Dear Group,

I was doing some Google Groups research and found the
following very interesting and very revealing post from our
resident fat buffoon.

*********************

[I posted this almost 5 years ago (!) on a different newsgroup.
Somebody asked for anecdotes or experiences of "anyone
you know who is a gay/lesbian/bisexual AA". Here is one of my
experiences. I am in a different space now, in a much calmer
and stronger frame of mind. I wrote this shortly after coming
out to myself and undergoing my first MAJOR love/infatuation.

This is part 1 of 11. If there is any interest, I will post
the rest of them, one at at time, of course. They were
orginally posted over a 3 year period.

BTW, I do know of several well-known "out" gay AA's but I have
no definitive proof, so I will find substantiation before posting
any names, etc]

Capt. RB
S/V YODA


November, 1997

Jonathan. Sigh. The mere mention of his name evokes a flutter in my
heart, a crush of emptiness in my chest. Jonathan...not here.
Jonathan...gone. J...sigh. I've been sitting here for countless
minutes, staring at the words I have just written. I've been
thinking, dreaming yearning for my Jonathan. No...he's not mine, not
anymore. Maybe he never was. My eyes drift in and out of focus,
my thoughts surge and swirl, pausing sometimes to relive a particu-
lar incident, to remember another moment.... Jonathan. He haunts me.
It's been 8 months since he left me, but he haunts me still. Too
many things remind me of him: watching TV shows that we used to
watch together, hearing songs that he loved to play, passing by the
ice-cream store that we favored, cooking the dinners that he espe-
cially liked...

Jonathan wasn't the most beautiful person I've ever seen, nor the
most charming person I've ever met, but he was certainly the
cuddliest person I'd ever held. He had quiet brown eyes, soft smooth
lips, and a smile - oh what a smile he had - that could instantly
disarm the icy daggers of winter's coldest night. All he had to do
was to flash that smile at me and I'd melt, instantly. It just
wasn't fair. His hands were the most beautiful ones I've ever
seen: each finger beautifully shaped and proportioned, so tender yet
strong, so yielding yet firm. I loved to hold those hands, to
trace every curve and crease on his hands with my fingers, to gently
caress those hands with my nose and cheeks... And I loved the way
he talked. I loved his boyish phrases, his cynical commentaries, his
sarcastic mimicking. I even loved the random sounds he made some-
times. Cute. Cuddly. *Wonderful* to hold.

I've felt an attraction to guys for as far back as I could
remember, but I guess it isn't unusual for little boys to feel af-
fection for, and prefer the company of other boys. When I was in
the third grade, I became conscious of feeling something beyond the
boyhood feelings of camaraderie, but I didn't know or understand
what is was. I just knew it was different, and that the other boys
didn't share this feeling. It didn't really bother me then - it was
more of an awareness than anything else. On the outside I *was*
just like the other boys - I talked like them, I acted like them.
It was on the inside - my feelings - that differed.

As I grew older, and the thoughts and attention of the other boys
turned toward girls, and mine didn't, I begin to feel that there was
something wrong with me. And as my heretofore nebulous feelings for
boys focused into something that I identified as what the other boys
felt for *girls*, I became concerned. For one thing, the availabil-
ity of these boys to spend time with me became less and less as they
persued dating relationships with girls. I was jealous. For anoth-
er, why didn't *I* have the same desires and motivations? I guess I
did, but it was drawing me to boys, not girls. A storm was gather-
ing, a tempest that fed on my confusion and exuded a smothering
darkness as I became more aware of the physical (sexual) and social
implications of my feelings. My body, my soul was plagued with an
unspeakable evil, my heart held captive by a dark and terrible
secert.


My family moved to New York City when I was not quite seven
years old, so I essentially grew up in the big city. My parents tried to
bring up my siblings and me in the traditional family way, tried to
instill in us the values and mores of our heritage and culture.
They tried to give us the best in education and music lessons, the
utmost in opportunities. They were typical American parents, follow-
ing typical American methodologies. For the most part they suc-
ceeded. I feel in myself a very strong patriotic presence, a deep
respect and admiration for many of the traditions and values, but I
also feel very American in valuing personal freedom, in the right
to individual expression. There are enormous conflicts between
American values of independence and individualism, and the
Brody family emphasis on family loyalty, responsibility, and so-
cial harmony (order).

Responsibility. For years the Brody ideals of my family weighed
heavily on my shoulders. My father is the eldest son in his
family, as was his father. I am the eldest son in my generation,
the first born male among all my cousins, so one day I will be
head of the clan. I have to be responsible, to carry on the family
name, to bring honor, not shame, to our clan. How could I even
entertain the thought of being attracted to men? I *had* to rid
myself of this unspeakable evil, or at least beat it into submis-
sion. It wasn't difficult when I was a little kid to submerge those
feelings and feel like the other boys, or *think* that I do. But as
the years went by, I began to realize that it would neither leave me
nor submit. It was firmly entrenched. But I could not give up. I
kept silent my internal conflict, waging this weary war in soli-
tude, wanting desparately to conquer this darkness, but not daring
to ask for help. My struggle raged on.

I found that I could actually beat these feelings into submis-
sion at times, giving me peace for a few days, weeks, or even a few
months at a time. But they always came back, sometimes stronger,
sometimes weaker, but growing more and more persistant. I was
losing. It's interesting to note here that my parents didn't allow
me to date through high school, fearing that a girl would
distract me from my studies and my music. And they even discouraged
me from dating in college. My studies were *most* important. They
told me to finish my college degree first, and I *have* to excel in
everything I do, otherwise I will not be respected by the establishment.
I must not let anything distract me from my studies.

Nevertheless, I tried to develop an interest in women, partly
due to peer pressure, and partly as a strategy in my battle to
cleanse myself of this demon. I actually did fall in love with a
woman, or thought I did, a woman beautiful in her looks and in her
music. She played the cello beautifully, making it sing with a
hauntingly melancholy yet vibrant tone. Beautiful. I loved to listen
to her play. I loved to just be with her. We were close friends,
from jr high school through senior high and onto my early college
years, but we never dated. We did have an uncommonly close rap-
port, an intimacy not often available from other people. But I
thought she was out of reach. I admired her and loved her from a
distance, but I think she knew. I never felt so much love for any-
one as I did for her; that is, until Jonathan came along into my life.
Yet I continued to feel the unyielding attraction to men. Did I
really feel love for her? Maybe. All-consumming passion for her?
Not quite. Infatuation? Perhaps. The battle continued.


College - education, experiences, freedom! Freedom. Or so I thought.
For me, college was the first extended period of personal free-
dom, a time and setting in which I had no one to answer to except
myself. It was a place to experience the intensity of sharing
living quarters, ideas, and lives with so many people at once, my
first chance to explore ideas and feelings, to come in con-
tact with so many different ways of thinking and living. And the
fabled San Francisco was only 40 miles up the peninsula!
I really hadn't escaped. Perhaps I didn't really try. I
wanted to be free. Free to feel, free to be. I was tired
of fighting. But I couldn't. I was still staggering from the
(self-imposed) pressure to be the infallible number-one-son that
my parents and family wanted me to be.

