Groves Oliver's Diary

A Lgbtq+ Love Story
1. Auflage 2018
ISBN: 978-1-5439-3095-5
Verlag: BookBaby
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: Adobe DRM (»Systemvoraussetzungen)

E-Book, Englisch, 142 Seiten

Oliver chronicles his journey of bullying, falling into and out of love with more than one man, finding his adult independence, navigating the era of Don't Ask, Don't Tell, and achieving self-acceptance through reflection of his diary entries spanning four decades. You will laugh. You will cry. You will smile.

Autoren/Hrsg.

Groves, Robert

Leseproben

• CHAPTER 2 • He’s My Everything
“His smile. His cheeks. His eyes that seemed to glisten with a sea of laughter. His muscular physique. His perfect ass that teased you as he walked. His demurred cowboyish persona and a light southern accent.” As he finished with his May 29, 1980 diary entry, the day after graduation, Oliver counted. “1, 2, 3, 4, 5….247.” That’s how many times he had written a diary entry about Chris since that third-grade day in 1971. “Yeah, I have it bad,” he thought to himself as he closed the diary and hid it away. Throughout the summer, most mornings we would meet for breakfast at the Oakwood café. Chris would order the western omelet with black coffee. I would have the French toast and orange juice. Chris was attending the summer session at the local college to finish his remedial courses. He wanted to start his degree program on time the coming fall semester. He almost missed the application deadline. Chris had not planned to go to college anywhere, but I insisted he at least try it. What future would he have without at least a two-year degree? Surely, he did not want to work in the toxic pools of the carpet mills. I was working as a nurse’s aide for the local hospital, Hamilton Medical Center, to prepare for nursing school in September. “Am I gay, Ollie?” Chris whispered one morning at breakfast. “I mean what we are doing is just normal stuff all guys experiment with, right? It doesn’t mean anything, does it?” “That’s something you must figure out for yourself, Chris,” I replied. “But, it’s not just a phase for me. I’m into guys. I’m especially into you and I don’t want what we are doing to come to an end. Ever.” “I keep telling myself, ‘don’t be fucking silly, Chris. You like girls.’ I cupped Chris’ hand and rested my fingers on his wrist. “Don’t worry about it, dude. You’ll know when the time is right. In the meantime, let’s just enjoy the summer.” A week later, while walking to the car from the theater, his hand slipped into mine. I wasn’t even aware we had interlaced our fingers until I had to untwine them. Then it became a common thing for us to hold hands while walking or in the car together. But, always discretely and out of sight of others. I felt more hopeful our relationship, as it was to me, began to be important to him. Sometimes when we were eating out the occasional waitress would give us a knowing smile when she served our food. Sometimes one would even have courage to say, in a whisper, “enjoy your date” when placing the entrees in front of us. But, Christopher would quickly retort, “Oh, we aren’t together like that” before she could place the silverware next to the plates. September arrived, and school started. Chris started his Medical Laboratory Science courses while I began Nursing Fundamentals and Pharmacology. As the semester progressed and the demands of study mounted, we had less and less time for each other. Emily Thompson, 28, was a student in my nursing class. A single divorcee, she felt freed from the bonds of marriage and by her accounts tried to make-up “for lost time.” By November, our small class had bonded, and Emily would host a party every Friday night at her house. Out of 30 students, there were only three other men besides me. Mike and Charles were ex-military who served in Vietnam and were attending school on the G. I Bill. While Chuck was well… a lost puppy dog. He was 32, still living at home with his parents. I often wondered what deferment he used to avoid Vietnam. Obviously, he passed the admission medical screening for the program. I was the youngest student. The next nearest person to my age was 25. The women in the class would often say, “Oliver you’re just a baby. You know nothing about life yet.” Emily had one strict rule for her Friday night parties; no one under 18. She did not want to get into trouble for serving alcohol to minors. I barely made the age requirement. Whoever was available came and brought whatever friends one could round-up. I sometimes could talk Chris into going. I chugged down the 7-Up mixed with Vodka. My throat burned. Before starting college, I rarely drank. I had celebrated my 18th birthday the prior