RESCUED BY LOVE: Chapter 1, John Windham Vindskinke@hotmail.com
I am so touched by the kind and thoughtful letters from the readers. Mr. T. this story seems to flaunt all your excellent suggestions but it just did not fit into those reasonable constraints. My next effort will take to heart your excellent tutelage. 3.00 words when a .50 word will work are difficult. Strange as it seems this is how I talk and think. I will try in the future I promise.
This is the story of coming of age realizing that I am homosexual and things that happened as I discovered myself and life. If this is offensive please do not read further. Comments and suggestions despite this seeming contradiction are appreciated.
It is only fair when you wander thru memories dusty paths and occluded trails that you allow those whose voices are gone some small gesture of justice. I had thought to visit the realms of youth but even now I hesitate. Events decades old still exert power and intimidate. I am astounded that it is difficult for me at this moment as I write to admit my fear of those long ago memories.
I was never attractive as far back as I can remember but rather gawky, skinny with prominent front teeth and huge ears. It never dawned on me that my deep admiration for my older cousin was anything but familial affection. That he was muscular and athletic was just part of his being John Milton nothing unusual. My being an unremarkable dusty blond made his contrasting coal black hair and piercing blue eyes all the more exotic. He was always impeccably dressed with expensive never worn before clothes. His father was a successful executive in a tobacco company rich beyond anything I could imagine. I was the not so grateful recipient of his outgrown clothes that were only one or two years old, that they were the finest quality never mitigated the fact that my wardrobe was comprised of hand me downs.
Seeing John Milton on the occasional weekend visits they made to Farmville banished all thoughts of being second rate. He had the magical ability to make me feel special and normal. I would wait hours on Mama Sula's front porch checking every on coming car hoping it would be them. He would leap out of the car as soon as it stopped bounding toward me his face alight with mischief and joy. His plans would be complex and involve forays into the jungles bordering Mama's yard. We even went so far as to the graveyard sometimes on especially complex missions. He would be the wild ferocious lion that I had to track and shoot. I was terrified in the maze of tall grass bushes of finding him because he would explode from nowhere pouncing on me with ferocious roars. He never forgot that the reward for my terror would be having his arms wrapped around me in comfort and kindness banishing my fears.
Between the eighth and ninth grade I noticed in the back of Collier's magazine in tiny print a small ad for the "Encyclopedia of Sex" for 19.99. No money was needed, read now and pay later; I ordered it without any thought of how I could pay for it. I watched the mail for weeks afterwards to no avail. The idea of talking to anyone even John Milton about sex was simply unthinkable. I realized that `it' was a dirty subject not to be discussed. I missed the obligatory demonstrations and heart to heart talks about dicks and masturbation that other guys claim as universal rites of passage. When I reflect on that omission (good choice of word) now I can only assume it was my being so much the skinny misfit that was responsible. Well, it finally arrived in its cardboard suit and as promised plain and unrevealing of the sins described within. I opened it with so small sense of guilt and trepidation. I hid behind my bed and the wall out of sight to open it. Gasp, it had drawings of the penis and vagina even the blood vessels and layers of epidermis did not detract from the excitement. I found new words, unpronounceable and unknown describing things that I could barely understand. But it was enough for me to be embarrassed and ashamed of my prurient interest. I had managed to hide my sin from everyone. It was such a relief that no one knew of this depravity, or that was what I thought.
I had been hiding this tome from the devil for almost two weeks. It was pathetic that I was so weak that I could not resist returning time and time again to its sordid pages. My parents routinely disappeared into the joys of `Ancient Age' every weekend. At that point it was only the weekends. A ritual as established as getting up for work on Monday. It always started Friday afternoon and lasted until Sunday late. That Saturday night I was in my room in the front of the house as usual trying to be invisible and never annoying them by being in evidence. My father came into my room, something that was unusual in it-self. His barging in unannounced left me with no opportunity to hide. He asked me where my new book was and of course I feigned ignorance. It only took seconds for me to realize that would not work. He got louder and louder as he demanded I find the book. Finally cringing and scarlet with shame I pulled it out from behind my bookcase. His contemptuous sneer said it all. What happened next is a kaleidoscope of shifting memories and gut wrenching moments spat from that nights Technicolor maw. He yelled for my mother to come into the room. When she joined us she had the smeared lips blurred smile that was a good match for my father's flushed inarticulate harangue. He demanded that I read the book to my mother. I was crying uncontrollably and shaking by this point. He took me by my shoulders and shook me with a teeth-shattering vehemence yelling to read the god damned book. I could barely see the printing through the tears and shaking but I tried to read nonetheless. He put his face within inches of mine and I was overcome by the combined stink of bourbon and stale cigarettes, a stink that to this day when encountered can end a friendship. Read, god damnit you fucking sissy, read it to you mother. I dropped the book no longer able to control my hands or bladder and he pushed me into the corner of my room. He jerked his belt off and started lashing me with it for what seemed like hours. It was probably only seconds but seemed interminable. I cannot remember accurately from this point my mind starts to blur and obfuscate the incident. I think my mother yelled at him to stop. They both started laughing and she grabbed the book as they left the room. My bladder had emptied and my shorts were not only drenched but I was standing in a cold pool of urine. My back, arms and chest were vividly branded with the masterfully rendered cuneiform calligraphy of his belt. I am assuming that I lost consciousness for an undetermined span of time because I remember realizing that I was sitting in my cold urine with my body and soul burning with humiliation.
