cats, beautifully photographed. I gave her something that sent her positively over the moon: a single strand of black pearls. She shrieked; she cried; she bounced; she nearly swooned. I think the pearls were a hit.

 

Maddy and I had a great time at the holiday dinner. She wore a simple, elegant, steel-blue gown that was perfection on her, and I'd bought her a huge white orchid wrist corsage. Her hair was piled on her head in an apparently casual style that I know was fussed over by someone who knew what they were about; it looked amazing. We danced a lot, and maybe it was because she was having a great time and just being genuinely herself, but a couple of other guys asked her to dance as well. Watching her during one of these dances, I considered what I might do starting in January to be at least a little more friendly, to at least a few of the other students. But then girls started asking me to dance. The only times I've danced with anyone were during enforced lessons at school, so this was a new experience for me.

And then something truly astonishing happened. Daren Bateman, a boy I'd noticed and admired from a distance, asked me to dance. It had never occurred to me he was anything but straight as a lance—which is why I haven't mentioned him. I refuse to fall for another Graeme.

Daren took my hand and led me onto the dance floor. I think my face must have been flushed the whole time, and we did get a few surprised looks, but no one gave us any grief. The first dance was a fast rhythm. The second was slow, and he held me close.

Maddy was a dear about it. She could have been cheesed off, and not unreasonably, but I'm sure it helped that one of the boys who had asked her to dance is someone she would love to see more of.

As I saw her home, she said, “Did you know Daren was gay?”

“He might be bisexual. But no; didn't have a clue.”

“He might ask you out. Or I suppose you could ask him!”

“Perhaps.” I changed the subject, and she took the hint. All in all, it was a great evening. And but for Maddy, I would have overlooked it.

 

Luther called this past Monday night. It was an interesting conversation, which opened with an apology to me. “You were right, Simon. It was tacky of me to set up two dates the same day. Not even day and night. The same day. Thanks for calling me on it.”

“You're welcome, I guess. Has Stephanie forgiven you?”

He sighed. “No. Pity, too; we had some good times together. And I'm not talking about sex. Which brings me to the other reason for my call. Would you let me take you to a holiday party?”

My brain froze. But he waited until I said, “What kind of a holiday party?”

“It would be a little like the one where I met you, only not as elegant. Someone at school is having one in his apartment. I promise to be on my best behaviour.”

“So harking back to your earlier comment, this would be a good time but no sex?”

He let a couple of beats go by. “It can be whatever you want it to be. I'm not expecting sex. If you want it, you feisty redhead, it's yours. I'm happy just having you go to the party with me.”

“I guess you can't be much more reasonable than that.”

“You inspire me to be reasonable. Open to suggestion, but reasonable.”

I tried to stop grinning so he wouldn't hear that in my tone. “When is this sexless party?”

He laughed. “This Saturday. It's not a dinner party, though there will be finger food.”

“No Veuve, though, probably.”

“No. Though I am bringing wine so I don't have to drink beer.”

“Ah. That kind of party.”

“Yes, but good people. You'll come?”

I decided to give him another chance. There's a lot to be said for honesty.

 

St. Boniface closed for Christmas break yesterday, and this afternoon Persie and Maxine took me to the Boston Public Library, the fulfilment of Persie's birthday present to me. She had identified several favourite art pieces, some paintings and some sculptures. The library has become her favourite place for an outing, because it has so many places where she can hunker down and hide for a bit if the need arises.

Back to work, now; those papers will not write themselves.

This entry is going to be all about Luther, I think. Because he's back in the picture for me, in a big way. The parameters haven't changed; still no commitment, no expectations, no exclusivity required. But the content . . .

The holiday party on Saturday, 22 December was pretty much as he had described it. I met him at a pizza place, we had a couple of slices, and then we walked to the flat where the party was taking place. It was quite a mixed crowd, nowhere near as gay-slanted as the one in the South End had been. But then, Luther is bisexual. I had decided against eyeliner and was glad of it; that kind of expression would have made me feel awkward here, where only the girls wore makeup. I wore the same clothes I'd worn to Luther's flat, except for my jacket, which was the shearling this time. Not only is it warmer, but also it seemed more appropriate for this crowd.

I got a lot of attention, partially because of my accent, but even more because of being with Luther; he seemed quite a favourite. I'd expected he'd drift about a bit and I'd be left to fend for myself part of the time, but he stayed with me almost every minute. There was some marijuana, and Luther smoked, but I didn't. The wine he'd brought was drinkable; nothing special. The real reason to be there was the crowd—full of fun, lots of witty exchanges, the occasional discussion of anything from the state of performance dance to Nietzsche's concept of the eternal recurrence of the universe to the best local rock band. I can't say that there seemed to be anything especially holiday-oriented about the party, though there was a decorated evergreen in one corner, and someone had provided a disgusting (to me, anyway) version of wassail.

Luther waited with me whilst I hailed a taxi to get home, standing so close to me that I could feel his body's warmth. We kissed a few times, never passionately, and this had the effect I think he wanted: It made me want him.

