December 1968, I was fifteen years old. It is an age that blends personal doubt with the potential of discovery. The previous year, I tacitly accepted I was gay and began to move parts of me into a dark closet.
I saw life events differently earlier on than many of my peers. I enjoyed reading books beyond my grade level. Where many kids preferred to be in a group, I was comfortable being by myself. The Miramichi River by the family home was my playground.
While I was comfortable with seclusion, an odd thing began happening. I was becoming the reluctant leader of a misfit group I hung with. It may have had something to do with being physically rugged and able to talk my way into and out of situations. (Locals called it “the gift of the gab.”)
On a sunny, cold December day, one of my friends, Michael, came by to announce that a skating party was being held that afternoon at our local outdoor rink. Michael had a serious nerdy look that would become popular in movies featuring the 1960’s. He was a good guy. But he always had a nervous chatter going on. On this day, he was really wound up.
“It’s going to be a blast. I heard there is supposed to be music. And you know there will be lots of hot girls,” he said. “C’mon, get your skates. I will wait for you.”
Skating was near the top of the many athletic skills I had not mastered. Still, my mother had overheard the conversation and was standing behind and prodding me to go.
“That’s a good idea, Douglas. You need to take a break from reading. Your skates are up in the attic.”
While my older brothers were good skaters, they had not taken the time to pass along the skill. I was okay with that until this moment. Michael persisted, and I knew Mother would not give up, so I reluctantly climbed into the attic for the skates. And, of course, there they were, hung up with the other pairs belonging to my brothers. I looked them over, hoping to find them dull and rusted, but not a chance. They were shiny and sharp.
I then remembered that Mom told my oldest brother, John, to bring mine with him to be sharpened. I was out of options and cursed as the closing attic door narrowly missed hitting me on the head.
Michael and I walked the short distance to the community rink. He was nattering on like a wind-up toy monkey while I was getting a headache. My final hope was that the school custodian, cranky old Bert, had forgotten to flood the rink the previous night, or maybe a hole had opened up and swallowed the ice!
As we rounded the corner, we met a bee hive of activity with parents dropping off their kids. The rink was packed with skaters, and the music was blaring.
Michael saw the rest of our oddball gang and walked over to them, immediately chattering about the many “hot babes” on the ice. Michael and the other guys started toward the warming shack, where most people put on their skates.
I chose a snow bank to avoid attention. I slowly pulled on the skates and began lacing them up.
“You guys go ahead. I will be out in a minute,” I said, trying to sound casual. “My laces are all knotted up.”
I understand the theory of skating is to glide by pushing your right foot out, followed by the left, creating a fluid motion. I was a good student because I could read and understand the theory. It was the same in Boy Scouts. I had many theory badges, but throw me a rope and tell me to tie a sheepshank? I hope somebody’s safety didn’t depend on me.
On this day, theory and practice met. I stepped onto the ice with a death grip on the rink boards. My friends came from the warming shack, saw me and flew across, stopping and spraying a shower of ice crystals.
I tried to act cool by leaning one arm on the rink boards but realized too late that it threw off my balance. I fell on my butt, landing like a sack of potatoes. A chorus of hoots and laughter greeted this.
“Hey, I slipped. I hurt my foot yesterday!”
The world of teenagers is something like the animal kingdom. The strongest rules the pack until one day, one or more of the followers spot a weakness in him. David, my cousin and confidante, was the first.
“Holy Jeez, you can’t skate, can ya?”
At first, I blustered. “Damn right, I can and beat you any time! I haven’t been out since last winter, just a bit rusty.”
But the others smelled blood. Kevin was beside me and began showing off by skating backward; he was good.
“Skate out to center ice,” he taunted.
I didn’t move; if I tried, I was bound to repeat the first fall. My secret was out.
My friends had not known until now that their leader was a cow on ice.
“Yeah, have your fun. It’s not my fault I got a rotten pair of skates,” I protested angrily.