I resented the pressures I felt from my family, and hated myself
for losing battle after battle in the esclating war within myself
for control of my life. I became very moody and despondent, un-
responsive to my parents. They became very worried and tried to
pull me out of it by telling me that I have to control my emo-
tions, to bear down and endure my difficulties. They really had no
idea what was causing my grief, but tried to reassert their control
over me, and I certainly resented the interference. I pulled further
away from my parents, plunging us into a tremendous rift that only
recently healed. On the surface I dated women and took a "healthy
interest" in them, but I always felt empty - there was some-
thing missing. I had close friends, both men and women, with whom I
could talk about anything, but this wasn't just anything - it was a
shameful evil.

I finally met someone I could talk to about my feelings. Donal
was the first openly gay person I had ever met, a gentle
and affable man who helped me so much in times of reflection and
crises. I must have asked him a million questions about every-
thing and anything having to do with being gay. But I never
said *I* was gay. He didn't have all the answers, but gave me
things to think about. Donal was really patient with me, help-
ful with information and advice, with understanding and care. I
was fascinated by all that he told me, and found a measure
of confidence, enough to tell him, albeit in a very timid and el-
liptical way, about my feelings and thoughts. He didn't laugh at
me, didn't chide me for my fears. He encouraged me to explore
my feelings, to just *feel* what I feel. I wasn't ready to do any-
thing just yet. But he didn't push me. I was still deep in
the closet, continuing to struggle. At this time, I felt it was all
right for other people to be gay, but it wasn't OK for me. I just
couldn't let my family down.

This went on for a couple more years, and I just got more and
more depressed , losing any remaining self-esteem and sense of
selfworth. I lost my motivation. I finished my Masters program
eventually, but for my parents this was not enough. They are both
scientists, and both sides of the family are filled with superachi-
evers. For me and my siblings, our education is not considered
finished until we have our doctorates. High expectations. High
pressure.

I was tired of school, tired of the exams, endless studying and
homeworks sets. I needed a rest from academics. I had worked half-
time at a production company during my last two undergrad years and
full-time during my Masters program, so I just continued working
full-time at the same filming division when I graduated. Suddenly
I had all this free time on my hands. My evenings and weekends
were free, no need to do homeworks or prepare for exams. What free-
dom! But free time can be a dangerous thing. I had too much
time to think, too much time to dwell on the problems facing me.
My depression was worsening at an alarming rate. I *was* such a
happy and cheerful kid. What happened to me? I was unhappy all
the time, so unmotivated and lethargic. And I was getting fat.
Very overweight. I guess I was trying to eat my way out of
my depression. Didn't work, apparently. All this, needless to
say, wreaked havoc with my life. My relationships took so much
work to maintain, my rift with my family was growing wider and wid-
er. I felt a real need to leave, to get as far away as I
can and start a new life.

A new beginning, a new chance to have a decent life? Wishful think-
ing. I secretly looked for jobs outside of the City, and got an
offer in Queens. This was my chance to get away from family, from
the problems plaguing me in the City, to start a new life. Actual-
ly, the problems would follow me anywhere, but I didn't realize
it then. I was a bit apprehensive about moving to Queens, about
leaving my friends, and even my family, but I knew I had to leave.
I took the offer, but didn't actually start until two months later.
I had unfinished business that I thought I needed to take care of,
but in hindsight, I should have left NYC immediately.

The first year away was good for me. I missed my friends, my fami-
liar environment, and I even missed my parents. But I had a new
beginning, a new life. Was I all that different? Not really.
But I did feel a lot better. My depression was subsiding, I was
growing emotionally stronger. I also decided to go back to
school. The two years away from school made me eager to return to
finish that PhD. I got accepted, and got a fellowship, so I was
all set. I was excited about returning to academics; my job
had been challenging, but when the project was cancelled and I was
reassigned to a different one, the job became boring to me.
School... excitement, a new effort. I was beginningto have hope.
Then began that fateful school term.

Jonathan was in one of my classes during my first semester in California. I
was in a study group with some guys (Keith, Pat, and Jim) who were
in a couple of my classes, but Jonathan wasn't part of it. He and Keith
were friends. Jonathan never said anything to us, except maybe an
occasional hello to Keith. He didn't sit with the rest of us in
class, but kept to himself, sitting alone in the front row. Occa-
sionally he would turn around to look at us, grinning if he
thought one of us asked a particularly stupid question. Some-
times I'd return his glance, wondering what he was thinking
about. He'd look away nervously. Sometimes he maintained the eye
contact, seemingly to dare me to continue. I couldn't. I'd always
look away in alarm. What if he thought I was gay???? I thought he
was very attractive, but wouldn't allow myself to entertain any
thoughts of attraction to him. I didn't dare. Feelings of attrac-
tion to other men was something I *had* to deny myself. Jonathan did
show up at one of our study sessions, but he didn't say much, and
left immediately after we put down our books for the night - he
didn't stay for our usual post-study banter. And that was the limit
of our interactions with him for the semester.

Jonathan II

Christmas vacation came and went. We had all survived the first semes-
ter of a rigorous graduate program, and like gluttons for punishment, we
all came back for more. Once again, Jonathan was in one of my classes and
once again, he sat off by himself. But I kept an eye on him. A couple
of weeks into the semester, Jonathan missed a couple of lectures, and in-
stead of asking me to borrow my notes, he asked Keith to ask me for them
(Keith wasn't in this class with us). Keith showed up in class one day,
much to my surprise, and sat down next to me. Jonathan sat down next to
*him*. I asked Keith what he was doing here, and his reply was,"Ol'
Jonathan" here wants to know if he could borrow your notes for the days he
missed." "Sure," I said, "here you go." Hmmm, I thought, why couldn't
he ask me himself? He must be *really* shy. "Thanks," he smiled.

My heart fluttered wildly, unexpectedly. It then began what was to be-
come a long series of heated discussions with my "conscience":

- Ooohhh, he's got such a cute smile!
Don't even say that!!! We're not allowed to have these feelings.
- So what, he's cute anyway.
Stop that!!! You're going to get us into trouble.
- Sigh.

I wanted to get to know this shy boy, to find out more about this Jonathan
who was so quiet and mysterious. How am I going to get him to talk to
me? I was on the shy side, too, and I was terrified of initiating con-
tact with him. It took me a few weeks to find enough courage, but after
class ended one day, I asked him if he'd like to have lunch with me
sometime. Much to my surprise, and relief, he said OK! What, OK?
Great!!!! We agreed on a day and time, then he said he had to go to
the library. I walked out of the building with him and waved goodbye as
our paths diverged. I took a few steps then felt compelled to spin back
around to watch him walk away. I stood there until he was no longer in
sight, then ran all the way to my office. It was on the 5th floor, but
I sprinted up the stairs in record time - no waiting for the elevators
today! I sat down at my desk, flushed with excitement, bursting with
joy. I couldn't stop smiling all day.

The appointed day came, but to my extreme disappointment, Keith
showed up, too. Now, I like Keith a lot, and ordinarily I would have
really enjoyed having him around, but this time was different; this
time was meant for Jonathan, alone, for me to get to know him a bit, without
someone else there who might detect a more than casual interest
on my part in Jonathan. He was characteristically quiet during
lunch, not saying more than 5 or 6 words the whole time. Keith had
dominated the conversation. This was so frustrating!!!! Sigh. I guess
I should have told him that I wanted to have lunch with just him. I
guess I'll have to try again.

I set up another lunch date with Jonathan, and this time it *was* just the
two of us. We talked about classes, where we went as undergrads,
hometowns, the usual meaningless light conversation. Actually, I did
most of the talking, but he was responsive. Finally, I asked:

" So, tell me about Jonathan."
- There's not much to tell.
" Well, what do you like to do, what do you think about?"
- Not much.
" What do you do in your spare time?"
- Oh, nothing.

