It was the summer of my senior year of highschool. I graduated with honors; a far away college accepted me and I had arrived with my luggage in arm, nervous to meet my adult colleagues. It was named FairWay College. My conservative parents were suspicious, they had never heard of this school, and threatened to withhold their approval, recommending me to attend a catholic conservatory near our home town. I would have other family attending the conservatory as well, two cousins. But after pleading, my mother saw how much leaving meant to me, and they conceded, on the promise that I call the family once a week.427Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ0g3usVAwY0
FairWay was two states from the boondocks I called home, in a city called Fenelton. It took my father and I two an’ half days to drive all the way there. My mother never learned, didn’t desire to either. When we arrived, my father kept quiet, hiding his scrutiny for the colenctic young people behind his thick brows, rubbing his beard between quick jokes to my mother.
The school focused on social science, queer rights, gender therory. The city it was planted into 150 years ago hung rainbow flags on the light posts during october, the people there participated in marches year round to fight for minority rights. There was even a naked bike ride through the city, where hundreds of brave people gathered, unclothed, adorned in bright flashy decorations, Christmas lights, body paint. It was a very body positive event, even if a majority of the population didn’t participate, everyone celebrated, or at the very least, were happily surprised by the events. The city was the country’s leading proponent for liberation amongst minority groups, producing many brave figures. Proud to be apart, I was nervous on my own, excited to form myself without any influence from my traditional parents, and interested in the adventures which youthful spontaneity could only create.
After the campus tour, we all sat silently in the car for a moment like raising heat, resting. The school was paved partly with new asphalt, there were quaint exposures of the past, old and dilapidated stretches of uneven brick which the tour took to show each of the campus’s old-world buildings. My father turned the car off, the parking lot smelled of oil, the air hung thick in our van. Tired, I laid my head onto the window, worried that I may not fit in with the expressive peoples who attended this school. My father wrapped around the front seat to face me. My mother followed suit in the passenger.
He let out a low, long sigh through his bumpy nose, studying the shine of my shoes, “Your mother and I worry about you staying here. How do I say this… the people around here…” My father was having trouble using one word: Gay.
But my mother was not shy, “Baby,” she began, relieving my father with a rub on his back, “I don’t think this is a place of God. Daddy and I’ve been looking around, and we talked about it, and we’re worried about leaving you around this stuff. It’ll infect you, baby.”
My father, feeling more emboldened, spoke up, “ The city ain't a place for kids to grow, it gives ya funny ideas of what’s right in this world.”
Mother’s voice transitioned to a softer tone, the one she used when I was too sick to go to school and she would rub her hand across my warm forehead, telling me to just rest. But this time, she was using it to manipulate me, “are you sure you don’t want to go to that college near home? We’d be able to see you a whole lot more than if you were here.”
My initial experience of the school was pleasant; my professors were cordgal, as were the students. The grounds were attached to the city in such a way to provide an overwhelming number of adorable cafes to study in. The city itself was dashing. There was a central river which glissined at dawn, dividing the city in two. It was my favorite part, always captivating, day or night, but, I will say, at dusk, when the sun falls just below the city’s surrounding valley walls. The water shimmers, its surface unstill, and like bits of magic, the city reflects perfectly upon the increasingly inky river.
Stars twinkle there too, the whole galaxy reflects before me while I stand atop one of the many bridges stretching across the water.
I managed to obtain housing in the upper east-side from a homeowner who rented out their upstairs to students during the academic year. They were nice, quiet, and often travelled for weeks at a time for work. The home itself was well furnished with pieces from Africa, Asia, and Italy. Their late wife was, “a world traveler who only settled in the grave”. The owner told me, in a nostalgic low tone, that my room was once a nursery, and then their child’s room, and finally, a guest room, which kept them company in their lonelier years, “ya’ll also water my plants and feed Paddy”, they said smiling. Although frail looking, in need of a cane to walk, the owner travelled often as a reporter, focusing heavily on the rising population of Nazis in the United States. They always carried a notebook in their breast-pocket, a small pencil between their sprouting ears.
The guest room was larger than the one I shared at home, and was painted a lovely sky-blue which imbued the space with a sense of serenity. It had a personal bathroom attached to the farthest wall on the right, and a walk-in closet embedded into the same wall as the entryway. In addition, the owner arranged the furniture expertly; a queen sized bed dressed with a crimson comforter and three orange pillows; a bay window beyond its quaint, natural looking headboard, gave sight to a sea of city lights, redlights travelling away on the bridge.