“Ah, it’s okay,” said David, suppressing a laugh. “We can get a chair and push you around the rink!”
The humiliation was complete as they roared with laughter. After a bit more ribbing, they offered to show me how it was done. Kevin said he would hold me up, but that was too shameful to accept. I went hand in hand along the boards, climbed over to a snowbank and dejectedly took the skates off.
Afterward, I walked over to our school in the same yard. Free hot chocolate and cookies were being served by some of the parents.
“It’s a great day for skating, eh?” the lady at the table offered, passing me a drink.
“Yeah, it sure is, and lots of people too!” I replied enthusiastically, still trying to maintain the self-imposed facade. When I returned with the hot chocolate, my buddies were skating effortlessly around the rink, some holding hands with girls.
I had already planned a quiet exit when a guy I had seen from another class came over. We chatted easily about the big crowd and the ice conditions. I was back in my element of theory, so I was comfortable. His name was Gerald. I had seen him in another group at scout meetings. He was about my height and build with black wavy hair and deep blue eyes that seemed to look right through me.
I began feeling awkward, unable to direct or anticipate the conversation, but something told me it was okay. As we talked about school and scouts, I realized how much we had in common.
Our conversation swung over to books we had read. We debated, and time flew by. It was neat talking with a guy my age about things that interested us both. I felt a strange mixture of emotions I had never experienced. I liked it a lot, but at the same time, it was scary.
In the back of my mind, I wondered if he was setting me up to walk away laughing, accusing me of being gay. That humiliation would be too much to handle. In this small rural community, an accusation like that had destroyed some persons I knew.
Even at my young age, I had worked hard to create an image of masculinity that would fit the village narrative. With my few previous sexual experiences, I attempted to make an emotional bond, but with each, I was pushed away. The rejections reinforced my decision to be alone and to bring my shame with me.
Gerald didn’t push me away; instead, the conversation and laughter kept flowing as the skating party began to wind down and parents returned to retrieve their kids. My friends came around the corner to announce they were headed down to Marg’s canteen, our local hangout. I said I would follow shortly with no intention of doing so. After they left, our conversation turned to movies.
“Have you seen the new Clint Eastwood movie, The Good, the Bad and the Ugly?” Gerald asked.
“Not yet, but any of his movies are great,” I responded. “I like how he goes in and gets it done when everyone else is afraid to do anything.”
“I know, and he doesn’t waste time just talking,” Gerald said. “Listen, I was thinking of going on Saturday. Do you want to go? Dad could drive us and pick us up after.”
I played it cool until I got my breath back. My friends and I went places together, but this was different. This guy I met asked if I wanted to go to a movie with him. Was this a date?
“Yeah, sure, that sounds great,” I responded casually.
We agreed they would pick me up at my house.
Walking the short distance back home, I felt deliriously happy. All problems evaporated, and the sky was never more beautiful. My sister and mother looked at me curiously as I came in the door smiling.
Later, I went down to meet Dad as he left work for the day. I did that occasionally. It was my time, alone with him, to talk. As we walked, he commented that he had not seen me so upbeat in a long time. I wanted to tell him everything that happened in the last few hours. A wave of sadness washed over me as I realized I could not share my joy.
While my parents generally accepted new trends that came and went in our home. This was something very different. They were strong Catholics, or at least Mom was, and Dad followed suit. To be gay and Catholic in New Brunswick during the sixties and for decades afterward was to be in the pipeline to hell.
I was not a firm believer in the faith. From the perspective of an observant young gay male, I had read and seen too much hypocrisy and prejudice in the Church, not to mention a “handsy” priest.
I felt my brothers and sisters wouldn’t care much about the church curse. Their concern would be how far the shadow would spread, causing them to be isolated. The potential family response, combined with the gay jokes and slurs from others, was enough to keep my ray of sunshine hidden.
After supper, I replayed the afternoon events in my mind. At that early age, I was already a master at second-guessing and analysis, all to maintain my perceived armour of masculinity. Was I reading too much into Gerald’s invitation? He came “from away.” That could be how things were done in other places.
