THE DRAMA CLUB, Part Eight 'Running Gun Youngster'
[This is a work of fiction and all characters are imaginary. The story involves sex between teen boys so if that's illegal or offensive for you to read, don't. Author retains all rights. DO NOT download, copy, post/link to any site or otherwise reproduce this story without written permission from the author.]
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I am going to start cleaning up Drama Club, starting with Part 1, and anyone who would like to help, please contact me. I need proof/edit/critique/assist notes from anyone who is able to help. If you need copies in Word to work from, just ask.-TR.
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Kisses....Tragic Rabbit
'Some punk with a shotgun killed young Danny Bailey
In cold blood, in the lobby of a downtown motel.
Killed him in anger, a force he couldn't handle
Helped pull the trigger that cut short his life
And there's not many knew him the way that we did;
Sure enough he was a wild one, but then aren't most hungry kids?
Now it's all over Danny Bailey
And the harvest is in.
Dillinger's dead, I guess the cops won again.
Now it's all over Danny Bailey
And the harvest is in.
We're running short of heroes back up here in the hills,
Without Danny Bailey we're gonna have to break up our stills.
So mark his grave well `cause Kentucky loved him
Born and raised a proper, I guess life just bugged him
And he found faith in danger, a lifestyle he lived by,
A running gun youngster in a sad restless age.'
The Ballad of Danny Bailey
(Elton John-Goodbye Yellow Brick Road, 1973)
"Many people fight silently and alone with the painful questions surrounding homosexuality. Young men and women struggle with their sexuality, wondering why they're attracted to the same gender, wondering if that's the way it has to be, but too afraid to tell the people they love. Parents watch their children engage in self-destructive lifestyles but aren't sure how to help them without pushing them further away. Children with a gay parent wonder how to love them without condoning their lifestyle.
"These are not easy questions - they're truly heart wrenching. But you're not alone in this - whether you're a struggling youth, a parent or family member, or a pastor, there's help here for you. To start, you might want to contact an Exodus ministry to get some immediate help."
[Exodus Youth]
Lying on his bunk, Bobby thumbed the worn paperback copy of Ariel, Sylvia Plath's final offering of poetry before she stuck her head in a gas stove and snuffed out her life. The images were powerful; filled with death and longing and a certain exhaustion with others. He'd had it since junior high and had brought it, along with a script and some textbooks when his mother packed him off this morning to Refuge, the Youth Camp run by Exodus International. He'd already read it through several times today and still had no plans to rejoin the others. They'd come get him eventually, he knew that, but he prolonged his private time anyway. Bobby had a lot to think about.
Waking up in the hospital ER hadn't been one of the high points of his life. Bright white lights that refused to let him focus, loud sounds and voices and something huge down his throat that made it impossible to talk, almost impossible to breath. He wanted to scream, to pull away but he couldn't, he was strapped down and ignored by the moving blurs that he assumed were people. He struggled to talk, to yell, but the painful tube down his throat stifled sound. He'd felt a horrible urge to swallow, but was unable. He'd never felt so helpless.
The last thing he remembered was going to sleep Friday afternoon before performance. His mind skittered across the memory of the pill bottle and what he'd been thinking. He was just tired, really tired, he'd insisted to the hospital shrinks that questioned him. No, he wasn't suicidal, were they serious? He just wanted to sleep and maybe he took too many pills but that's all it was. A mistake. He refused to talk further and his mother checked him out that night over their objections. He wanted to go home, wanted his room. He wanted to be let alone.
Refuge was a loosely structured camp, filled with counselors and brightly printed posters extolling the virtues of godly living and healthy relationships with others. He'd been given a mentor, a thirty-something man with thinning hair and wire-rim glasses who wore his slacks a little tighter than was necessary. Bobby thought he seemed like such a fag; it was surely a joke that this was supposed to be the guy who'd 'cure' him. The whole idea of curing him was confusing; he didn't know what was wrong with him but he did want it fixed, wanted it gone. He knew it was dumb but he wanted his father to love him and he wanted to be normal, to be just any another guy. He wanted to date girls and like it and Mother said that could happen if he did what he was told here at Refuge. So he was trying, but it wasn't easy. The place was so boring and Richard was such a fruit. Bobby sighed, setting down the book of poetry.