This was getting nowhere. Sigh. OK, I guess I'll have to let him
know about *me*. I told him about my interests, about what I like to
do, my hobbies, my sports activities, hoping to find some common
ground to talk about. It worked. He said that he liked to play
racquetball, too, and that he'd be interested in playing me. We turned
out to be fairly close in proficiency, so playing Jonathan was challeng-
ing. I really enjoyed that hour spent sweating and chasing that little
ball around (and watching Jonathan dart around), and apparently he en-
joyed it, too, because he suggested that we play again in a couple of
days. For the rest of the semester we met twice a week to play
racquetball. Sometimes we played quite intensely, sometimes without
much vigor, but we always had fun. I did, at least. Sometimes he wore
a pair of thin, black running shorts that accentuated his form quite
nicely - on those days I could never win. But it didn't matter, I was
getting to spend time with him. Best of all, we were becoming friends!

We started to spend a lot of time together over the next few
months. Besides playing racquetball, I'd have him over for dinner,
stop by his apt. on my way home from school at night, go out for dinner
with him, and talk to him on the phone. Jonathan was opening up to me,
and I really liked what I saw. I was growing very fond of this boy! I
was happy just to be with him, to look at him, to listen to him talk,
to see him smile. By this time we always sat next to each other in
class, and often I paid more attention to him than to what the pro-
fessor was saying. I was very discreet, of course. And my mind was
telling me that what I feeling for Jonathan is what a person would feel
towards a "best friend", but my heart was telling me otherwise. Sigh.
Oh well, just enjoy his friendship and companionship, and don't get
carried away, I told myself. I certainly could delude myself.

One day, out of the blue, Jonathan decided he wanted a nickname. A nick-
name? After a few moments thought, he picked Buckwheat. *Buckwheat* ??
I have no idea why he picked Buckwheat. Oh well. Buckwheat it is.
He liked that nickname; he always answered in a softer, more playful
tone of voice whenever I called him that. Another time, while we just
chatting on the phone, he told me that he had to go wash and dry his
clothes before 9pm because he was afraid to be in the laundramat any
later than that. I asked him what happens after 9pm? He said,"Oh,
nothing, but I don't want to risk getting raped." I laughed, incredu-
lously, but he was serious. Raped? He didn't live in a rough neigh-
borhood. *Raped*? Why didn't he say he didn't want to get beat up or
robbed? Hmmmm. And one time he asked me to drive him to the airport.
He was going to Dallas for the weekend to see his ex-roommate at SMU.
Jonathan was taking a very long time getting ready, so I teased him:

"Jon, hurry up, you're going to be late for your flight. You're just like
a silly girl, taking forever just to get ready for a plane ride."
- Don't rush me; I have to look 'luscious for Dallas... OK, how do I look?
Don't I look stunning?

No, can't be. Probably just reacting to my remark about his being
like a girl. But I wasn't so sure. It didn't feel like he was
being sarcastic. My heart was pounding, trembling with excitement. My
mind steps in and another argument ensues:

Hey, calm down.
- What do you mean `calm down'! Did you hear what he said??? Is he....?
Stop that!
- What do I tell him??? How about "You look absolutely adorable!"
You're gonna get us in trouble...
- Look! He's smiling!!! I'm going to melt!!!
Oh stop that.
- *You* stop that! I'm tired of you always being so uptight.
Well, what if he *is*? We're *not* going to do anything about it.
-Sigh. Sigh. Go away, I hate you.
Be good.
-No! Sigh.

After he came back from Dallas, he showed me pictures he had taken of
his ex-roommate Allan and his other friends at SMU. I can't say what it
was about those pictures exactly, but Allan certainly looked gay.
Jonathan's other friends, too. I guess it was in their poses, in their
expressions, in the clothes they wore. Not what most straight men I
know would do. Maybe I was just dreaming, but I could really feel it.
My mission was now clear. I had to find out about Jonathan. I really
didn't know what I would do with the answer, but the pressing question
was , is he, or isn't he?

In the beginning of March (1986) I had to throw out my housemate and
look for another. I was complaining to Jonathan that I wasn't looking
forward to the search for a compatible housemate (I've had a history
of problems with roommates/housemates) when he suggested that maybe we
could work something out. What did he say? He and I live together?
Really? Boy oh boy oh boy oh boy oh boy!!! I had to really restrain
myself from going wild and bouncing all over the room; I hadn't been
that excited in a long time. He said he'd like to live with me, and
could move in after his lease was up, on June 1. Unbelievable. Jonathan,
living with *me*!!! I couldn't wait.


Note: There are nine other installments and they get pretty sickening
as you can imagine so I'll stop with what is here. I think you get the
idea of who Bobsprit really is by now.

Simple Simon.

Amazing detective work there Cap'm. I'm sure there's much more dirt to
did up -have you looked into his food fetish yet?

Cheers MC

Simple Simon wrote:

Dear Group,

I was doing some Google Groups research and found the
following very interesting and very revealing post from our
resident fat buffoon.

*********************

[I posted this almost 5 years ago (!) on a different newsgroup.
Somebody asked for anecdotes or experiences of "anyone
you know who is a gay/lesbian/bisexual AA". Here is one of my
experiences. I am in a different space now, in a much calmer
and stronger frame of mind. I wrote this shortly after coming
out to myself and undergoing my first MAJOR love/infatuation.

This is part 1 of 11. If there is any interest, I will post
the rest of them, one at at time, of course. They were
orginally posted over a 3 year period.

BTW, I do know of several well-known "out" gay AA's but I have
no definitive proof, so I will find substantiation before posting
any names, etc]

Capt. RB
S/V YODA


November, 1997

Jonathan. Sigh. The mere mention of his name evokes a flutter in my
heart, a crush of emptiness in my chest. Jonathan...not here.
Jonathan...gone. J...sigh. I've been sitting here for countless
minutes, staring at the words I have just written. I've been
thinking, dreaming yearning for my Jonathan. No...he's not mine, not
anymore. Maybe he never was. My eyes drift in and out of focus,
my thoughts surge and swirl, pausing sometimes to relive a particu-
lar incident, to remember another moment.... Jonathan. He haunts me.
It's been 8 months since he left me, but he haunts me still. Too
many things remind me of him: watching TV shows that we used to
watch together, hearing songs that he loved to play, passing by the
ice-cream store that we favored, cooking the dinners that he espe-
cially liked...

Jonathan wasn't the most beautiful person I've ever seen, nor the
most charming person I've ever met, but he was certainly the
cuddliest person I'd ever held. He had quiet brown eyes, soft smooth
lips, and a smile - oh what a smile he had - that could instantly
disarm the icy daggers of winter's coldest night. All he had to do
was to flash that smile at me and I'd melt, instantly. It just
wasn't fair. His hands were the most beautiful ones I've ever
seen: each finger beautifully shaped and proportioned, so tender yet
strong, so yielding yet firm. I loved to hold those hands, to
trace every curve and crease on his hands with my fingers, to gently
caress those hands with my nose and cheeks... And I loved the way
he talked. I loved his boyish phrases, his cynical commentaries, his
sarcastic mimicking. I even loved the random sounds he made some-
times. Cute. Cuddly. *Wonderful* to hold.