I never saw the book again and neither of my parents ever mentioned their visit to my room.
The next time John Milton visited he was relentless in his questions about my reticence and lack of interest in our usual games. Now I realize he must have sensed that something was amiss. I was to humiliated and ashamed to sully him with my depravity. Bonnie his elegant and beautiful mother had a large box of his out grown clothes and wanted to see if they were the correct size. John Milton took the box into Mama's extra bedroom and picked out something's for me to try on. I stupidly forgot about the welts on my torso as I slipped off my shirt to try on one of the new ones. He gasped and said Johnny what happened to you. It was at that moment it dawned on me that I had forgotten about last weekend's encounter. I cringed from his attention and grabbed the first thing beside me trying to cover the result of my sick curiosity. I will never forget how he came to me in the twilight shadows of that cavernous room and put his arms around me drawing me into the comfort of his arms. He did not mind my tears as they soaked his Sunday shirt and just kept whispering to me, that it was ok and I would be all right. He had no idea about what I had done but forgave me unconditionally. He told me about hearing his parents talking about how I was treated. Evidently they had been worried for years. He wanted to tell them about the belt marks. I made him promise to not tell because it would mean much more punishment. He asked what I had done to get a lashing such as this.
I blushed a scarlet red, the guilt vividly etched on my face. The harder I tried to tell him the more I cried unable to reveal my sick secret. He held my face so that my eyes could not avoid his penetrating examination. He had never stopped holding me thru all of this interchange. I will never forget the searing heat of his closeness. His body was my shield and protection. Finally in an almost inaudible whisper I told him the sequence of events from the books arrival to that Saturday night a week ago. He grimly listened to it all without comment. When I finished and tried to pull away in my shame and humiliation he held me more tightly and with a grim smile of determination shook himself as if to be rid of the whole thing. I mistook his reaction for rejection and fought against his encompassing arms to no avail. Stop it Johnny I love you and you are not getting away from me. Stop trying to escape.
I could not believe my ears. John Milton was not only forgiving me but also telling me he loved me. All I could do was blubber inarticulate apologies for my behavior and conduct.
Hindsight is a wonderful arbiter for our memories vagaries and distortions. Now I realize just how loving and giving this wonderful cousin was to me. He had not only been unfazed by my confessions but had enjoyed holding me as much as I enjoyed being held. John Milton did not have a single homosexual bone (excuse the word) in his body but his love for me was a powerful honest force that would not be denied. I realize now that he must have sensed more about me than I knew myself. He promised not to reveal my secret but made me promise I would never hide anything else from him. His love and affection allowed me to pretend that nothing had happened and that I was `ok'. He looked into my eyes that afternoon and demanded my honesty from that moment on. His bright but loving eyes never left mine as he leaned in and kissed me lightly on the lips. He smiled at my look of shock. When I started crying again with soft snuffles he kissed each eye so very gently.
I love you little Johnny you will never have to worry about anything when I am around. This time it was my body that moved pulling him unresisting into a kiss of quiet submission and agreement. That was the last kiss we ever shared.
Later that year the cruelest blow of all was delivered and no one but the two of us even knew it had happened. John Milton was sent away to the exclusive but impossibly distant school of Woodberry Forest. Now I was completely alone with my ugliness and strange ideas. I had never felt a real integral part of things but the isolation became more acute as my fears grew. I was afraid to look in a mirror. Now the image reflected was so embarrassing that I avoided windows, glass doors also any and every reflective surface. I did not have to worry about hand me downs because John Milton now wore only uniforms. I was given nothing used much less new to wear, the clothes that I had, were increasingly worn and ill fitting. It was at this time that I stumbled onto the joy of wearing black. The clothes could be too tight or loose and one never noticed if they were black.