I didn’t sleep well that night, alternating between intimate dreams with my potential boyfriend and a nightmare of an emotional crash when he said I got it all wrong with him. I was up early and went for a soul-searching walk in the quiet village, which helped me settle. Afterward, I enjoyed a long bath with none of the other nine in my family banging on the one-bathroom door. I dressed later, putting on my favourite burgundy sweater and black pants.
I brushed my hair, looking for a new style, but settled for “tidy,” my old standby. I put a bit of Dad’s Old Spice on to seal the deal.
“You look very nice, Douglas,” Mom commented as she came from the basement with a basket of clothes to hang on the line.
“Yeah, I’m going to a movie with a friend from school,” I responded almost too casually.
“That sounds like fun. Do you need some money?” she asked.
“No, I have lots from the pulp I sold last week.”
I had done so well that I could buy the coat she had admired from Eaton’s catalogue. The price of salvaged pulp was high, so I had plenty of money left over.
On Saturday, I would usually help Mom hang out the clothes. Still, she said nothing as she opened the small doors on the porch wall leading to the outside and the clothesline. I sat next to her on the old mirrored bench.
“Sorry, I can’t help you today,” I said nervously, tapping my foot.
“Don’t worry. I’m glad to see you happy. Sometimes I wonder if you spend too much time alone, Douglas. I mean, you never give your father and me cause to worry. Your grades are good, and you help me around the house. But you need to enjoy yourself too.
Are you happy, Douglas?” she asked, looking at me softly.
At that moment, I wanted to pour out my soul to her with the daily weight I carried. But I knew it would just move the load from me to her, and she had more than enough worry about raising her family.
“I’m okay.” I stood up, took a sheet from the tattered plastic laundry basket and passed it to her. “I met this guy at school, and it turns out we like a lot of the same stuff. His dad is driving us to the theatre and picking us up. I will be back for supper.”
“Sounds like a plan,” Mom responded, closing the clothesline doors. “You know you and I are a lot alike, Douglas. We are quiet deep pools. You can trust me to talk about anything,” she said as she tussled my hair gently.
“Yes, I know, thanks,” I responded quietly as I pulled on my Sunday jacket and headed outside to wait for Gerald and his father.
Gerald’s dad’s new candy apple red Ford Mustang pulled into our driveway. The car purred powerfully as I got in the back seat while Gerald sat with his dad. He introduced us. His father insisted I call him Reg. We never had a car, but that didn’t stop me from reading about the new models for 1968, and this Mustang was near the top. Reg was also a car hound, so we talked about the new design, especially the mighty 390 cu in engine. He let us out in front of the Uptown theatre. Gerald said we would probably get a burger at Zellers down the street, so Reg could pick us up here at five pm.
In the theatre, as we got our popcorn and drinks, Gerald whispered, “Dad likes you. He says most of my friends only talk in grunts.”
I replied casually, secretly pleased, “My dad says the same thing about young lads today. I like talking with most people.”
We sat near the back where the best view and least talking happened. I didn’t go to many movies, but I loved the atmosphere, the subtle lighting, the hushed tones as people found their seats, and the enormous red velvet curtains when it opened, whisper quiet, and the theatre lights dimmed. We munched our popcorn and didn’t talk much except when our hero, Clint, squinted and proclaimed, “Just watch me.”
Partway through the movie, my wallet fell from my pocket, landing between our seats. I was trying to watch the action scene and fish it out at the same time. I felt Gerald’s hand brush mine. I pulled back, shocked. Did he do that to help find the wallet or for another reason? My mind was racing. My heart threatened to jump from my chest. There was an awkward silence.
Now I might find out if we could be more than friends. This was my Rubicon, where fear was to meet possibility. I lowered my hand and felt my wallet while his hand slid beside mine again. I left it there briefly to show I was okay with his touch. Slowly, I lifted the wallet out, placing it securely in my pocket.