I've felt an attraction to guys for as far back as I could
remember, but I guess it isn't unusual for little boys to feel af-
fection for, and prefer the company of other boys. When I was in
the third grade, I became conscious of feeling something beyond the
boyhood feelings of camaraderie, but I didn't know or understand
what is was. I just knew it was different, and that the other boys
didn't share this feeling. It didn't really bother me then - it was
more of an awareness than anything else. On the outside I *was*
just like the other boys - I talked like them, I acted like them.
It was on the inside - my feelings - that differed.

As I grew older, and the thoughts and attention of the other boys
turned toward girls, and mine didn't, I begin to feel that there was
something wrong with me. And as my heretofore nebulous feelings for
boys focused into something that I identified as what the other boys
felt for *girls*, I became concerned. For one thing, the availabil-
ity of these boys to spend time with me became less and less as they
persued dating relationships with girls. I was jealous. For anoth-
er, why didn't *I* have the same desires and motivations? I guess I
did, but it was drawing me to boys, not girls. A storm was gather-
ing, a tempest that fed on my confusion and exuded a smothering
darkness as I became more aware of the physical (sexual) and social
implications of my feelings. My body, my soul was plagued with an
unspeakable evil, my heart held captive by a dark and terrible
secert.


My family moved to New York City when I was not quite seven
years old, so I essentially grew up in the big city. My parents tried to
bring up my siblings and me in the traditional family way, tried to
instill in us the values and mores of our heritage and culture.
They tried to give us the best in education and music lessons, the
utmost in opportunities. They were typical American parents, follow-
ing typical American methodologies. For the most part they suc-
ceeded. I feel in myself a very strong patriotic presence, a deep
respect and admiration for many of the traditions and values, but I
also feel very American in valuing personal freedom, in the right
to individual expression. There are enormous conflicts between
American values of independence and individualism, and the
Brody family emphasis on family loyalty, responsibility, and so-
cial harmony (order).

Responsibility. For years the Brody ideals of my family weighed
heavily on my shoulders. My father is the eldest son in his
family, as was his father. I am the eldest son in my generation,
the first born male among all my cousins, so one day I will be
head of the clan. I have to be responsible, to carry on the family
name, to bring honor, not shame, to our clan. How could I even
entertain the thought of being attracted to men? I *had* to rid
myself of this unspeakable evil, or at least beat it into submis-
sion. It wasn't difficult when I was a little kid to submerge those
feelings and feel like the other boys, or *think* that I do. But as
the years went by, I began to realize that it would neither leave me
nor submit. It was firmly entrenched. But I could not give up. I
kept silent my internal conflict, waging this weary war in soli-
tude, wanting desparately to conquer this darkness, but not daring
to ask for help. My struggle raged on.

I found that I could actually beat these feelings into submis-
sion at times, giving me peace for a few days, weeks, or even a few
months at a time. But they always came back, sometimes stronger,
sometimes weaker, but growing more and more persistant. I was
losing. It's interesting to note here that my parents didn't allow
me to date through high school, fearing that a girl would
distract me from my studies and my music. And they even discouraged
me from dating in college. My studies were *most* important. They
told me to finish my college degree first, and I *have* to excel in
everything I do, otherwise I will not be respected by the establishment.
I must not let anything distract me from my studies.

Nevertheless, I tried to develop an interest in women, partly
due to peer pressure, and partly as a strategy in my battle to
cleanse myself of this demon. I actually did fall in love with a
woman, or thought I did, a woman beautiful in her looks and in her
music. She played the cello beautifully, making it sing with a
hauntingly melancholy yet vibrant tone. Beautiful. I loved to listen
to her play. I loved to just be with her. We were close friends,
from jr high school through senior high and onto my early college
years, but we never dated. We did have an uncommonly close rap-
port, an intimacy not often available from other people. But I
thought she was out of reach. I admired her and loved her from a
distance, but I think she knew. I never felt so much love for any-
one as I did for her; that is, until Jonathan came along into my life.
Yet I continued to feel the unyielding attraction to men. Did I
really feel love for her? Maybe. All-consumming passion for her?
Not quite. Infatuation? Perhaps. The battle continued.


College - education, experiences, freedom! Freedom. Or so I thought.
For me, college was the first extended period of personal free-
dom, a time and setting in which I had no one to answer to except
myself. It was a place to experience the intensity of sharing
living quarters, ideas, and lives with so many people at once, my
first chance to explore ideas and feelings, to come in con-
tact with so many different ways of thinking and living. And the
fabled San Francisco was only 40 miles up the peninsula!
I really hadn't escaped. Perhaps I didn't really try. I
wanted to be free. Free to feel, free to be. I was tired
of fighting. But I couldn't. I was still staggering from the
(self-imposed) pressure to be the infallible number-one-son that
my parents and family wanted me to be.

I resented the pressures I felt from my family, and hated myself
for losing battle after battle in the esclating war within myself
for control of my life. I became very moody and despondent, un-
responsive to my parents. They became very worried and tried to
pull me out of it by telling me that I have to control my emo-
tions, to bear down and endure my difficulties. They really had no
idea what was causing my grief, but tried to reassert their control
over me, and I certainly resented the interference. I pulled further
away from my parents, plunging us into a tremendous rift that only
recently healed. On the surface I dated women and took a "healthy
interest" in them, but I always felt empty - there was some-
thing missing. I had close friends, both men and women, with whom I
could talk about anything, but this wasn't just anything - it was a
shameful evil.

I finally met someone I could talk to about my feelings. Donal
was the first openly gay person I had ever met, a gentle
and affable man who helped me so much in times of reflection and
crises. I must have asked him a million questions about every-
thing and anything having to do with being gay. But I never
said *I* was gay. He didn't have all the answers, but gave me
things to think about. Donal was really patient with me, help-
ful with information and advice, with understanding and care. I
was fascinated by all that he told me, and found a measure
of confidence, enough to tell him, albeit in a very timid and el-
liptical way, about my feelings and thoughts. He didn't laugh at
me, didn't chide me for my fears. He encouraged me to explore
my feelings, to just *feel* what I feel. I wasn't ready to do any-
thing just yet. But he didn't push me. I was still deep in
the closet, continuing to struggle. At this time, I felt it was all
right for other people to be gay, but it wasn't OK for me. I just
couldn't let my family down.

This went on for a couple more years, and I just got more and
more depressed , losing any remaining self-esteem and sense of
selfworth. I lost my motivation. I finished my Masters program
eventually, but for my parents this was not enough. They are both
scientists, and both sides of the family are filled with superachi-
evers. For me and my siblings, our education is not considered
finished until we have our doctorates. High expectations. High
pressure.

I was tired of school, tired of the exams, endless studying and
homeworks sets. I needed a rest from academics. I had worked half-
time at a production company during my last two undergrad years and
full-time during my Masters program, so I just continued working
full-time at the same filming division when I graduated. Suddenly
I had all this free time on my hands. My evenings and weekends
were free, no need to do homeworks or prepare for exams. What free-
dom! But free time can be a dangerous thing. I had too much
time to think, too much time to dwell on the problems facing me.
My depression was worsening at an alarming rate. I *was* such a
happy and cheerful kid. What happened to me? I was unhappy all
the time, so unmotivated and lethargic. And I was getting fat.
Very overweight. I guess I was trying to eat my way out of
my depression. Didn't work, apparently. All this, needless to
say, wreaked havoc with my life. My relationships took so much
work to maintain, my rift with my family was growing wider and wid-
er. I felt a real need to leave, to get as far away as I
can and start a new life.

