My nephew sets me up with a Kazakh stud and "wants to talk about something." Coming out or the Book of Leviticus?

Every year my father celebrated his birthday by hosting a barbecue on the Saturday afternoon closest to June 6th.  I always tried to schedule my summer visits to Rock Island and then to Indianapolis to coincide with it.

Dad died last year, so I assumed that the barbecues were over, until I got a text from my sister's son Joseph,  a doctoral student in Japanese at Indiana University.

"I'm continuing Grandpa's tradition of Memorial Day Barbecues." Of course he wouldn't realize that they were birthday barbecues.  Who knows when his grandfather's birthday is? 

"At Mom's house, or...."

"At my house in Bloomington.  Can you make it?  .I want to talk to you about something."

"Sure, no problem," I responded, curious.  

What could he want to talk about? Maybe he wanted to come out!

Since I lived 500 to 2000 miles away through Joseph's life, I saw him only once or twice a year.  We weren't close, but I always thought that he was gay.  He was flamboyant and theatrical, swishing and limp-wristed, with that nasal "gay accent" voice.  He wore bright pastel shirts and tight bulging jeans and plastic bracelets.  He occasionally brought a girl to Thanksgiving or Christmas dinner, but surely that was just a screen.

Definitely coming out.  

But -- he graduated from a Catholic high school, and did his undergrad at the Quaker-run Earlham College.  His mother was music director at a Nazarene church.

Maybe he turned fundamentalist, and wanted to quote Leviticus at me?

I'd better stay with my friend Tyler in Indianapolis, in case I needed to retreat quickly. 

And bring David from San Francisco for moral support.  He was an ex-Baptist minister with a master's degree in Classics, an expert on the Biblical passages used to promote homophobia.

We arrived on Wednesday and saw my mother and my sister and brother-in-law, but not Joseph, not until Saturday afternoon, the barbecue: hot dogs, hamburgers, and tofu burgers grilled in the back yard of Joseph's 100-year old house just outside Bloomington.

How did they afford it, when he and his roommates were all graduate students?

We said hello to Joseph, gave him the plate of brownies we brought, then pushed our way through the crowd, saying hello, getting introduced.  I counted over 20 people. All heterosexual as far as I could tell -- with one exception.

A young guy on the far side of the yard, talking to someone I didn't recognize. Shorter than me, dark-skinned, square head with heavy eyebrows and a big smile, a v-shaped torso, a hard smooth chest with prominent nipples, a little belly, and heavy, square workman's hands.

"I call the hunk," I whispered to David, and walked over to introduce myself and cruise him.  

Then Joseph grabbed me.  "Can I talk to you for a second.  Without David?"

He took me onto the screen porch.

Uh, oh -- this is it! I thought.  He's either going to come out or pull out a Bible!

But he said "Is David your boyfriend?"

"Uh -- no,"

"Ok, good.  I didn't expect you to bring anyone...um...so I got a date for you."

"What?" A blind date?

"I know what it's like to feel out of place at these family gatherings, so I invited Ravi, from Kazakhstan.  He's just come out, and looking to meet people.  And he likes older guys."  He grabbed my knee.  "I got you tickets to a dance concert tonight -- but I didn't know David would be here, so I just got two."

"Oh, no problem, he sounds great.  We can get a third ticket."

Kazakh, the language spoken by the Turkic tribes that descended on Central Asia a thousand years ago:

I like to eat big sausages.
Turkish: Büyük sosisleri severim
Kazakh:Men ülken şujıq jewge unaydı

More after the break. Caution: Explicit.

Dennis Quaid: Two gay guys, some cops, a shrunken scientist, a footballer, and is that a dick shot?

 

Nazarenes didn't go to many movies, since it was a major sin, but in the summer of 1979 I managed to see the buddy comedy Breaking Away.  In the university town of Bloomington, Indiana, a group of working-class boys contemplate their future while swimming semi-nude in the limestone quarry where their dads work.  The hunky Mike (Dennis Quaid) wants to "light out to the territory" and become a cowboy. Moocher (Jackie Earl Haley) wants to marry his girlfriend. Dave (Dennis Christopher), wants to become Italian and win The Girl.

But you could easily ignore the heterosexist plot and concentrate on the primal beauty of the four friends sunning on the limestone.  In the end it was about friendship.