I followed this by doing something I had not allowed myself to imagine. I wrapped my little finger around his. He gently squeezed it. There we sat, two thrilled fifteen-year-old boys on the cusp of their first love.
Neither of us noticed the traditional grisly ending to Clint’s movie. We left the theatre awash in new emotions. I could have floated down the snow-covered street to the restaurant. Our conversation was awkwardly focused on the action in the movie. We found a quiet booth in the back. We ordered burgers and cokes.
For a few moments, a tentative silence followed. Gerald was the first to break it. “We moved here in June from Alberta.”
He spoke deliberately as he described growing up. He had a younger brother and sister.
“We move every five years or so. I’ve lived on two continents and in three countries since birth.”
He learned three languages during that time. He was fascinated with different cultures. His beautiful blue eyes were alive as he shared his experiences. I listened, hanging on his every word and wanting more.
Abruptly, Gerald stopped talking and gazed at the light snow falling on the street. I didn’t feel a need to fill the silence. I was content to be with him. He continued, mindful of other persons around, and his voice fell to a whisper. However, the area was now largely empty.
“Some parts of my life I like. I have learned so much from living with different people. But I never get to make real friends. Weirdly, I know more about you than most others I have lived around for years. You are different, you listen, and I feel comfortable around you.
“The other thing is that I can’t share something about myself, making settling into a new place challenging.
“Doug, I am gay. I like guys, and I really like you,” he said, looking directly at me. His sparkling blue eyes had clouded over as a tear slid down his face. “I guess you already knew that.”
He looked down shyly. I reached across the table, holding his hand, not caring who saw it.
“I feel the same about you, Gerald. I didn’t think I could get to say this out loud. I am gay, too.” I could feel myself blushing, and my heart was racing once again. “It makes me so happy you are the first to hear it,” I said, gazing at him. “I haven’t had the life you have or travelled anywhere and know I am poorer for it.
The people in Miramichi are good, decent folks. But they don’t do ‘different’ very well.
“I will leave after High School and get to where I am accepted for who I am. Who knows, maybe we will make that trip together,” I said, wiping away his tears. We sat in comfortable silence.
A car horn and the realization that it was dark outside brought us out of our reverie. We quickly paid our bill and went out to his father’s car. This time, Gerald sat close to me in the back seat. If his dad noticed, he said nothing. Instead, we picked up our comfortable chatter about cars. All the time, Gerald and I quietly held hands, exchanging occasional affectionate looks.
After that afternoon, we were inseparable, spending most days at his place but occasionally at my raucous home. On one of those days, Gerald called me early.
“Doug, let’s go skating.” I froze at the word and the memory of my friends laughing at me. Gerald continued before I could manufacture an excuse.
“I saw you with your friends, and I don’t think it’s fair for you to keep making excuses. Mom taught me to figure skate when I was three, and I played hockey when we were in Germany. I want to share the skill with you. I promise we will take it slow and no fancy stuff. You can trust me.”
I wasn’t used to hearing those words, but I did trust him. “Okay,” I said. “And no fancy spins or trying to throw me in the air.”
“I will throw you in the snow bank if you get too lippy,” Gerald said, laughing.
There had been a few days without snow, and the ice was bare near Beaubear’s Island.
An hour later, we were lacing our skates up. Gerald stood up and held his hand out to help me up. I exhaled deeply, not sure if this would work. In two hours, I went from being rigid as a statue holding on to him to starting, skating and stopping quickly by myself.
The sharp, sizzling sound of my skates on the ice boosted my confidence. As I raced with Gerald, the cold wind on my face was exhilarating. In another hour, he showed me some slick moves he learned in hockey. Walking back from the island, I wanted to shout out to anybody: I could skate! I could hardly wait for the next free skate day at the rink.
On some days, we returned to the island across the frozen windswept river. It was my refuge, and now I gladly shared it with him. We spent hours walking the trails and often just sat and experienced the solitude it offered. On one of those days, we were sitting on a large piece of driftwood looking across the river to my Nelson.
