“A Heck of an Engineer” (March, 1970)
Of all the tricks and all the relationships (a relationship being a trick that lasted more than one night) I had in Atlanta, few were with college guys. Now that I think of it, that’s rather strange since Atlanta has an abundance of colleges and universities. Most of the twenty-something guys I met were in the work force, many having moved to Atlanta to work as well as to come out. Many had jobs that also allowed them a rather active social life. All of them had modest apartments that reflected their economic status. Some had graduated from college, but I only remember tricking with one who was actually in college. He was an engineering student at Georgia Tech.
I don’t recall where we met, I don’t recall his name, and I don’t recall why we went to his place instead of mine.
But, oh, do I recall the time we had in his apartment.
He was small built and, though attractive, had the look – if there is a such a thing – of an engineering student. His features were soft, his hair was barber-cut and his clothes were utilitarian. I don’t remember his hair color or exactly what he was wearing, but he gave the impression of a young guy more attuned to solving quadratic equations for fun than keeping up with the latest dance crazes. He wasn’t wimpy or geeky in appearance, but definitely not a slave to fashion. He was a Georgia boy, polite and soft-spoken. All this is to say that what was soon to happen would be a complete surprise to me.
Arrival at his apartment was uneventful and customary for such occasions. He turned on the stereo system for some “mood music.” Nothing unusual about that. He offered me a drink. Nothing unusual about that. He drew close to me and put his arms around my shoulders. Nothing unusual about that.
Just as I was expecting him to draw even closer, perhaps for a kiss, he reached one arm around my back, another behind my legs and picked me up and carried me to his bedroom!
Definitely something unusual about that.
I didn’t put up any kind of resistance. Shock does that to a person. I wasn’t afraid, just shocked. Who expected a geeky but cute Georgia Tech student to be so butch? OK, he wasn’t effeminate in any way, just soft-spoken (up to that moment, anyway.) His apartment was very utilitarian-masculine, with a drafting table, some sensible but well-worn furniture and no decorations or bric-a-brac on the tables or walls. The entire apartment, except for the bed itself, could have been furnished by Home Depot, if Home Depot had existed in 1970. Actually it could have been – and probably was – furnished by the local rent-to-own store.
So much for the furnishings. And I sure wasn’t thinking about interior design as he lifted me and carried me down a short hallway into the bedroom and dropped me on the bed. Yes, he dropped me. It was a soft landing but abrupt nonetheless.
I suspect he was counting on shock value and he was right. After all, I was the one who had made the first move at the club. I’m sure I did because, well, I always did. And I would have remembered had it been otherwise. I was short, small, looked younger than my years – and my years weren’t that many to begin with – yet I somehow ended up assuming the “butch” role, what today would be referred to as “top.” Butch guys took the initiative. Butch guys made the first move. We all knew that.
Tech Boy apparently hadn’t gotten the memo, I thought.
As I lay there looking up at him standing beside the bed, I saw him slyly smile.
He’d gotten the memo all right. And thrown it out. This engineer was on a mission. A mission to put butch boys in their place. In this case, on their backs.
On my back was where he had me and on my back I would stay. It was his apartment. It was his bed. It was, apparently, his rules.
Rules? Hadn’t I been the one to set the rules up to now? Didn’t I just say I would have remembered if he had made the first move at the club? Because I always made the first move. And because, if someone else made the first move, I would be likely to reject it. (In a nice way, of course. Usually.)
No, I wasn’t a control freak. (“Oh yes you were,” says a voice in my head. “Oh, shut up!” I reply.) It was just a pattern things had fallen into since I had first come out less than a year before. If, when you first arrived on the scene, first stepped into a gay club, you weren’t immediately classified as a “queen,” then you were assumed to be butch. The mold had been set. If you were marked with a scarlet “B,” you could hang out with other butch boys, you could drink with them, but you weren’t supposed to go home with them. Same thing for queens. “I couldn’t sleep with her! We’re sisters!” I guess that made us butch boys “brothers,” but it would be hard to think of it that way and none of us did.
Even then I was a transgressor. When I went on the prowl, I didn’t ask for gay role-playing identity papers.
Were they male? Were they gay? Were they cute?
All I asked was three out of three, although the last requirement was open to interpretation (and the number of drinks I had consumed.) I didn’t ask what they liked to do in bed. I only asked if they wanted to get into bed. With me. We’d work out the, um, details later.
Tech Boy had upset the scheme of things. There was nothing to work out. We were at his place, in his bedroom and he was in charge. He was standing beside the bed and I was on the bed, on my back. I had a pretty good idea of where things were heading and I had a pretty good idea that I would have little or no say about where things were heading.
And then he surprised me.
Again.
Friday, October 24, 2008
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