A new beginning, a new chance to have a decent life? Wishful think-
ing. I secretly looked for jobs outside of the City, and got an
offer in Queens. This was my chance to get away from family, from
the problems plaguing me in the City, to start a new life. Actual-
ly, the problems would follow me anywhere, but I didn't realize
it then. I was a bit apprehensive about moving to Queens, about
leaving my friends, and even my family, but I knew I had to leave.
I took the offer, but didn't actually start until two months later.
I had unfinished business that I thought I needed to take care of,
but in hindsight, I should have left NYC immediately.

The first year away was good for me. I missed my friends, my fami-
liar environment, and I even missed my parents. But I had a new
beginning, a new life. Was I all that different? Not really.
But I did feel a lot better. My depression was subsiding, I was
growing emotionally stronger. I also decided to go back to
school. The two years away from school made me eager to return to
finish that PhD. I got accepted, and got a fellowship, so I was
all set. I was excited about returning to academics; my job
had been challenging, but when the project was cancelled and I was
reassigned to a different one, the job became boring to me.
School... excitement, a new effort. I was beginningto have hope.
Then began that fateful school term.

Jonathan was in one of my classes during my first semester in California. I
was in a study group with some guys (Keith, Pat, and Jim) who were
in a couple of my classes, but Jonathan wasn't part of it. He and Keith
were friends. Jonathan never said anything to us, except maybe an
occasional hello to Keith. He didn't sit with the rest of us in
class, but kept to himself, sitting alone in the front row. Occa-
sionally he would turn around to look at us, grinning if he
thought one of us asked a particularly stupid question. Some-
times I'd return his glance, wondering what he was thinking
about. He'd look away nervously. Sometimes he maintained the eye
contact, seemingly to dare me to continue. I couldn't. I'd always
look away in alarm. What if he thought I was gay???? I thought he
was very attractive, but wouldn't allow myself to entertain any
thoughts of attraction to him. I didn't dare. Feelings of attrac-
tion to other men was something I *had* to deny myself. Jonathan did
show up at one of our study sessions, but he didn't say much, and
left immediately after we put down our books for the night - he
didn't stay for our usual post-study banter. And that was the limit
of our interactions with him for the semester.

Jonathan II

Christmas vacation came and went. We had all survived the first semes-
ter of a rigorous graduate program, and like gluttons for punishment, we
all came back for more. Once again, Jonathan was in one of my classes and
once again, he sat off by himself. But I kept an eye on him. A couple
of weeks into the semester, Jonathan missed a couple of lectures, and in-
stead of asking me to borrow my notes, he asked Keith to ask me for them
(Keith wasn't in this class with us). Keith showed up in class one day,
much to my surprise, and sat down next to me. Jonathan sat down next to
*him*. I asked Keith what he was doing here, and his reply was,"Ol'
Jonathan" here wants to know if he could borrow your notes for the days he
missed." "Sure," I said, "here you go." Hmmm, I thought, why couldn't
he ask me himself? He must be *really* shy. "Thanks," he smiled.

My heart fluttered wildly, unexpectedly. It then began what was to be-
come a long series of heated discussions with my "conscience":

- Ooohhh, he's got such a cute smile!
Don't even say that!!! We're not allowed to have these feelings.
- So what, he's cute anyway.
Stop that!!! You're going to get us into trouble.
- Sigh.

I wanted to get to know this shy boy, to find out more about this Jonathan
who was so quiet and mysterious. How am I going to get him to talk to
me? I was on the shy side, too, and I was terrified of initiating con-
tact with him. It took me a few weeks to find enough courage, but after
class ended one day, I asked him if he'd like to have lunch with me
sometime. Much to my surprise, and relief, he said OK! What, OK?
Great!!!! We agreed on a day and time, then he said he had to go to
the library. I walked out of the building with him and waved goodbye as
our paths diverged. I took a few steps then felt compelled to spin back
around to watch him walk away. I stood there until he was no longer in
sight, then ran all the way to my office. It was on the 5th floor, but
I sprinted up the stairs in record time - no waiting for the elevators
today! I sat down at my desk, flushed with excitement, bursting with
joy. I couldn't stop smiling all day.

The appointed day came, but to my extreme disappointment, Keith
showed up, too. Now, I like Keith a lot, and ordinarily I would have
really enjoyed having him around, but this time was different; this
time was meant for Jonathan, alone, for me to get to know him a bit, without
someone else there who might detect a more than casual interest
on my part in Jonathan. He was characteristically quiet during
lunch, not saying more than 5 or 6 words the whole time. Keith had
dominated the conversation. This was so frustrating!!!! Sigh. I guess
I should have told him that I wanted to have lunch with just him. I
guess I'll have to try again.

I set up another lunch date with Jonathan, and this time it *was* just the
two of us. We talked about classes, where we went as undergrads,
hometowns, the usual meaningless light conversation. Actually, I did
most of the talking, but he was responsive. Finally, I asked:

" So, tell me about Jonathan."
- There's not much to tell.
" Well, what do you like to do, what do you think about?"
- Not much.
" What do you do in your spare time?"
- Oh, nothing.

This was getting nowhere. Sigh. OK, I guess I'll have to let him
know about *me*. I told him about my interests, about what I like to
do, my hobbies, my sports activities, hoping to find some common
ground to talk about. It worked. He said that he liked to play
racquetball, too, and that he'd be interested in playing me. We turned
out to be fairly close in proficiency, so playing Jonathan was challeng-
ing. I really enjoyed that hour spent sweating and chasing that little
ball around (and watching Jonathan dart around), and apparently he en-
joyed it, too, because he suggested that we play again in a couple of
days. For the rest of the semester we met twice a week to play
racquetball. Sometimes we played quite intensely, sometimes without
much vigor, but we always had fun. I did, at least. Sometimes he wore
a pair of thin, black running shorts that accentuated his form quite
nicely - on those days I could never win. But it didn't matter, I was
getting to spend time with him. Best of all, we were becoming friends!

We started to spend a lot of time together over the next few
months. Besides playing racquetball, I'd have him over for dinner,
stop by his apt. on my way home from school at night, go out for dinner
with him, and talk to him on the phone. Jonathan was opening up to me,
and I really liked what I saw. I was growing very fond of this boy! I
was happy just to be with him, to look at him, to listen to him talk,
to see him smile. By this time we always sat next to each other in
class, and often I paid more attention to him than to what the pro-
fessor was saying. I was very discreet, of course. And my mind was
telling me that what I feeling for Jonathan is what a person would feel
towards a "best friend", but my heart was telling me otherwise. Sigh.
Oh well, just enjoy his friendship and companionship, and don't get
carried away, I told myself. I certainly could delude myself.

One day, out of the blue, Jonathan decided he wanted a nickname. A nick-
name? After a few moments thought, he picked Buckwheat. *Buckwheat* ??
I have no idea why he picked Buckwheat. Oh well. Buckwheat it is.
He liked that nickname; he always answered in a softer, more playful
tone of voice whenever I called him that. Another time, while we just
chatting on the phone, he told me that he had to go wash and dry his
clothes before 9pm because he was afraid to be in the laundramat any
later than that. I asked him what happens after 9pm? He said,"Oh,
nothing, but I don't want to risk getting raped." I laughed, incredu-
lously, but he was serious. Raped? He didn't live in a rough neigh-
borhood. *Raped*? Why didn't he say he didn't want to get beat up or
robbed? Hmmmm. And one time he asked me to drive him to the airport.
He was going to Dallas for the weekend to see his ex-roommate at SMU.
Jonathan was taking a very long time getting ready, so I teased him:

"Jon, hurry up, you're going to be late for your flight. You're just like
a silly girl, taking forever just to get ready for a plane ride."
- Don't rush me; I have to look 'luscious for Dallas... OK, how do I look?
Don't I look stunning?