In the week before classes began, I took to decorating and personalizing my room with pictures of family and friends, arranged my desk in the corner, filled the bookshelf with textbooks and the semester’s expected readings. The main segment of my room was clean and ready for the year, and so it came to unpacking my clothes into the closet. I hung my shirts, put my folded jeans up, and realized, with my hands resting on my hips, that in no way could I fill the closet with my clothes, and in fact, due to my minimal material existence, the whole of my belongings could reside in the closet comfortably. Furthermore, while arranging my closet, I came upon something that years of horror movies had stricken with a sinister foreboding presence; in the far corner near the ceiling, on the top shelf in farthest reaches of the closet, a box remained, labeled, ‘Christmas decorations’, and to avoid inconsistency in my organization, I moved the box, which revealed a closed hatch to a room above my own.
Surprised, I took solace in the above room’s enclosure, but the idea remained in the back of my mind of something taking solitude there, hidden away, perhaps waiting for a moment of vulnerability to crawl forth sinisterly into my room. In those moments, reason prevailed, and I assumed that the room was for maintenance, a crawl space full to the brim with wire, or plumbing for my personal bathroom. My ignorance of general housing construction let me ignore my fear, and replace it with uneasy wonder. The hatch served to be great conversational material while conversing with my new friends. One person in particular; a man named Danie.
Danie charmed me. He was a sophomore, majoring in political science, hoping to one day change the United States for the better. We initially met at an after class study program. I overheard him discussing Food Deserts, and how they affect people all around us greatly, directly quoting a study done in my hometown. Between people surrounding him and his partner, I caught a glimpse of his handsome smile, the subtle black curl dangling before his browline. When the time came, I fished through the crowd encircling Danie and his discussion partner, and questioned him more over coffee. After coffee I insisted on showing him the hatch, as I needed a witness to confirm my unease. At that time, I took to placing a padlock on my closet’s door before I slept. How else am I to feel safe? He was taller than me, and I hoped to convince him to test the door’s openability.
We chatted briefly in my room before I showed him the object of my recent terror. He agreed that it was ominus, but remained cool-headed, unaffected on the surface, and explained how he too had a similar issue back home. In a week's time, we studied on the floor of my room, textbooks sprawled out every which way, I brought up a bag of chips to snack, and as a joke, Danie recommended we take our learning to the closet. Nervous but unwilling to reveal it, I laughed softly and smirked while thinking it over, then agreed. There was ample room for the two of us to lay like school kids, our legs bent up at the knee, feet dangling, and even further, there was space for our bags and books. We forgot about the hatch, and soon we abandoned our books altogether, becoming lost in our personal thoughts. A lull took our conversation and awkwardly, I distracted myself, biting my lower-lip slightly while looking at him, waiting for something to happen.
“Can I kiss you?” He asked, eyes studying.
Shocked and embarrassed, a boy had never asked me this before, my parents would not approve. My thoughts raced, my body stuck in its position, paralyzed by an overwhelming tingle. I feared that I may desire him to kiss me, and that desire, by some unforeseen cause, would reach my family, who unfortunately, obtained the ability to halt my academic funding.
Logic prevailed- Danie and I were secluded, we had closed the closet doors when we entered, and the homeowner was gone to investigate a radicalized far-right group in Oregon. Why would I decline myself?
“Yes, please.” My words came out quiet as a whisper, but Danie understood each one and took hold of my hip, sliding me into him.
From then on, the phone calls I had with my parents were full of little lies. They knew Danie as my best friend and local guide. They knew school was well and full of new excitement. I told them of only the surface of my life, and that satisfied them enough to remain academically focused with their questions. I was a good student but suffered in math all through lower education, and Danie being a kind Sats minor, tutored me. My parents appreciated it greatly. In the hours Danie and I spent together studying, I allowed him to kiss me and nothing further. I created entire fantasies around the cold touch of his hand on my bare side; he’d untucked my shirt, pinned me with his weight against the living room couch. I almost gave into him then. I had no reason not to allow him to ravage me right there, with no time to even fully remove my jeanes, nor his own. But a force within me shrivelled my excitement as his tongue traced behind my ear down my neck, ending with a kiss above my belly button. I froze, evacuated all further romance with a face that screamed desperately for him to stop.
Danie rose from between my legs, sitting himself comfortably at my feet, “Hey, don’t even worry about it. I’m not trying to pressure you.”
I crossed my arm, made myself small in the corner of the couch, “It’s not that I don’t want you to…”
And he reached over, grabbing my ankle, and unfurled me slightly from my protective shell, “You don’t have to explain yourself to me. These things take time, no need to rush. Sex is only fun when everyone’s in the game.”427Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡiM5kEnK3nN