My salvations in those last years of high school were the benevolence and love my aunt and grandmother unstintingly provided. It was to their home that I would retreat on the weekends to escape the stink of never emptied ashtrays and the perfume of spilt bourbon. Their behavior was never mentioned by either Delphia or Mama Mabel; but they never failed to insist that I be allowed to visit.
It was to this nest of soft chenille and pink satin that I sought refuge.
Their bathroom was an exciting adventure into another world of finding that eyes could be disguised by mascara, lips intensified with a harlot's scarlet and cheeks permanently blushing. I would spend blocks of lost time experimenting with these paints and unguents. I was repeatedly drawn to the siren's call of those perfumed paints, never admitting or realizing the consequences of my actions.
The summer before my senior year my father was transferred to Richmond, Virginia. It was decided without my input that I would stay with Mama Sula because she was alone and needed the company. This was to allow me to finish my last year in Farmville before I joined them in Virginia. I of course had no choice but to acquiesce but the first week I signaled my first act of defiance. I told Mama Sula that I would be staying with Mama Mabel and Delphia on the weekends. She was not a happy grandmother. To say that there was no love lost between the two was a gross understatement. My father tried to intercede from afar but I simply ignored him.
Please forgive my digression but let me explain a bit of background about my parents. I think it explains a great deal. Let's allow the chips to fly and land where they might. My mother was the valedictorian of their graduating class. My father a star quarterback with a promising future with his appointment to West Point. They were the exciting exemplars of beauty brains and brawn.
One hot night of their senior year in High School they were drinking with Babs and Bill on a double date. A dare from their friends was just enough impetus to cause them to throw life and caution away. They searched, as they continued to drink and enjoy the evening's adventures, for a justice of the peace to get married. They were intent on proving their resolution to get married. In those times a little money, enthusiasm and witnesses were all that was needed to sanctify the union of marriage. So late that Saturday night or was it Sunday morning no one was ever certain, Doris and JT got married. But by the dawn of Sunday morning all four realized just what a catastrophe had happened. They vowed to tell no one. The time for graduation was now about to dawn. JT would have to swear that he was single and had no intention to marry because he was to be a West Point enrollee. Doris said nothing. Babs and Bill said nothing. When the time came for JT to accept the conditions for school he crumbled. He admitted he was married and could not attend the academy. Both families were horrified and disgusted. The high school sweet hearts were married and life was about to begin on the foundation of an inebriated wager.
These two beauties, the stars of their senior class were now the captured creatures of circumstance and hubris. They did not really want to plunge into the joys of marriage.
Actually they felt a certain antipathy for each other's bodies. Sex became the last thing they wanted to push. They maintained an outward facade of a convivial couple. But in truth they slept apart as much as possible and the only time their orbits intersected was after a lot of alcohol and false bravado. My 2 brothers and I were all conceived in the month following the close of the Georgia tobacco market and born the same month a tidy 9 months later. They had been married over 10 years before I was conceived and I am the oldest.
Enough with the dissembling but I felt that background would lend some clarity to their later actions.
Being away from my parents my senior year was an unexpected blessing but even with this benefit the dark miasma of self deprecation never completely dissipated. John Milton's absence was never replaced by anyone. I had friends in school but not any one close. My role there was peripheral at best and the efforts to be invisible remarkably effective. That year of my life is most remarkable for what it did not have and this vacancy was the rudder that allowed it some forward momentum.
Graduation brought the inevitable choice to stay in Farmville and find a job or live with my family and study art at a small college where they lived. The thought of living at home again was an anathema but the alternative of a life in Farmville selling women's underwear equally appalling. I have no idea what motivated my choice for college not that of Farmville.
The trip to Richmond in Mama Mabel's car only lacked a hearse to make it a full fledged cortege. She scrupulously avoided any mention of the anticipated problems in store. Of course I could not bring it up. It was with this air of apprehension and denial that we arrived late that Friday afternoon. One look at my father's expression showed that he felt the same as I about my return home. Mama left the next day not Sunday as planned to escape the oppressive and strained tension evident between him and me. I was accepted into the Fine Art's program and the preparations for the upcoming semester helped to muffle at least some of the mutual distrust.