No, can't be. Probably just reacting to my remark about his being
like a girl. But I wasn't so sure. It didn't feel like he was
being sarcastic. My heart was pounding, trembling with excitement. My
mind steps in and another argument ensues:

Hey, calm down.
- What do you mean `calm down'! Did you hear what he said??? Is he....?
Stop that!
- What do I tell him??? How about "You look absolutely adorable!"
You're gonna get us in trouble...
- Look! He's smiling!!! I'm going to melt!!!
Oh stop that.
- *You* stop that! I'm tired of you always being so uptight.
Well, what if he *is*? We're *not* going to do anything about it.
-Sigh. Sigh. Go away, I hate you.
Be good.
-No! Sigh.

After he came back from Dallas, he showed me pictures he had taken of
his ex-roommate Allan and his other friends at SMU. I can't say what it
was about those pictures exactly, but Allan certainly looked gay.
Jonathan's other friends, too. I guess it was in their poses, in their
expressions, in the clothes they wore. Not what most straight men I
know would do. Maybe I was just dreaming, but I could really feel it.
My mission was now clear. I had to find out about Jonathan. I really
didn't know what I would do with the answer, but the pressing question
was , is he, or isn't he?

In the beginning of March (1986) I had to throw out my housemate and
look for another. I was complaining to Jonathan that I wasn't looking
forward to the search for a compatible housemate (I've had a history
of problems with roommates/housemates) when he suggested that maybe we
could work something out. What did he say? He and I live together?
Really? Boy oh boy oh boy oh boy oh boy!!! I had to really restrain
myself from going wild and bouncing all over the room; I hadn't been
that excited in a long time. He said he'd like to live with me, and
could move in after his lease was up, on June 1. Unbelievable. Jonathan,
living with *me*!!! I couldn't wait.


Note: There are nine other installments and they get pretty sickening
as you can imagine so I'll stop with what is here. I think you get the
idea of who Bobsprit really is by now.

Simple Simon.

hahahahahah

One of your better posts! Outstanding.

I hope you didn't actually spend your valuable time typing all
this in... perhaps the hose lady helped?

"Simple Simon" wrote in message
...
Dear Group,

I was doing some Google Groups research and found the
following very interesting and very revealing post from our
resident fat buffoon.

*********************

[I posted this almost 5 years ago (!) on a different newsgroup.
Somebody asked for anecdotes or experiences of "anyone
you know who is a gay/lesbian/bisexual AA". Here is one of my
experiences. I am in a different space now, in a much calmer
and stronger frame of mind. I wrote this shortly after coming
out to myself and undergoing my first MAJOR love/infatuation.

This is part 1 of 11. If there is any interest, I will post
the rest of them, one at at time, of course. They were
orginally posted over a 3 year period.

BTW, I do know of several well-known "out" gay AA's but I have
no definitive proof, so I will find substantiation before posting
any names, etc]

Capt. RB
S/V YODA


November, 1997

Jonathan. Sigh. The mere mention of his name evokes a flutter in my
heart, a crush of emptiness in my chest. Jonathan...not here.
Jonathan...gone. J...sigh. I've been sitting here for countless
minutes, staring at the words I have just written. I've been
thinking, dreaming yearning for my Jonathan. No...he's not mine, not
anymore. Maybe he never was. My eyes drift in and out of focus,
my thoughts surge and swirl, pausing sometimes to relive a particu-
lar incident, to remember another moment.... Jonathan. He haunts me.
It's been 8 months since he left me, but he haunts me still. Too
many things remind me of him: watching TV shows that we used to
watch together, hearing songs that he loved to play, passing by the
ice-cream store that we favored, cooking the dinners that he espe-
cially liked...

Jonathan wasn't the most beautiful person I've ever seen, nor the
most charming person I've ever met, but he was certainly the
cuddliest person I'd ever held. He had quiet brown eyes, soft smooth
lips, and a smile - oh what a smile he had - that could instantly
disarm the icy daggers of winter's coldest night. All he had to do
was to flash that smile at me and I'd melt, instantly. It just
wasn't fair. His hands were the most beautiful ones I've ever
seen: each finger beautifully shaped and proportioned, so tender yet
strong, so yielding yet firm. I loved to hold those hands, to
trace every curve and crease on his hands with my fingers, to gently
caress those hands with my nose and cheeks... And I loved the way
he talked. I loved his boyish phrases, his cynical commentaries, his
sarcastic mimicking. I even loved the random sounds he made some-
times. Cute. Cuddly. *Wonderful* to hold.

I've felt an attraction to guys for as far back as I could
remember, but I guess it isn't unusual for little boys to feel af-
fection for, and prefer the company of other boys. When I was in
the third grade, I became conscious of feeling something beyond the
boyhood feelings of camaraderie, but I didn't know or understand
what is was. I just knew it was different, and that the other boys
didn't share this feeling. It didn't really bother me then - it was
more of an awareness than anything else. On the outside I *was*
just like the other boys - I talked like them, I acted like them.
It was on the inside - my feelings - that differed.

As I grew older, and the thoughts and attention of the other boys
turned toward girls, and mine didn't, I begin to feel that there was
something wrong with me. And as my heretofore nebulous feelings for
boys focused into something that I identified as what the other boys
felt for *girls*, I became concerned. For one thing, the availabil-
ity of these boys to spend time with me became less and less as they
persued dating relationships with girls. I was jealous. For anoth-
er, why didn't *I* have the same desires and motivations? I guess I
did, but it was drawing me to boys, not girls. A storm was gather-
ing, a tempest that fed on my confusion and exuded a smothering
darkness as I became more aware of the physical (sexual) and social
implications of my feelings. My body, my soul was plagued with an
unspeakable evil, my heart held captive by a dark and terrible
secert.


My family moved to New York City when I was not quite seven
years old, so I essentially grew up in the big city. My parents tried to
bring up my siblings and me in the traditional family way, tried to
instill in us the values and mores of our heritage and culture.
They tried to give us the best in education and music lessons, the
utmost in opportunities. They were typical American parents, follow-
ing typical American methodologies. For the most part they suc-
ceeded. I feel in myself a very strong patriotic presence, a deep
respect and admiration for many of the traditions and values, but I
also feel very American in valuing personal freedom, in the right
to individual expression. There are enormous conflicts between
American values of independence and individualism, and the
Brody family emphasis on family loyalty, responsibility, and so-
cial harmony (order).

Responsibility. For years the Brody ideals of my family weighed
heavily on my shoulders. My father is the eldest son in his
family, as was his father. I am the eldest son in my generation,
the first born male among all my cousins, so one day I will be
head of the clan. I have to be responsible, to carry on the family
name, to bring honor, not shame, to our clan. How could I even
entertain the thought of being attracted to men? I *had* to rid
myself of this unspeakable evil, or at least beat it into submis-
sion. It wasn't difficult when I was a little kid to submerge those
feelings and feel like the other boys, or *think* that I do. But as
the years went by, I began to realize that it would neither leave me
nor submit. It was firmly entrenched. But I could not give up. I
kept silent my internal conflict, waging this weary war in soli-
tude, wanting desparately to conquer this darkness, but not daring
to ask for help. My struggle raged on.