April with one beer with Chris and a few other friends. But, these adults drank like they were babies sucking their mother’s tits. I rubbed my temple although I was used to loud music. It was Emily’s choice of hard rock albums spinning on the turntable giving me a headache. I looked over my classmates as I took another sip from the liquid that made my body heat with warmth. Not the good kind. Emily lowered the music and clapped her hands together to get the crowd’s attention. “Let’s play Truth or Dare. It’ll be fun! Chop, chop! Everyone come over here.” She pointed her index finger around the room and landed on me. “You, too, Ollie.” I placed the cup on a table and took a seat on the floor moving my head side to side to get rid of the dizziness. “Sit your ass down! This is fun,” Charles yelled at the girl who had changed her mind about playing. He staggered drunkenly. Everyone sat in a circle. Chris sat across from me. To my left was Emily. To my right was Rhonda and on the other side of her was Andrew, her date. His parents were from Spain and he had inherited their darker skin tone. Andrew played intramural soccer at school. He also was a bartender at The Cellar and sometimes I would talk Chris into going there for drinks after the last class of the day. I would gaze at and fantasize about Andrew while drinking Jack Daniels whiskey and coke. “I want to go first,” Rhonda announced. Since no one protested, Emily gave her the bottle to spin. The women all agreed Chuck, who the bottle pointed at, should eat a spoonful of vinegar mixed with cinnamon. So, he did. I bet he thought he would have to kiss a girl, but the women did not drool over Chuck. They drooled over Charles, the drunk guy and Andrew. And maybe the science professor. “Oh, good grief, come on!” I heard Rhonda groan. I took a few seconds to realize one guy told her to kiss Emily. Half-heartedly watching, my thoughts and eyes strayed over to Chris who appeared wasted. I wondered if Emily would let us crash here tonight. “I dare you to kiss…” Emily said as she pointed toward Andrew. My heart raced. Suddenly I was soberer than I had been all night. He’d chuckled out loud when Rhonda kissed Emily, of course. I didn’t want to watch him make out with a girl, either. But, it would have been suspicious if I got up and left now. “Oliver.” My whole body went numb, cold and stiff as my gaze dropped to the floor, glued there, too embarrassed to look his way. “Seriously?” he sounded doubtful. “I had to kiss Rhonda. It’s only fair!” Emily replied with a huge smile. “I can kiss a guy,” shrugging his shoulders. A bunch of giggles all around the circle except Chris who looked a mixture of horrified and mad. “But, Oliver?” Chris stands. “Hey dude! What the hell do you mean?” “Because he’ll like it. He’s a queer, or have you not heard about that?” Andrew retorts with his fists clenched by his sides. “You must be one, too, since you’re defending him.” They fight. I burst into tears and run out of the house. All I could think about were those five years of middle and high school when I was tormented. Torment is the right word for it, too. Please God, I pray, don’t let college be a repeat. In the eighth grade, I don’t know if Johnny created a comic strip titled, “Oliver the Faggot” and distributed it to our classmates because I was gay. In the ninth grade, did a group of guys stuff and abandon me in a locker in the girl’s dressing room because I was gay? Did a wandering eye, or even a suspicion of one, cause the locker room incidents? Or in the tenth grade, was my locker door decorated with flowers, sprayed with perfume, and a pink plaque hung with “faggot” because I was gay? How about in the eleventh grade when my beige Ford Fairlane was spray painted in black on both sides with the word “QUEER?” Was it because I was gay? Or how about my senior year when at homecoming someone decorated my front yard in lovely shades of lavender, purple, and pink toilet paper? Was that because I was gay? There wasn’t any way for them to know. I wasn’t even open and aware with myself. However, what they sensed, and what made those five years a living hell, was I didn’t conform to group norms. I had no sexual conquests with girls to share in the locker room with the boys after gym class. Didn’t have the sense to make-up the stories. Those actions drew attention and made me different. For guys like those, different equaled gay, regardless of the facts. Most of the other guys in my small-town middle and high schools were jocks, or reasonable facsimiles thereof. I couldn’t fake it. Running track and playing soccer were the most athletic things I did in those years. I tripped over the hurdles and fell on my face and moved the ball on the field in the...