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On the surface she led a quiet and conventional life, at least conventional for a woman in the 1980s. Adding that qualifier meant that her mother disapproved, and that qualifier had been added to more than a few things in her life!
She was divorced, had just turned thirty-six, and shared her suburban townhouse with two cats, Cassidy (frequently called “Mama Cass”) and Jasper, an undemanding, affectionate gray tom. A sedate dark green Honda Accord sat in the two-stall garage, recently paid off after three years of payments. Her closet was full of conservative sweaters, blouses, and skirts, emphasizing her role as a serious-minded, gainfully-employed professional. She was still a practicing Catholic – earning her mother’s approval for at least one thing! – and attended mass on most Sundays. Her freezer contained a carton of single-serving cheese pizzas for a quick-to-grab lunch or supper for those remaining Fridays during the current Lenten season. Until a couple of months ago, she had been a member of a Catholic Singles group which met on Wednesday evenings. The topic of annulment came up frequently at these functions, the only way a divorced Catholic could marry again and remain in good standing with the Church. Unless, of course, the ex-spouse had died. Hers hadn’t, the last she had heard. But, then again, she hadn’t spoken to the man in better than five years.
Peggy eased herself from underneath the covers and padded softly to the bathroom. She could sleep in a little this morning since she was not required to be at the clinic until 11:00. Unfortunately, her bladder didn’t like to sleep in much past 6:00! Jasper silently jumped off the bed and trotted behind her into the bathroom, knowing that enough weaving between her feet and meowing would probably secure his breakfast before his human companion returned to bed.
This had been part of her unchanging routine for a number of years. She facilitated a group therapy session every Tuesday evening and had for most of her years as a nurse-psychotherapist at Franklin Behavioral Health Center. She was almost never home before 10:00 on those evenings, and a later start on Wednesday was compensation for the late night before.
She made a quick trip to the kitchen to pour a cupful of kibble into Jasper’s empty bowl (the one with Psycho Kitty printed on the side, although it had been purchased with “Mama Cass” in mind) and then returned to the bedroom.
”‘Morning, love,” Randy murmured, reaching out to her as she slid in beside him.
It was still dark, wouldn’t be full light outside for almost another two hours, and the house was cool. The bed was comforting with the warmth of his body next to hers. She molded herself against him as he drew her close, pressing her buttocks into that perfect “chair” made by his hips and slightly-flexed thighs as they spooned on their sides. He tightened his embrace as she settled in, and she felt him begin to swell and lengthen, the growing firmness nuzzling her backside. She knew that this Wednesday morning would begin as so many had in the past: drowsy cuddling and whispers, warm fondling and caresses, his expert knowledge of her body bringing her to several effortless climaxes before he finally allowed his own.
All so conventional. All so routine.
But just on the surface.
Her mother didn’t know about Randy in spite of their longstanding relationship, and perhaps never would. Her pastor had been introduced to him as a “friend” after an Ash Wednesday mass several years earlier, a morning service that they had attended together before departing in separate cars to drive to the same office building to begin their workday. Randy, in fact, had co-facilitated that Tuesday evening therapy group with her for quite some time, and they functioned well as a team, consulting on cases with each other and acting as co-therapists in family counseling sessions. Their mutual coworkers realized that they shared a warm friendship, but given the nature of their jobs, that was hardly a surprise. It was not fodder for clinic gossip, and they were not considered a couple in the personal sense, just a well-tuned and sensitive professional team.
Mainly because Randy was gay. Openly gay. Out and proud! as the saying went.
She had encouraged his honesty when he came to work for the clinic as a young man with the ink still wet on his Master’s thesis. She respected him for his courage, his intelligence, his insight. Everyone there had accepted and liked him.
Likewise, he had supported her when she made the decision at about that same time to end her nine-year marriage. That had been a very tough time, and he had been there for her, with a joke, a funny card tucked in her desk drawer, pieces of her favorite candy planted in her coat pockets. Sometimes it was just his caring silence and the warmth of his hand in hers that comforted her. Unlike so many of her friends, he wasn’t afraid to just shut up and be with her!
He was different from the other guys she knew. He was different from the other friends she had. A part of her had attributed this difference, this breath of fresh air, to his gayness. She had never felt so open, so honest, so completely herself as she did when they were debating an issue, winding down after a late Tuesday night group over a chili-burger and a beer at Hinkel’s Grill, or improvising an upbeat piano duet at a coworker’s holiday party.
A gay man had become her closest friend. It was as simple as that.
Or was it?
(Continued here but password-protected to prevent sensitive individuals from unwanted exposure to adult situations, nudity, and frank descriptions of sexuality.)
Watch out or you’ll end up in my novel!!