Alone and with the students enrolled to study art was both intimidating and deliciously stimulating. Being used to the plaids and plain denims of small town North Carolina had not prepared me for the fumy fashions of big city sophistication. The strangeness in no way diminished my fascination, even attraction to this foreign milieu. My classes were as I had anticipated tepid but not exactly boring with the exception of my drawing and painting class. It was held in a medium sized room with big windows looking down from the third story unto the courtyard plaza held captive by the legion of student smokers. As was always my want I picked the easel in the back as far from the teacher's podium and desk as possible. I was busy unpacking my pencils and drawing pad oblivious to the others filling the class. A stray glance arrested any further movement as I stood raptly staring at the man behind the teacher's desk hardly daring to breathe. He was tall and held himself with the self assured posture of a person comfortable with being in control. His hair was black which made his pale complexion more vivid by its contrast.
The inevitable chatter and clatter of a class filling with students began to subside without a word from the teacher. He just stood waiting for everyone's attention. With a smile acknowledging their attention he introduced himself as Jet Hurt our instructor for the year. He briefly outlined the goals and time frame. I heard but did not register a single word rather it was only the sound of his voice which made me shiver. When I realized the class had started sketching I froze realizing I had not understood a word of his instructions. I hid behind my sketch pad and easel surreptitiously trying to figure out what I had missed. Unfortunately no two students seemed to be doing the same thing. I was at a complete loss. I could feel the color coming to my face as I saw the teacher making his way in my direction as he checked what each person was doing. He would stop occasionally to made a comment or ask a question. I even considered fleeing but was afraid that would cause even more repercussions. The moment of truth arrived and I could not look him in the eye instead I stood mute looking at the floor. He did not say anything but just continued past my area as if nothing significant had happened. I felt relief, embarrassment and guilt. I was so naive that I was unaware of the effect my teacher was having on me.
That was the longest two hours of my life all I could think about was getting out of that class and away before I made more of a fool of myself. I was gathering up my equipment after the bell trying to be as unobtrusive as possible. I glanced toward the front of the class room to find Mr. Hurt watching me intently. My discomfort increased when he motioned for me to resume my seat. I realized escape was futile at that point. I can remember that day and the subsequent days so vividly I will try to relate some of the dialogue. Please be patient because I will be alternating back and forth as I feel it necessary for an accurate retelling.
"Mr. Windham would you please explain what happened today," asked a serious unsmiling Mr. Hurt?
After several minutes I gulped my words stumbling out, "I am so sorry sir but I just did not hear your instructions and when I realized it. Ohm It was too late to ask without interrupting the class. I really am sorry and promise it will not happen again."
Still without smiling he continued, "Mr. Windham I asked the class to try to sketch something or someone that they held in their memory. Something they could never forget. Preferably something that had really changed their life. Do you think that is something you can do by this coming Thursday's class?"
Chastened and bright red I stammered, "Yes sir." I finally looked up for the first time. What I found there were startlingly clear blue eyes watching me intently. I saw something else that I did not understand but surprisingly was not frightened by it. The eyes belied the stern unsmiling scrutiny. He seemed to gradually relent and the beginning of a smile softened his face. Amusingly I was blithely unaware that I was absolutely enthralled by this tall strikingly handsome stern man. It was not until long afterwards that I recognized the similarity between him and John Milton. The black hair, glue eyes and clear pale complexion even a few freckles dusted across his nose and cheeks were the same. The rest of the day was lost on me as I kept finding Mr. Hurt's face everywhere. My subconscious seemed to take over allowing me to participate in the day's remaining functions. I was already planning ways to make amends and undo the damage of my first day's disgrace. It was almost as if I awoke from a deep sleep when I realized that I was home not even really certain how I had arrived. I made no attempt join in that evening's rituals of after supper TV. Instead I retreated to my distant room in the lower section of their tri-level. It never dawned on me that my preoccupation was anything out of the ordinary or unusual. I was determined to do a really good drawing for Thursday. The only thing I could think about was doing justice to my mind's eye picture of John Milton. I began sketching as the many memories and happy moments took control. My sketching became an extension of these thoughts forming without any conscious decisions of my own. My intense concentration on the details and complexities of the rendering continued well into the night. When my eyes began to ache and fingers cramp I realized it was time to stop. I had wanted to draw the moment John Milton had held me reassuring me that everything would be ok. I put everything aside finally succumbing to sleep.
Thursday morning found me in the drawing classroom at 8:00 a full hour before it started. I scrupulously cleaned his chalk board and set up his easel and demonstration area. By the time I had finished putting the room in order students started trickling in laughing with the latest gossip being bantered back and forth. I was at my station when Mr. Hurt entered a little before 9:00. I could not hide my blush as he noticed the effects of my industry. He raised an eyebrow looking up at the class he quickly settled on me and my obvious embarrassment. A small smile and an undetectable nod acknowledged my efforts without anyone else knowing. We were instructed to finish the drawings started Tuesday and to let him know when we finished.