He thought of Angel, remembered being curled up next to him above the theatre shop. Angel's eyes had been huge and black as he'd held Bobby tight, kissing his hair and talking softly. Angel always smelled so good when he was close and felt so warm and gentle when he touched Bobby. He'd cried up there in Angel's arms, cried hard and for longer than he cared to remember. It just all hurt so much. Angel said he understood but how much could he understand, really? Angel liked the way he was, liked being so....being different. So how could he really understand what Bobby was feeling? And Angel didn't have these dreams...and didn't see the shadows.
There were things he'd done with Angel and Jaye that made him feel so ashamed, made him want to hide his face from people, hide his thoughts, hide himself. How could he have done those things? Mother said those boys were the problem, that if he stayed away from them, he'd be okay, he'd be normal. She said she was sorry for that boy, for Angel, but his mother must not love him to let him walk around the way she did. She said boys wearing makeup and tight clothes were part of the problem. All that had just confused him, she said, but he wasn't to worry. She'd fix everything, he just had to trust her. He did trust her but he was still afraid. How could he stop wanting to do those things with other boys? How could anyone reach inside his head and pull out those thoughts by the root, pull out those feelings he got when other boys were around, when Angel or Jaye were near him? He thought of all the nights they'd slept over, sharing his bed, naked and playful in the dark, teasing him with kisses, with soft words, with their bare limbs against his. Jesus, God, please take these thoughts away from me, he begged someone, anyone, eyes squeezed shut on the bunk. He was sick and he knew it. And Exodus assigned a fucking fairy to help.
He rolled over in the bunk and shoved his face down into the thin pillow. He knew it wasn't that simple, wasn't so clear cut as Mother said. But he wanted it to be, wanted it to be simple, wanted it to be something he could wrap his mind around to understand and then eliminate it so he could live a regular life. So he could go out with Alison when he got home and have a good time, maybe take her out again. The things he did with boys were furtive, quick and hurried in corners, and that's how you knew they were wrong. If you had to hide something like that, if you couldn't tell people, couldn't talk about it, well, that was because everyone knew what you knew secretly, knew deep inside. That it was wrong. And Mother didn't like secrets, she said. Bobby should tell her when he was worried and let her help him. What else was a mother for?
Bobby thought about the football players and other jocks at school, the ones who always bothered Angel. The other day in the parking lot, he'd been scared, really scared, and not for the first time. He couldn't understand Angel's attitude, how he could be so calm about it all. Last year, Angel had to have stitches along his jaw where Ryan's ring had caught and torn the skin and when the light was right, the scar showed pale on his flesh. The varsity quarterback was loud about how he felt; about what he thought of boys like Angel, boys like Bobby. Like Ryan thought he was, Bobby corrected himself. He wasn't a fag, not really, he was just young and thought about sex too much, was too confused. Anyway, that's what the counselors here told him and he wanted it to be true. He needed it to be true. It WAS true. God, if he could only sleep, Bobby thought, only sleep one night through without waking up, without the nightmares. He looked to the corner again, at the shadows there...they bothered him. Something could be in those shadows and he'd never know. He looked away.
He thought about the look on Ryan's face as he'd spoken to Angel and Bobby on Thursday and the feel of the other boy's hand on his chest. How could they know, anyway, what he did with Angel, those private things? He'd always believed 'it' didn't show, that no one could tell, but other times he wondered. Did it show? How did that boy know? And why did it matter so much to either of us, he wondered. Why did it make it all right to hurt me, to frighten me...to hate me? His father's voice cut through his thoughts, 'This will kill your mother.' Was that who he was trying to kill? He had thought it was only himself he wanted to erase.
He thought about the pills; they must be gone now, whatever was left of the smooth green capsules flushed away in Mother's zeal. He knew where his father kept the key to the gun cabinet, though. All those gleaming handguns and rifles, lined up like soldiers, neat and shining clean. His father loved those guns. Guns were not toys, he'd told his son long ago. Bobby remembered the long ago hunting trips when his father had tried to show him how, show him what to do the way his own father had, he said. Bobby had loved being alone with his father; loved walking the woods beside him in the early morning light, learning to fire the rifles. He'd loved the look on his father's face when he took a rifle in his hands.