There's a more explicit, girl-free gay subtext in Enemy Mine (1985:  a future soldier named David and his enemy, a Drac named "Jerry" (Louis Gossett Jr.), are stranded on an alien planet,  and develop a touching, homoromantic bond.  They end up having a child together (boy Dracs don't need girl Dracs to get pregnant). When Jerry dies, David raises the child alone, and after they are rescued, returns with him to the Drac planet.

Dennis shows his butt for the first time -- but not the last -- in The Big Easy, a 1986 neo-noir about a New Orleans cop who plays by his own rules -- don't they all? -- and falls in love with a girl.

There's also reputedly a dick shot, but I can't find it.  Unless this is it.

Or this blob as he prepares to have sex with his girlfriend.

More Quaid after the break

Indiana University: My first visit to an adult bookstore

I "figured it out" during my senior year in high school, but my real "coming out" was at the beginning of my first year in grad school at Indiana University.

As an undergraduate at Augustana College, I had worked hard, very hard, to find gay people, and I found a few -- my ex boyfriend Fred; an Episcopal priest in Des Moines; Prfessor Burton, who held handcuff parties for campus hunks.  You had to go through word of mouth, through a friend of a friend of a friend.

Now I was at a vast university with 40,000 students, and as far as I could tell from conversations and signals and interests, every single one of them was heterosexual.

My friends, classmates, and coworkers all, without exception, maintained the "what girl do you like?" whine of my childhood.  I had to leave Playboy magazines in my room, and think of logical reasons why I didn't have a girl on my arm every second.

My classes were as empty of gay references as they had been at Augustana.  Every writer who had ever lived was heterosexual.  Every poem ever written was written from man to women.  The Eternal Feminine infused all our lives.

And, as far as I knew, this was the way life was everywhere and for everyone.  A vast emptiness, hiding, pretending, unyielding silence.

That Saturday night I had been watching Silver Spoons and Mama's Family in the 13th floor tv lounge of Eigenmann Hall.  At 9:00, my roommate Jon said "Let's go to the grad student mixer.  I'm hot to get laid tonight."

I had no interest in getting laid.  At least, not as Jon understood it.  But I walked with him across the vast, silent campus, past empty buildings, past towers of Indiana limestone erected by heterosexuals long ago, to the Memorial Union, where a party for heterosexual grad students was in session.

Then I said goodbye and went to the campus library.  There were uncountable millions of books in the vast stacks, rooms as long as a football field, but only two listed under "homosexuality" in the card catalog: the memoirs of Tennessee Williams, and Nothing Like the Sun, by Anthony Burgess, about Shakespeare's romance with the Dark Lady of the sonnets.

I walked alone down Kirkwood Avenue, past student bars and little Asian restaurants and hamburger stands.  Just before the Baskin Robbins closed at 10:00, I stopped in and bought an ice cream cone.  Two scoops, strawberry on the bottom and Rocky Road on the top.  30 years later, I still remember that ice cream cone.

There was a gay bar in Rock Island, a dark closet bar with a nondescript name and no windows, where you entered through the back so no one could see you.  But surely Bloomington was too small for such a place.

 I stopped into a weird eclectic bookstore called the White Rabbit. No gay books -- it was illegal to display them openly, as Fred told me when I found his secret bookshelf two years ago.  So I bought a novelization of the 1980 Popeye musical starring Robin Williams, set in the port town of Sweethaven:

Sweet Sweethaven!  God must love us.
Why else would He have stranded us here?

A church tower had a cross that lit up white at night, and I looked up it and prayed "Why did you strand me here?"

I wandered for a long time through quiet residential streets, houses where heterosexual husbands and wives were asleep, their children in the next room surrounded by "what girl do you like?" brainwashing toys and games.  I walked past a public park, but was afraid to go in.  After dark, monsters roamed through the dark swaying trees.

It occurred to me that I was one of the monsters.  After all, being gay was illegal in the United States.  I was a criminal.  (Actually, Indiana's sodomy law was repealed in 1976.)

Somehow I found myself at a small, nondescript building on College Avenue.  The sign on the marquee advertised "Adult Books."

They probably wouldn't stock any gay porn.  But it wouldn't hurt to check.  The most they could do is call me a "fag."

More after the break