“This, the island, your village. It’s so beautiful. It hasn’t been destroyed by industry like so many of the places I have lived.” He turned to look at me now with a sense of earnestness. “Doug, why can’t we live here? We could go to university, get jobs and settle here.”
Now, it was me who became quiet.
“Gerald, you see the beauty, and there is. But to live here, we could not be who we are. I couldn’t kiss you like I want to so much, so often.
We couldn’t hold hands, and when people found out we were gay, some would make our lives miserable. I’ve seen this happen. No, this can’t be our home.” His eyes grew moist as the realization sank in. We fell silent.
On other days, we would snowshoe in the acres of woodland behind his home for hours. We would meet some people setting rabbit traps, but neither of us could imagine hurting another creature. After our woods walk, we would go back to Gerald’s home.
His mother welcomed me warmly when we first met. While my mom was quiet and cautious, Barbara was lively and open. She never assumed to judge Gerald or me and delighted in listening as we recounted our daily experiences. Other times, we would have lively discussions over political happenings. She heard and respected our opinions; however naïve they may have sounded. She insisted I use her first name when we talked. It made me feel special.
On the occasional days she was not home, Gerald and I listened to music in his large bright bedroom. I contrasted it with the humble quarters I shared with my brother Bill.
Gerald had a big record collection and a great stereo system. We had the same interest in music, preferring artists with a message rather than the latest bang, crash, boom band sweeping the nation.
While chilling one afternoon, listening to a James Taylor album, Gerald leaned across the bed and kissed me. Like at the theatre, I pulled back but quickly recovered and returned his gentle kiss. It was beautiful, and I wanted more. He felt the same.
We spent the next half hour curiously discovering each other. Afterward, we just lay on his bed with me cradled in his arms, in no hurry to move. I felt safe.
As we left his bedroom, I heard his mother downstairs in the kitchen. Gerald told me he was out to his parents, who had talked openly about having safe sex. I must have looked stunned because he hugged me and said we were okay. I agreed.
Later, on my walk back home, I tried to sort through the events of the past few hours. I had experienced my first kiss from a boy. After our sexual experience, we had laid comfortably together with no urgency or desire to leave.
My boyfriend told me he was out to his parents, who wanted him to be safe and enjoy sex. The remorse and guilt that had been ground into my Catholic conscience were being replaced by a feeling of freedom and joy I could never have imagined.
The next day was Christmas Eve. Gerald’s mom had invited me for supper. I was uncertain whether Barbara wanted me to come or was just being polite. When I hesitated, she insisted that she and Reg wanted me to be there. I readily said yes. I checked with Mom, and she said it was okay, and I would need to be back by the eight o’clock Christmas Eve Mass. I was scheduled to be an altar server.
At five o’clock, I knocked on their door. Gerald answered. He wore a dark blue cashmere sweater highlighting his eyes and a killer pair of slim black jeans. I wanted to kiss him badly, but his folks and the younger kids stood behind him.
The ranch-style house was wonderfully decorated everywhere I looked. It must have taken them hours. Gerald laughingly said they worked as a team under Barbara’s direction. Their Christmas tree was to the right of the stone fireplace. I was amazed, looking at the beautiful decorations and the subtle lights that covered what appeared to be every square inch of space.
I smiled and thought of our family’s tree. As usual, Dad had drilled holes and stuck in branches to cover the bare spots. After that, he tied it in the corner to keep it from falling. It developed a chronic droop to the left. Our generation’s old decorations and bulbs were placed haphazardly on the sad facsimile of a tree. I pushed that image away. I was where I wanted to be, with the guy I loved.
The family and I sat in the living room. Gerald was beside me. The scent of his cologne was seductive. Fortunately, I was distracted by his dad, who had recently been at a company meeting in Texas. He had been on a tour of the Ford Motor plant in Houston, where they produced the 1969 version of the Mustang Fastback convertible. He showed me the catalogue with pictures and detailed specifications. We enthusiastically talked about the new design and powerplant. Gerald was content to look on and occasionally touched my back, sending currents of pleasure through me.