I found that I could actually beat these feelings into submis-
sion at times, giving me peace for a few days, weeks, or even a few
months at a time. But they always came back, sometimes stronger,
sometimes weaker, but growing more and more persistant. I was
losing. It's interesting to note here that my parents didn't allow
me to date through high school, fearing that a girl would
distract me from my studies and my music. And they even discouraged
me from dating in college. My studies were *most* important. They
told me to finish my college degree first, and I *have* to excel in
everything I do, otherwise I will not be respected by the establishment.
I must not let anything distract me from my studies.

Nevertheless, I tried to develop an interest in women, partly
due to peer pressure, and partly as a strategy in my battle to
cleanse myself of this demon. I actually did fall in love with a
woman, or thought I did, a woman beautiful in her looks and in her
music. She played the cello beautifully, making it sing with a
hauntingly melancholy yet vibrant tone. Beautiful. I loved to listen
to her play. I loved to just be with her. We were close friends,
from jr high school through senior high and onto my early college
years, but we never dated. We did have an uncommonly close rap-
port, an intimacy not often available from other people. But I
thought she was out of reach. I admired her and loved her from a
distance, but I think she knew. I never felt so much love for any-
one as I did for her; that is, until Jonathan came along into my life.
Yet I continued to feel the unyielding attraction to men. Did I
really feel love for her? Maybe. All-consumming passion for her?
Not quite. Infatuation? Perhaps. The battle continued.


College - education, experiences, freedom! Freedom. Or so I thought.
For me, college was the first extended period of personal free-
dom, a time and setting in which I had no one to answer to except
myself. It was a place to experience the intensity of sharing
living quarters, ideas, and lives with so many people at once, my
first chance to explore ideas and feelings, to come in con-
tact with so many different ways of thinking and living. And the
fabled San Francisco was only 40 miles up the peninsula!
I really hadn't escaped. Perhaps I didn't really try. I
wanted to be free. Free to feel, free to be. I was tired
of fighting. But I couldn't. I was still staggering from the
(self-imposed) pressure to be the infallible number-one-son that
my parents and family wanted me to be.

I resented the pressures I felt from my family, and hated myself
for losing battle after battle in the esclating war within myself
for control of my life. I became very moody and despondent, un-
responsive to my parents. They became very worried and tried to
pull me out of it by telling me that I have to control my emo-
tions, to bear down and endure my difficulties. They really had no
idea what was causing my grief, but tried to reassert their control
over me, and I certainly resented the interference. I pulled further
away from my parents, plunging us into a tremendous rift that only
recently healed. On the surface I dated women and took a "healthy
interest" in them, but I always felt empty - there was some-
thing missing. I had close friends, both men and women, with whom I
could talk about anything, but this wasn't just anything - it was a
shameful evil.

I finally met someone I could talk to about my feelings. Donal
was the first openly gay person I had ever met, a gentle
and affable man who helped me so much in times of reflection and
crises. I must have asked him a million questions about every-
thing and anything having to do with being gay. But I never
said *I* was gay. He didn't have all the answers, but gave me
things to think about. Donal was really patient with me, help-
ful with information and advice, with understanding and care. I
was fascinated by all that he told me, and found a measure
of confidence, enough to tell him, albeit in a very timid and el-
liptical way, about my feelings and thoughts. He didn't laugh at
me, didn't chide me for my fears. He encouraged me to explore
my feelings, to just *feel* what I feel. I wasn't ready to do any-
thing just yet. But he didn't push me. I was still deep in
the closet, continuing to struggle. At this time, I felt it was all
right for other people to be gay, but it wasn't OK for me. I just
couldn't let my family down.

This went on for a couple more years, and I just got more and
more depressed , losing any remaining self-esteem and sense of
selfworth. I lost my motivation. I finished my Masters program
eventually, but for my parents this was not enough. They are both
scientists, and both sides of the family are filled with superachi-
evers. For me and my siblings, our education is not considered
finished until we have our doctorates. High expectations. High
pressure.

I was tired of school, tired of the exams, endless studying and
homeworks sets. I needed a rest from academics. I had worked half-
time at a production company during my last two undergrad years and
full-time during my Masters program, so I just continued working
full-time at the same filming division when I graduated. Suddenly
I had all this free time on my hands. My evenings and weekends
were free, no need to do homeworks or prepare for exams. What free-
dom! But free time can be a dangerous thing. I had too much
time to think, too much time to dwell on the problems facing me.
My depression was worsening at an alarming rate. I *was* such a
happy and cheerful kid. What happened to me? I was unhappy all
the time, so unmotivated and lethargic. And I was getting fat.
Very overweight. I guess I was trying to eat my way out of
my depression. Didn't work, apparently. All this, needless to
say, wreaked havoc with my life. My relationships took so much
work to maintain, my rift with my family was growing wider and wid-
er. I felt a real need to leave, to get as far away as I
can and start a new life.

A new beginning, a new chance to have a decent life? Wishful think-
ing. I secretly looked for jobs outside of the City, and got an
offer in Queens. This was my chance to get away from family, from
the problems plaguing me in the City, to start a new life. Actual-
ly, the problems would follow me anywhere, but I didn't realize
it then. I was a bit apprehensive about moving to Queens, about
leaving my friends, and even my family, but I knew I had to leave.
I took the offer, but didn't actually start until two months later.
I had unfinished business that I thought I needed to take care of,
but in hindsight, I should have left NYC immediately.

The first year away was good for me. I missed my friends, my fami-
liar environment, and I even missed my parents. But I had a new
beginning, a new life. Was I all that different? Not really.
But I did feel a lot better. My depression was subsiding, I was
growing emotionally stronger. I also decided to go back to
school. The two years away from school made me eager to return to
finish that PhD. I got accepted, and got a fellowship, so I was
all set. I was excited about returning to academics; my job
had been challenging, but when the project was cancelled and I was
reassigned to a different one, the job became boring to me.
School... excitement, a new effort. I was beginningto have hope.
Then began that fateful school term.

Jonathan was in one of my classes during my first semester in
California. I
was in a study group with some guys (Keith, Pat, and Jim) who were
in a couple of my classes, but Jonathan wasn't part of it. He and Keith
were friends. Jonathan never said anything to us, except maybe an
occasional hello to Keith. He didn't sit with the rest of us in
class, but kept to himself, sitting alone in the front row. Occa-
sionally he would turn around to look at us, grinning if he
thought one of us asked a particularly stupid question. Some-
times I'd return his glance, wondering what he was thinking
about. He'd look away nervously. Sometimes he maintained the eye
contact, seemingly to dare me to continue. I couldn't. I'd always
look away in alarm. What if he thought I was gay???? I thought he
was very attractive, but wouldn't allow myself to entertain any
thoughts of attraction to him. I didn't dare. Feelings of attrac-
tion to other men was something I *had* to deny myself. Jonathan did
show up at one of our study sessions, but he didn't say much, and
left immediately after we put down our books for the night - he
didn't stay for our usual post-study banter. And that was the limit
of our interactions with him for the semester.