Bobby had loved it right up until he'd shot a deer and watched it leap up lightly to meet the bullet and drop down on one knee in a slow motion, pausing to turn its great sad brown eye to him, kneeling gently into the leaves to nestle down for that final sleep. Bobby turned and vomited onto his father's boots. And that was the last time he'd been taken hunting, or taken anywhere with his father. The last time his father had wanted to be with him at all. The look of disgust on his face was still clear in Bobby's mind; that sudden sharp look of distaste, quickly shuttered. The look in the deer's eyes had been one of...of what? It had been a look of gratitude, he was sure of it. And the bullet that ripped through the air and tore out its life had been the lightening swift arrow of God.
'It is a heart,
This holocaust I walk in,
O golden child the world will kill and eat.'
Mary's Song (Sylvia Plath, 1961)
Friday night, Ryan switched off the television angrily and threw down the remote control. His mother called out again to him, to turn that damn thing off, but he ignored her. He stalked through the hallway and into his room, slamming shut the door on her voice. His room was dark and cluttered; posters of smiling sleek women with dark hair and deep eyes, Brooke Burke and Ali Landry, his nighttime lovers, decorated the walls; footballs and trophies lined the single wooden bookshelf beside the bed. Safe space, safe house.
Dirty clothes littered the floor, the unmade bed and even the back of the chair in front of his computer. A small television sat chattering on the top of the wooden dresser. He shoved the heavy 20-pound free weight against his door to discourage interruption and threw himself across the bed. He reached into the bedside drawer, rummaging for a pack of smokes. No cigs. He pulled out the pistol he kept there and lay back. The television was muttering, flashing pictures fast across his thoughts. He flicked off the safety, checking the chamber.
As he stared unseeing at the TV screen, .45 in his left hand, his right hand went to his fly automatically, rubbing the fullness there and undoing the button. He slid the zipper and fished out his dick, pushing down his jeans for access. He blocked out thought and got to work, jacking slowly with his right hand, cold pistol in his left, as he settled back onto the headboard, eyes closed. He thought of women, unknown women, full breasted and eager, spreading their legs with a sly smile, pink lipped and willing. He thought of shooting with his father; hitting targets in the field at dawn, rifle bucking in his hand as it shot, hard and heavy against his body.
He stroked and shaped his dick, making it harder, feeling it lengthen until the hardness in his right hand matched the hardness in his left. He was breathing faster, closed eyes watching women give themselves to him. Women not saying 'no', never saying no: willing women. Hot rifle shot against his shoulder, power knocking back in rough release. Pumping faster, he felt his balls tighten, his own release beginning. Women's faces, smooth skin, plump breasts, legs spread, mouths open: pictures flicker faster on his eyelids.
He finished: hand on his dick, hand on his gun, pumping as he shot, his left hand squeezing tight as he came, chamber clicking empty, finger on the trigger. A single low groan as he milked out the last. He wiped it up, wiped it off, wiped it down; sated.
And so the night went.
"And in truth it is terrible,
Multiplied in the eyes of the flies."
Totem (Sylvia Plath, 1961)
Bobby huddled under the bunk, peering out into the shadows in the corner. Shadows moving in the corner. He felt safe under the bed, tucked away tight. They twice came to find him but he was quiet and they left. Clutched in his hand was the paperback angel, Ariel, and under his knees was the tile floor. He shuddered and looked away from the corner, the darkness there. Anything could be in the dark, anything could live there and look at him. He whimpered.
What were they giving him, what were the pills? Why did the shrink bring around his file and ask questions, make lists, ask more questions? It was time for basketball but he didn't get up; let them come find him, let them seek. He didn't want to play games, he didn't want to join groups, he didn't want to share feelings. Mother said to listen, said to make an effort, she said she had confidence. She had confidence in Bobby, she said. He wished he had confidence in something, in anything. Shadows. He kept dozing off, then waking, startled. Nothing there.
He heard Angel's voice in the quiet, was it Angel? How could it be Angel?
"Bobby, face it, you're gorgeous." Nasty tone, nasty boy. Was it Angel? Quick image of Angel stripping down, skin smooth in a light that drew Bobby's eyes down to the root. Cock nestled in tight briefs. Don't look. Don't think.
Gene in his dream, suited in armor and riding a horse. Light in his hair like points of stars. He held a shotgun across the saddle. He hefted the gun, drew it up to his shoulder...
"You're the most beautiful guy I've ever seen, Bobby, and I've always wanted to tell you that." Softly, but did someone really say that? Or was it a dream?
Mother packed his bag and didn't speak; they didn't speak as they worked. He hunted for clothing and handed them over. He didn't want to go but what's the use of saying it? Something had to be done, some solution found. It was possible to get control, it was possible to start again, it was...possible.