At home, after Graeme helped relieve me of the tension Luther had inspired, I sat in my window seat, lights off, gazing into the Boston night and thinking of Luther. He's honest, as Ned had told me. He's intelligent, thoughtful, and sexy as hell. If I wanted to have someone in my life to a limited extent, someone I could part from in a few months with some sadness but no regret, someone who would forever occupy a special place in my memory without any bitterness or any sense of “if only,” I probably couldn't do any better than Luther. The question is whether I want that or not. And then there's the question of sex.

Assuming we take things as far as they could go, does it matter to me that my first experiences will be with someone I like very much but don't love? Someone who likes but doesn't love me? Is the imbalance of his experience over my naïveté a good thing, or would I prefer to learn things with a partner who's my sexual peer?

And who would wear the condom?

I suppose it's a given that he would, the first time. After that? I'm not so sure.

 

After that party, I kept myself very busy getting through the assignments I'd been allowed to postpone, trying to deny to myself that I was starting to feel really anxious again about Oxford. Would I get even one offer?

Although I certainly thought about Luther from time to time, I didn't moon over him or wonder, “Will he call me?” It also didn't really occur to me to call him. So it was a pleasant surprise, nothing more, when he called on Thursday last week.

“You know, Red, you're allowed to call me sometime, if you like.”

I laughed. “Trust me, it's not fear of appearing forward that's kept me from it. It's all this bloody schoolwork. I've been swamped.”

“Well, do you think you could tear yourself away for a real treat?”

“Such as?”

“I've been invited to a New Year's Eve dinner dance. I'd been planning to go stag, but I thought since we both had so much fun last weekend I'd see if you were interested. It's formal; you'd need a tux.”

“I have a tux, as it happens. Just had it altered for a recent formal event. What colour gown are you wearing? I ask only so I can procure an appropriate corsage.”

His turn to laugh. “Is that a yes? Please say it is.”

“Let me just check my schedule.... Well, I do have something earlier in the evening. Maybe I could squeeze in two dates. What time would you—”

“Ha, ha. I know that's not your style, remember. I'll be in the taxi that picks you up at eight on Monday. I'll have a white carnation for you, to match the one I'll have. See you then.”

He rang off without saying anything one way or the other about sex. Would this be a similar arrangement to the one last weekend? Or might there be room in the evening for something more intimate? If we were still at the party for the midnight hoopla, it seemed unlikely I'd have time to go anywhere else and make it home in time; I'm sure I'll have a curfew. Maybe I could get it stretched a little?

Pretty sure that Ned was still cleaning up in the kitchen, I headed down the two flights of stairs. Persie was in her rooms, and she and Maxine were playing with Arria, rolling something back and forth on the floor between them. Mum and Brian were watching the telly in the den; perfect.

I positioned myself at the island and waited for Ned to acknowledge me. “Something you need, wunderkind?”

“Advice. Or at least opinion.” He put down the bowl he'd been drying and sat on the stool next to mine. “I went to a party last weekend with Luther,” I opened. “He apologised for the double-booking fiasco, took all the blame, so I forgave him. Even though the girl hasn't. Anyway, this party was all BC students, and he was a perfect gentleman.”

“Does that mean no sex, or just nothing you didn't want?”

“No sex. But I think I'd like some more.”

He laughed. “Of course you would, silly. And I'll bet he would, too.”

“He just rang and invited me to another party. A formal affair, New Year's Eve.”

“The Black Party? Are you serious?” His eyes were huge.

“I don't know. He didn't say.”

“Where is it?”

“No idea.” He made a motion with his hand for me to continue. “I expect we'll be ringing in the New Year at midnight with everyone else. But . . . well . . .”

“You'd like to ring a few more intimate bells?”

“That's it. If that's to happen, I'd have to stretch my curfew. But more important, I think I'd need to be ready for . . . well, for a little more than happened last time.”

He nodded. “And you want to know if I think you should?”

“Yeah.”

“Simon, no one can answer that question for you. But here are some things to consider. First, no one gets inside you without protection, and you don't get into someone else, either. Period, end of story. Full stop, as I think you Brits say. Second, if this is your first time—which I'm assuming it is—give some thought to whether this is the guy you want in your head for the rest of your life. Because your first time should be something you always remember. Something you always want to remember.”

He paused, but I didn't know what to say, so he added, “Was he gentle with you before?”

“Yes. Very.”

“Then, would you want him to be the guy you always remember?”

“I guess that's what I need to decide.”

“Having it happen on New Year's is kind of special.”

I nodded. “It would depend on the curfew, too.”

“Or you could leave the party early. Play it by ear. I wouldn't go with your mind made up, though; he might be intending to be a perfect gentleman again. Is that making you want him more?”

I grinned. “It is, I admit.”

“You could do a lot worse, Simon. But I'm not encouraging you. If you don't have this experience for four more years, that's just fine. There's no rush.”

He was right. There is no rush. I did spend some of the rest of my time before bed on schoolwork, but I also did some online research about sex between men. Not porn; honest research. Not sure why it had never occurred to me to do this before. I also looked into Massachusetts law regarding sex with minors, and it seems that as long as Luther has my full cooperation, at my age it's not considered statutory rape.

When I finally closed my laptop, I hadn't made up my mind. I decided to take Ned's advice and play it by ear.