Glancing around the room I was startled at the excellence of the varied efforts. I was especially intrigued by a beautifully detailed portrait of a cat and dog together. My sketch of John Milton took form as I drew in the shadows from that long ago memory. Few of the other drawings were of people most being objects and the like. Hands started signaling the completion of the projects. I was strangely reluctant to draw attention to myself. "Well, Mr. Windham I am pleased you seem to be paying attention today. Your drawing is interesting who are the figures," asked Mr. Hurt? "That is my cousin he was trying to help me with a problem. It happened a long time ago but I can remember it like it just happened. He is not just a cousin but my best friend but I never get to see him anymore. He is in West Point now."
Now, when I reflect about that interchange I realize how revealing it was to Jet. He scrupulously avoided indiscriminant questions and observations. I was just pleased by his compliments. It gave me no small comfort to be reinstated in his good graces. The routine of my coming early getting everything ready and in order continued as our friendship developed. I always brought my lunches with me and would either eat them in the class after all others had left or in the plaza if there were not too many smokers. So it seemed natural when Mr. Hurt joined me with a sandwich of his own. Not long after the honorifics were dropped in favor of first names and I found out that Jet was a nick name for Jethro Meriwether Hurt III. Here I was a very plain country boy becoming friends with this very handsome erudite man. It was with reverential hero worship that I approached our friendship. I appreciated just how lucky I was to be singled out for Jet's friendship but that friendship never intruded into the classroom. One Thursday our routine changed when Jet asked me to come by his apartment for lunch. I had never visited him at his home.
We walked after class about three blocks away from the school to a renovated brownstone in a nice simple neighbor hood. Hi lived in a small apartment on the second floor. For a country boy used to a home being furnished from the Farmville Furniture and Funeral Home it was wonderfully extraordinary. We sat at a small round table between the kitchen and living room with a big window as the backdrop. The table was already set and there was a small vase of fresh flowers. He had prepared an astonishingly fragrant soup which was delicious and rich. Flavors I had never encountered but exciting to discover. I realize now it was a mulligatawny soup with curry. At that moment I may have well been eating soup from the moon. I met my first whole loaf of bread that lunch as well. I was startled when Jet just tore off a hunk and proceeded to slather it with butter. I had just about reached my saturation point with new experiences when he ended the meal with a little molded rice dish for dessert. It was a mix of rice, custard, nuts and candied fruit with a little custard poured over the top. I had never seen anything remotely like it. He had a wonderful time enjoying my incredulity and astonishment. I ate every morsel and would have eaten more except it would have been too embarrassing (my how the times have changed) so I declined Jet's offer of seconds. It surprised me when Jet mentioned it was time to leave because I had a 3:00 class. I had been totally unaware of the passage of time. We were putting on our jackets and I was still babbling on about the lunch when I looked up at Jet because he was so quiet. He was looking down at me with those magic blue eyes and I was hypnotized by their intensity. It was at that moment he leaned down drawing me into his arms with a gentle but heart stopping kiss. I remember vividly thinking, my god I am kissing a man! It took me only seconds to overcome my surprise and reach up making certain the kiss did not end too soon. Without warning my eyes started brimming over with tears which rapidly devolved into the release of tears pent up for years. Naturally Jet was startled by this explosion of emotion. He held me to him with the same comfort that I had found in John Milton's sheltering arms. As I regained some semblance of composure he told me everything would be ok and that he would never do anything to hurt me. There was no chance I would attend my Art History class so he took my jacket off and we sat down on his couch. He was still holding me with my head on his chest and the only thing audible was my subdued sniffles and gradually slowing breathing.
It was in that enchanted protected place that the afternoon rays of sunlight made everything glow with warm golden colors. I learned that Jet had known he was gay since his tenth year. An only child his mother had known as well and never discouraged him from being himself. I found out he had had experiences all thru his maturation and as late as last spring an affair of a few months. I was brimming over with questions about being gay and just what it meant. I told him about that first day and what really had happened much to his glee and my discomfort. I told him about John Milton but not my family. I was ashamed of that part of my past and could not bear the thought he might learn about it. He told me about watching me that first day and he had been well aware that I was staring at him. I looked into those gentle eyes and decided that more practice on kissing was in order. My teacher was more than willing to oblige.
That's it for now. I hope you enjoyed this bit about how my life began. I enjoy your comments.
Vindskinke@hotmail.com