Jonathan II

Christmas vacation came and went. We had all survived the first semes-
ter of a rigorous graduate program, and like gluttons for punishment, we
all came back for more. Once again, Jonathan was in one of my classes and
once again, he sat off by himself. But I kept an eye on him. A couple
of weeks into the semester, Jonathan missed a couple of lectures, and in-
stead of asking me to borrow my notes, he asked Keith to ask me for them
(Keith wasn't in this class with us). Keith showed up in class one day,
much to my surprise, and sat down next to me. Jonathan sat down next to
*him*. I asked Keith what he was doing here, and his reply was,"Ol'
Jonathan" here wants to know if he could borrow your notes for the days he
missed." "Sure," I said, "here you go." Hmmm, I thought, why couldn't
he ask me himself? He must be *really* shy. "Thanks," he smiled.

My heart fluttered wildly, unexpectedly. It then began what was to be-
come a long series of heated discussions with my "conscience":

- Ooohhh, he's got such a cute smile!
Don't even say that!!! We're not allowed to have these feelings.
- So what, he's cute anyway.
Stop that!!! You're going to get us into trouble.
- Sigh.

I wanted to get to know this shy boy, to find out more about this Jonathan
who was so quiet and mysterious. How am I going to get him to talk to
me? I was on the shy side, too, and I was terrified of initiating con-
tact with him. It took me a few weeks to find enough courage, but after
class ended one day, I asked him if he'd like to have lunch with me
sometime. Much to my surprise, and relief, he said OK! What, OK?
Great!!!! We agreed on a day and time, then he said he had to go to
the library. I walked out of the building with him and waved goodbye as
our paths diverged. I took a few steps then felt compelled to spin back
around to watch him walk away. I stood there until he was no longer in
sight, then ran all the way to my office. It was on the 5th floor, but
I sprinted up the stairs in record time - no waiting for the elevators
today! I sat down at my desk, flushed with excitement, bursting with
joy. I couldn't stop smiling all day.

The appointed day came, but to my extreme disappointment, Keith
showed up, too. Now, I like Keith a lot, and ordinarily I would have
really enjoyed having him around, but this time was different; this
time was meant for Jonathan, alone, for me to get to know him a bit,
without
someone else there who might detect a more than casual interest
on my part in Jonathan. He was characteristically quiet during
lunch, not saying more than 5 or 6 words the whole time. Keith had
dominated the conversation. This was so frustrating!!!! Sigh. I guess
I should have told him that I wanted to have lunch with just him. I
guess I'll have to try again.

I set up another lunch date with Jonathan, and this time it *was* just the
two of us. We talked about classes, where we went as undergrads,
hometowns, the usual meaningless light conversation. Actually, I did
most of the talking, but he was responsive. Finally, I asked:

" So, tell me about Jonathan."
- There's not much to tell.
" Well, what do you like to do, what do you think about?"
- Not much.
" What do you do in your spare time?"
- Oh, nothing.

This was getting nowhere. Sigh. OK, I guess I'll have to let him
know about *me*. I told him about my interests, about what I like to
do, my hobbies, my sports activities, hoping to find some common
ground to talk about. It worked. He said that he liked to play
racquetball, too, and that he'd be interested in playing me. We turned
out to be fairly close in proficiency, so playing Jonathan was challeng-
ing. I really enjoyed that hour spent sweating and chasing that little
ball around (and watching Jonathan dart around), and apparently he en-
joyed it, too, because he suggested that we play again in a couple of
days. For the rest of the semester we met twice a week to play
racquetball. Sometimes we played quite intensely, sometimes without
much vigor, but we always had fun. I did, at least. Sometimes he wore
a pair of thin, black running shorts that accentuated his form quite
nicely - on those days I could never win. But it didn't matter, I was
getting to spend time with him. Best of all, we were becoming friends!

We started to spend a lot of time together over the next few
months. Besides playing racquetball, I'd have him over for dinner,
stop by his apt. on my way home from school at night, go out for dinner
with him, and talk to him on the phone. Jonathan was opening up to me,
and I really liked what I saw. I was growing very fond of this boy! I
was happy just to be with him, to look at him, to listen to him talk,
to see him smile. By this time we always sat next to each other in
class, and often I paid more attention to him than to what the pro-
fessor was saying. I was very discreet, of course. And my mind was
telling me that what I feeling for Jonathan is what a person would feel
towards a "best friend", but my heart was telling me otherwise. Sigh.
Oh well, just enjoy his friendship and companionship, and don't get
carried away, I told myself. I certainly could delude myself.

One day, out of the blue, Jonathan decided he wanted a nickname. A nick-
name? After a few moments thought, he picked Buckwheat. *Buckwheat* ??
I have no idea why he picked Buckwheat. Oh well. Buckwheat it is.
He liked that nickname; he always answered in a softer, more playful
tone of voice whenever I called him that. Another time, while we just
chatting on the phone, he told me that he had to go wash and dry his
clothes before 9pm because he was afraid to be in the laundramat any
later than that. I asked him what happens after 9pm? He said,"Oh,
nothing, but I don't want to risk getting raped." I laughed, incredu-
lously, but he was serious. Raped? He didn't live in a rough neigh-
borhood. *Raped*? Why didn't he say he didn't want to get beat up or
robbed? Hmmmm. And one time he asked me to drive him to the airport.
He was going to Dallas for the weekend to see his ex-roommate at SMU.
Jonathan was taking a very long time getting ready, so I teased him:

"Jon, hurry up, you're going to be late for your flight. You're just like
a silly girl, taking forever just to get ready for a plane ride."
- Don't rush me; I have to look 'luscious for Dallas... OK, how do I
look?
Don't I look stunning?

No, can't be. Probably just reacting to my remark about his being
like a girl. But I wasn't so sure. It didn't feel like he was
being sarcastic. My heart was pounding, trembling with excitement. My
mind steps in and another argument ensues:

Hey, calm down.
- What do you mean `calm down'! Did you hear what he said??? Is he....?
Stop that!
- What do I tell him??? How about "You look absolutely adorable!"
You're gonna get us in trouble...
- Look! He's smiling!!! I'm going to melt!!!
Oh stop that.
- *You* stop that! I'm tired of you always being so uptight.
Well, what if he *is*? We're *not* going to do anything about it.
-Sigh. Sigh. Go away, I hate you.
Be good.
-No! Sigh.

After he came back from Dallas, he showed me pictures he had taken of
his ex-roommate Allan and his other friends at SMU. I can't say what it
was about those pictures exactly, but Allan certainly looked gay.
Jonathan's other friends, too. I guess it was in their poses, in their
expressions, in the clothes they wore. Not what most straight men I
know would do. Maybe I was just dreaming, but I could really feel it.
My mission was now clear. I had to find out about Jonathan. I really
didn't know what I would do with the answer, but the pressing question
was , is he, or isn't he?

In the beginning of March (1986) I had to throw out my housemate and
look for another. I was complaining to Jonathan that I wasn't looking
forward to the search for a compatible housemate (I've had a history
of problems with roommates/housemates) when he suggested that maybe we
could work something out. What did he say? He and I live together?
Really? Boy oh boy oh boy oh boy oh boy!!! I had to really restrain
myself from going wild and bouncing all over the room; I hadn't been
that excited in a long time. He said he'd like to live with me, and
could move in after his lease was up, on June 1. Unbelievable.
Jonathan,
living with *me*!!! I couldn't wait.


Note: There are nine other installments and they get pretty sickening
as you can imagine so I'll stop with what is here. I think you get the
idea of who Bobsprit really is by now.

Simple Simon.

Good lord...I hope you used some type of letter generating software for that
one!

Capt RB