An excerpt from the 90-page manuscript from Behind Door #3, written when I was in my early 20s as a means of working through and gaining insight about my sexual orientation:
Wednesday, August 14, 1974 Evening
Dear Mom and Dad,
The time has come for me to write this difficult letter. I’ve put it off for much too long already, and there really isn’t much sense in waiting any longer. I will say right off that the reason for writing you a letter about it instead of just talking with you is not to impersonalize it but simply to make sure that certain things get said. Talking about it has given me more than its share of difficulty, so rather than face the prospect of mumbling through a few incoherent phrases in a panic, I decided that I would sit down in private and organize my thoughts. It seems to be the best way to get this job done.
To state a lengthy and complicated situation in its simplest terms, I’m gay. I’ve had myself in one hell of a mess this past year, trying to come to grips with that. I was in so much of a mess for most of that time that I couldn’t even admit to myself what I’ve been struggling with. In fact, the admission has really only come about within the last six weeks or so.
Not the struggle came on suddenly this past year. No, the feelings have been there for years now, going way back into childhood, but they were usually weak and undefined when they would occasionally surface, and in my panic that they may just mean something some day, I always managed to beat them back into the darkness. I never let that 3:00 A.M. feeling in the pit of my stomach get the better of me!
During this past year, however, those feelings abandoned the timidity of their youth and took on a startling new force. Repressing them was no longer accomplished with a few Hail Marys! They were demanding to be recognized, and I just wasn’t ready to do it!
Suddenly I found myself in the predicament of devoting an enormous amount of energy into running from these feelings. As you pointed out to me, Dad, in the middle of the night following one of my recent nightmares, this energy was coming from the energy I had available to do useful, productive things. The resulting drain quickly began to take its toll on my physical and emotional health, as we all witnessed.
All of a sudden, I realized that I couldn’t go on like that anymore. A new approach was very obviously in order! I knew that the energy required to deal with this issue was going to be tremendous, but it could in no way compare to the longterm drain of running from it. It was a slow, painful struggle, but I was finally able to admit my situation and take some steps to deal with it.
With this new approach, I realized that I had some choices in front of me. From my perspective, they are:
(1) I could continue to be “nonpracticing.” Call it celibacy or the priesthood or whatever you want. It still boils down to a running game. The method of dealing with it is still a form of denial and self-rejection. Its sole redeeming quality is that at least no one suspects what you’re not dealing with! However, I need a special closeness in life with someone, and if I forbid myself to have a gay relationship, I am left with no other fulfilling option. I decided that it was a quick way of finishing the job of driving myself crazy.
(2) I could practice my sexuality in secret and therefore “protect” my loved ones from this aspect of my life. At first glance, that option held a definite appeal by minimizing the risk of rejection and other conflicts. However, I felt a vague, nagging uneasiness about this choice, and after thinking about it for awhile (and talking it over with a dear and trusted friend who has been there), I realized why. The furtiveness and necessary deceptions, the inevitable guilt because of the deceptions, the fragmentation involved in maintaining such a complicated juggling act would produce a great deal of stress. The prospect of developing a well-balanced life and a happy, satisfying relationship seems doomed from the start under such conditions. I don’t care to set myself up for that failure.
My third option is laying aside celibacy and secrets and being openly what I am: a man who finds deep joy and pleasure in loving another man. In spite of the problems this choice is sure to bring, it’s the only option in this list that will truly allow me to get my act together and give a relationship a chance at success.
That success is very important to me because “a relationship” is not merely a dream of mine anymore. It’s very real and very alive right now, and I have no intention of letting it die while still in the pangs of its birth. I’m not going to stand by and watch while it disintegrates in front of my eyes because I was too scared to do anything else. It’s taken me a year-and-a-half of miserable indecision before deciding to give it this chance, but I’m firmly convinced that it deserves this chance, and it’s going to have it. I’ve given my vote for what’s behind Door #3.
Which is, of course, why I had to write this letter. You’ve got to know the truth of my situation so that I can get on with the business of dealing with it in the way that I think is best for me. If there were another way of accomplishing that without hurting you with this, I’d gladly take that route, but I frankly don’t see a good alternative. For my own selfish reasons, you have to know the truth, in spite of the pain this truth may bring.
As I write this, I feel horribly panic-stricken inside, fearing that I’m risking what is most important and treasured to me — my parents’ love — for……what? I’m not even sure yet! I hope and pray that I still have your love, for I desperately need it and would consider it my most valuable asset right now. But I also realize that there are some things that some people just can’t understand or accept. I will understand if you can’t.
I love you both very much. You’ve been the most important people to ever become a part of my life. When I called out for you in that Emergency Room five years ago, Dad, you dropped what you were doing and came to my rescue. It changed my life, bringing me into the circle of a loving family and filling my heart with a hope that I never before knew.
Believe me, not a single day goes by that I don’t give thanks for that!
Randy
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