They gave him a cot, they gave him a folder, they gave him a fruit to teach him how to be a man. His father's gun cabinet kept coming back to his thoughts, was it locked? He pictured his father going hunting, cleaning a rifle and going out to meet the dawn.
If he could just find his anger, he knew he'd be fine.
They should have brighter lights so the shadows didn't show. He hunched under the cot and waited for night. Waited for the dreams.
"You, there on your back,
Eyes to the sky.
The spider-men have caught you."
Gulliver (Sylvia Plath, 1961)
"Everyone is on a journey to find out who they really are. You are not the only one. There are so many messages out there. Different voices yell what's right and what's wrong. They try to tell you who you are and who you should be. It can be loud, chaotic and confusing.
"Through all the noise, you want answers to some pretty serious questions. Is gay ok? Are people born homosexual? Is there freedom from homosexuality? How do I find answers to my questions? What is the real truth?
"Exodus Youth believes there are real answers to these questions found in the gospel of Jesus Christ. God wants to show us His plan for our lives. He loves us and wants to walk with us as we pursue healing and freedom in Him. For some, these answers are offensive. For some it is just plain hard. For others it is completely life changing."
[Exodus Youth]
"Bobby?"
No answer.
"Bobby?"
"What?"
"Tell me about your dreams."
No answer.
"Bobby, what do you dream about?"
"I dream about angels in the shadows and knights in the forest."
"Do you dream about boys?"
No answer.
"Do you dream about your father?"
"Sometimes."
"Tell me."
"I dream he's hunting."
"He's hunting...and are you with him?"
"Yes."
"What are you doing in your dream?"
"My father is hunting."
"Yes, but what are you doing in your dream?"
"I'm..."
"Yes?"
"I think..."
"What do you think?"
"I think that I'm the one, the one my father is hunting."
"Your father is hunting...you?"
No answer.
"Bobby is your father hunting you in your dream?"
"Yes."
"How does that make you feel?"
No answer.
"Bobby, how does that make you feel?"
"It makes me feel...."
"Yes?"
"It makes me feel...alive."
"What happens in your dream, Bobby, when your father is hunting you?"
No answer.
"Bobby, can you tell me what happens in your dream?"
"My father is hunting....and he sees me...."
"Yes?"
"He sees me and he pulls up his rifle..."
"Yes?"
"He pulls up his rifle to his shoulder and...."
"And what?"
"He takes aim..."
"And then what?"
"He fires."
"And how does that make you feel, Bobby? When he fires?"
"It makes me feel..."
"Yes?"
"It makes me feel happy."
"Why does it make you feel happy, Bobby?"
"Because he loves me. Loves me with his gun."
"And how do you feel about guns, Bobby?"
"Guns are..."
"Yes?"
"Guns are the voice of God."
"Why do you say that, Bobby?"
"Because its true. I once killed a deer and made it happy. God takes it all away and sometimes takes it all away with guns. Guns take it all away. Like the deer."
"I don't understand, Bobby."
"That's all right. I don't understand it, either."
"Bobby..."
"Why did you take the pills?"
No answer.
"Bobby, can you tell me why you took the pills?"
"I was tired."
"And are you tired now?"
No answer.
"Bobby, are you tired now? Do you think you'll feel tired another time, when you're home?"
"Maybe."
"Bobby, what do you want to get out of your time here at Refuge?"
No answer.
"Bobby, what do you want from us?"
"I want..."
"Yes?"
"I want to stop thinking about it. I want to stop thinking. I want to be empty." I want to be clean, he thought to himself. I want to be...Good.
You'll love me if I'm good.
"And the soul is a bride In a still place, and the groom is red and forgetful, he is featureless."
Berck-Place (Sylvia Plath, 1961)
Exodus Healing Statement:
Exodus affirms that reorientation of same sex attraction is possible. This is a process, which begins with motivation to, and self-determination to change based upon a personal relationship with Jesus Christ. We facilitate resources for this process through our member ministries, other established networks and the Church. The key outcome of this is measured by a growing capacity to turn away from temptations, a reconciling of ones identity with Jesus Christ, being transformed into His image. This enables growth towards Godly heterosexuality. Exodus recognizes that a lifelong and healthy marriage as well as a Godly single life are good indicators of this transformation.
[End of Part Eight]
[All Exodus and Exodus Youth material taken verbatim from Exodus International sources.]