We were called to the supper table, where an elaborate meal had been prepared. After a short prayer of thanks, Barbara said to dive in. I followed Gerald’s lead on what silverware to use. I was hungry after the mile walk to his home. At the end of the meal, I emerged unscathed, not having spilled anything on my Church sweater. I offered to help with the dishes, but Barbara said she and Reg had it covered.
Gerald’s younger brother and sister went to watch their favourite Christmas movie, leaving us alone beside the tree. I excused myself to go to the closet where I got my gift for him, Simon and Garfunkel’s greatest hits.
“Wow, this album is what I have been looking for. Where did you find it?”
“I was hoping you would like it,” I replied. “I ordered it from the record catalogue my older brothers have.”
“Thanks a lot, Doug.” He kissed me gently. “I got you something.”
He reached into his pocket and passed me a small, carefully wrapped gift with a gold bow. I unwrapped the colourful paper. It was a small red velvet-covered box. It held a silver ring. I had no idea how he knew, but it fit my baby finger beautifully. He engraved it: “Doug & Gerald. Dec 24, 1968”.
I was overwhelmed and teared up a bit. Gerald took me in his arms, and we lay there till his father called out for anybody to play a game of Monopoly.
Later, Gerald came with me to the evening mass, joining my parents and some siblings in the congregation. As a regular altar server, I knew my job well. In idle moments, I stole glances at Gerald. Each time he smiled in return. I struggled to maintain my usual stolid composure.
My life had changed so much in the three weeks since I met Gerald. To this point in my young life, I had walked on eggshells, not allowing myself to express who I was. Now, I was walking on a bank of big fluffy clouds without fear of my future.
A week after that Christmas Eve experience, Gerald called me. It was almost 10 p.m. I was in bed when my brother shouted downstairs to say Gerald was on the phone. His voice was breaking as he began.
“Doug, we are leaving; Dad’s been assigned to some fucking place in Australia. I don’t want to go. I want to stay here with you!”
He sobbed uncontrollably. I got him to calm down and talk slowly.
The news was worse than I could imagine. Gerald’s dad had just told the family he was being transferred to a plant in Perth, Australia. He was to be there the following week because of a site accident that caused massive damage. Arrangements would be made for his family to be moved the second week of January. I slumped against the kitchen wall, almost dropping the receiver. After I recovered from the shock, we talked a bit more, agreeing we would meet the next day.
Mom and Dad in the adjoining room heard enough to know something terrible was occurring in my life. When I hung up, it was Mom who spoke first.
“Douglas, has something happened with Gerald?”
I broke down crying as I told them. To this point, my parents did not understand the intensity of my relationship with Gerald. How could they? I had deliberately shut them out, fearing they would not understand and try to separate us. Mom tried to console me. Dad put down his paper and reached awkwardly for words of support to help his son.
“I’m sorry to hear your friend is going.”
I went upstairs to my bedroom. Fortunately, my brother Bill was sleeping over at a friend’s house. I threw myself onto my bed and sobbed into my pillow.
I spent the rest of the night like that, finally drifting into a fitful sleep.
Gerald and I had agreed to meet at his place around nine the following day. When I got there, I looked like I felt exhausted. He appeared at the door looking the same. Instead of going to his room, we walked outside. I saw his mom looking anxiously out the living room window. I managed a wave. I put my arm around him. We walked a while, saying nothing. He was the first to speak.
“I am so sorry, Doug. I hate this life where I get a hint of happiness, and then it gets blown away because of his stupid work.” His voice was hoarse from crying.
“You can’t apologize for something neither of us caused or can control,” I said. “I want you to write me every week, and I will do the same if you can read my hen scratch.”
“Yeah, it does look like a hen or something walked across the page.”
He managed a weak laugh.
We spoke anxiously about our future and one of us visiting the other. It was obviously not going to be me. But even as we discussed a relationship, we both knew it would be impossible to sustain what we had. The cold reality we faced consumed us like a deep winter storm.