 

This next bit isn't about Luther, but I need to make note. It kind of harks back to the day we arrived in Boston, that hot, steamy day in August, when it didn't seem to me that it would ever be cool here.

Well, it snowed on Saturday. Six inches! I've never seen so much snow. Persie, it seems, likes snow, so we bundled up and went out onto the patio and made a snowman. That wasn't enough for her, though. She started in on some other shape I couldn't figure out.

“Persie, what are you making?”

She stood up from her bent position near the ground. “It's a cat. For the snowman.”

A cat. Persie made a snowcat. Well, the least I could do was contribute the whiskers. I brushed snow off of one of the potted evergreens, broke off some needles, and gave them to Persie, who positioned them as carefully as if the cat were alive.

 

Because of the Happy New Year timing, I got Mum to allow a curfew of one in the morning, though this wouldn't leave much time if the ear I'm playing by decides it wants some alone time with Luther. We'd just have to see.

If I thought Luther looked good before, well . . . in a tux? The guy is drop-dead gorgeous. On the ride over, I asked if this was the “Black Party” Ned had referred to. It was, so I asked what that meant.

“It's a Boston tradition in the gay community. Justin Dall and his partner, Lawrence McDonald, are fabulously wealthy. They own a townhouse here in the Back Bay, with a ballroom on the top floor, and each year they invite some of the same and some new people to a New Year's Eve party. I think part of it is that the only way gay men get to dance together is if we throw our own parties. But also they like to meet new people, and they get a kick out of the fact that a lot of couples have had their start at this party. It's a kind of mixer.”

I decided against mentioning Daren Bateman's courage. “Is that why you were going to go stag?”

“Sure. But then I realised I'd already met someone new, someone I like very much.” He took my hand. “Just so you know, I expect to dance with other men, and you should do the same. But we arrive together, and we leave together, unless one of us misbehaves horribly.”

“If I do any misbehaving tonight, I hope it will be with you.”

He gave me an intense look. “I was hoping you'd say that.”

So much for playing it by ear. Or maybe that's what had just happened.

The entire evening for me was coloured by what we'd said in the taxi, knowing at least to some extent what would happen later. There was champagne, and I had enough to get a pleasant buzz, but not so much that I was tipsy. At one point, Luther advised me not to drink too much, and I could tell he wasn't merely being solicitous ; he had something planned.

Of course, just being in that environment was heady. I'd never ever been anywhere like it, and there was the distinct possibility that I never would again unless, someday, I could host a party like this, myself. Everywhere I looked, gay men. It was incredible and exciting and validating.

Validating: the opposite of what I'd felt seeing Stephanie on Luther's doorstep. So not only had he neutralised that feeling by apologising, but also he'd reversed it by giving me this amazing experience. Several times I wondered what was out there that would be anything like this for Kay. Surely trans individuals would benefit from this kind of validation, too.

Around quarter of eleven, Luther cut into a dance I was having with a tall, Nordic-looking fellow. Into my ear, he said, “You turn into a pumpkin at one, correct?” I nodded. “How set are you on watching the ball drop with these folks?”

“Isn't it expected?”

“There are nearly a hundred people here. Do you think they would miss us?”

I held my breath for a few seconds as if that would help me decide. As if I needed to decide. “Let's find out.”

I wouldn't say we rushed out, but I will say we wasted no time. We kissed and groped in the backseat of the taxi all the way to Luther's, but once inside he slowed things down.

“I have a surprise for you,” he said. I followed him into the kitchen, where he'd already set out two champagne glasses (evidently newly purchased), a cotton towel, and a champagne stopper. “Hope you haven't had too much to drink yet.” He opened his refrigerator and pulled out a bottle of La Grande Dame.

This touched me so much it was everything I could do not to throw my arms around his neck. But I knew that would be exactly the wrong move. I held out my hand for the bottle, and he gave it to me to open. That gentle pop when champagne is opened correctly is music to my ears. I poured some into each glass, then stoppered the bottle and put it back in the fridge. I was about to reach for my glass when Luther picked up both of them.

“You know what I've never done, but I've always wanted to?” I smiled and shook my head. “I've always wanted to drink champagne in bed with someone terrific, naked as the day we were born, and then have really nice sex. And then have more champagne. And then maybe more sex. And then—”

I led the way to his bedroom, where I found another surprise. I turned towards him as he came through the door. “What's all this?”

He shrugged. “I've also always wanted to drink champagne naked in bed in candlelight.”

There were candles everywhere. He set the glasses down and walked from one candle to the next, lighting them, smiling at me. Then he wrapped his arms around my waist.

“I've been wanting to say this all night,” he said. “You are absolutely stunning in a tux. Just the sight of you turns me on so much.” He let go and stepped back, touching only my arm with an outstretched finger. Slowly, he walked all the way around me, trailing his finger over my body as he moved. He stopped in front of me and, the touch so light I almost couldn't feel it, he ran his finger from my lips to my chin, down the centre of my chest, without stopping until he touched my crotch. Still barely touching me, holding my eyes with his, he caressed me until I thought I would explode in my trousers. I closed my eyes and groaned.