The day before the family moved, Barbara called my mother, asking if I could come to supper with them.
Mom readily agreed, hoping it would bring me out of a deepening depression I had been in since hearing the news. My oldest brother drove me to their house. He felt terrible for me, but much like our dad, the right words were beyond his grasp. I promised to be ready by 8 p.m.
The near-empty house I entered bore little resemblance to the welcoming, cozy place of Christmas Eve. Our voices echoed as we tentatively greeted each other. Gerald’s brother hugged me and then ran away in tears. He and I had become good friends.
The movers had emptied most of the house, with the rest ready to go the next day. Three large pizza boxes announced the menu for our final meal together. Barbara tried to lighten the mood by telling stories of previous wrong moves. We managed to eat only a portion of the meal.
Gerald and I retreated to his room, which now held only his bed. The closet was empty, and the walls were bare. We sat in near silence.
But the silence was not uncomfortable.
We had met at precisely the time we needed each other the most. Emotionally, we matured by leaps and bounds like some secret force was driving us. I spoke, my voice breaking.
“I didn’t know I could dare to allow you into my life. I had built up some big walls. And suddenly, there you were, proudly beside me. I learned I could be happy with who I was and love you, and the sky wouldn’t fall.”
I looked over at the tears streaming freely down his handsome face. We stood beside the bed, knowing it would be our last private moment together. Our kiss was warm, and neither wanted to break it. We went downstairs at eight.
My brother drove into the driveway as I pulled on my winter jacket. Gerald’s mother gave me a big hug. She then surprised me by thanking me for the joy and love I had given to her son.
Gerald stepped outside with me. He gathered me in his strong arms and kissed me gently in full view of my brother. I did not resist. We said goodbye, and as I got into the car, there were no tears, only a feeling of my good fortune.
As we drove out of the lane, my brother said quietly, “I think you are a lucky guy to have known Gerald.” I agreed.
The week after Gerald had left, I called Michael and asked if he wanted to go to the free skating party that afternoon. He seemed surprised I was calling and even more shocked that I wanted to repeat last month’s embarrassment. We agreed to meet at the rink.
He arrived with other guys, expecting to watch the Cow on Ice show. I already had my skates on and was practicing some speed racing before the others came on. I impressed myself with how fast I could go as I skated up to the group, covering them with a liberal snow shower.
I grinned, shot out to the center of the ice, and did a wicked twirl and jump. When I joined, the guys banged the boards and whooped with approval.
“Holy frig, Doug, that is some wicked skating. How did you learn that so fast?” Kevin asked.
“Oh, a friend of mine that I trusted showed me some stuff.”
“Well, you should try out for the school hockey team,” David said. “With that speed and size, you are a shoo-in.”
“We haven’t seen ya for a while,” Paddy said, slyly glancing at the others for support.
“Yeah, I met a new guy at school. We have been hanging out a lot. His name is Gerald, and he taught me to skate,” I replied.
“He not here now?” Paddy asked, looking for a new angle of attack.
“No, he moved to Australia with his folks.”
“So, your boyfriend is gone, eh!” Paddy fired the shot that would have hurt me deeply a short time ago.
“Yeah, he is, but hey, Paddy, if a good-looking guy fell for me, then there is still a possibility some dog could fall for you!”
There was a brief pause; then, the group exploded with laughter. I had come back with a burden lifted from my shoulders.
As a post-script to this story, I want to say I kept moving forward with my sexuality and newfound self-confidence or that Gerald and I reconnected and began our life together. Neither of those scenarios happened. I returned to my previous life for over two decades, even to the point of marriage to a woman.
Eventually, I found the courage to tell her I was gay and ended the relationship. We remained good friends, agreeing that was all we should have been from the start.
As for Gerald, we have lost contact. But I am blessed with the love of a man who is now my husband. I am experiencing a much deeper joy I could not know in my youth.
