Absolutely Positively Not Read online

  I sat up again.

  Except for maybe those magazines.

  Beneath my bed, in a shoe box wrapped in rubber bands, locked in a suitcase covered with an old blanket, were two magazines: The Men’s Undergear Catalog and International Male. I had discovered them at our neighbor’s when she had asked me to take in her mail. I figured the post office had made a mistake. What was an eighty-year-old woman going to do with a catalog full of male models in thongs and jockstraps? Not wanting her to be offended, I had brought the magazines home with every intention of throwing them away. Two years later I hadn’t gotten around to it yet.

  So what?

  Just because I occasionally flipped through those magazines late at night in the privacy of my bed, did that mean I was gay? What’s wrong with wanting to be up-to-date on underwear fashions? Straight men wear briefs, don’t they?

  And just because I very infrequently stumbled across Web sites that showed pictures of naked men, did that mean I was gay? It’s almost impossible to avoid those sites, no matter how hard you try.

  I stood up and punched my pillow.

  No! I was absolutely, positively not gay. What’s more, I was going to prove that I wasn’t.

  I yanked the suitcase from under my bed, snapped open the locks, and pulled the rubber bands off the shoe box. Then I ripped the catalogs into tiny shreds until I was left with a pile of scraps no bigger than postage stamps. I stuffed the pieces into a plastic grocery bag, tied it tight, and carried it out to the trash where I buried it beneath the remains of last night’s dinner. See! If that didn’t indicate how not gay I was, what did?

  “Case closed,” I said, dropping the lid down on the garbage can.

  I returned to my bedroom and slid my suitcase back where it belonged. Nobody could ever think that I was gay now. Because I wasn’t.

  I sat down on the edge of my bed.

  Maybe I should get a tattoo. Something like a bloody skull, or a snake with daggers coming out of its eyes. Or better yet, a great big busty woman in a tiny bikini. It could cover my entire forearm.

  When I went to my desk to get a ballpoint pen for sketching possible tattoo designs, a stray scrap of paper on the carpet caught my eye. It was a shred from one of the magazines, showing somebody’s bare elbow or knee. It could have been a woman’s knee if I didn’t know any better.

  Of course! That was it! I didn’t need a tattoo. What I needed was something a lot less expensive and considerably less painful. What I needed was a Playboy. Guys who are gay do not keep Playboy magazines in their bedrooms.

  What a simple and elegant solution! The magazine could be hidden beneath my mattress and pulled out whenever I needed a gentle reminder that I wasn’t gay. And if my parents accidentally stumbled across it, so what? Nothing wrong with a sixteen-year-old boy satisfying his natural curiosity about girls.

  It was only four o’clock. I could still do it before dinner. The sooner I got this whole gay issue settled once and for all, the better.

  Five minutes later I was out in the cold, walking to Bart’s Gas-O-Rama. It was a dumpy gas station–convenience store that catered to truck drivers. If there was one place in town that could be guaranteed to have adult magazines, this was it.

  I stepped inside and huddled next to the snack area, trying to absorb some warmth from the heat lamps shining down on two ancient bratwurst. When I was thawed, I wandered to the back of the store where the magazines were kept. A quick purchase and I’d be heading home, confident in my heterosexuality.

  “Why, hello, Steven! What a pleasant surprise!”

  A gray-haired lady in a pink flannel coat was coming my way. It was Miss Abbergast, my first-grade teacher.

  “Hi, Miss A.”

  I thought she had retired to Arizona.

  “It’s so nice to see you. How is school going? And how are your parents?”

  Usually I like chatting with my old teachers, but not today. I was on an important mission with no time to be sidetracked.

  “Are you getting gas, Steven?” It sounded like a question about my digestive system. “I can’t believe you’re already old enough to drive.”

  “Actually, I’m here to …”

  I’m here to buy a dirty magazine full of naked women in lurid poses.

  “… I’m here to pick up a few things for my mom.”

  I grabbed something from the nearest shelf. A dented can of olives.

  Miss Abbergast smiled. “You were always one of my most thoughtful students. I’m glad to see that you haven’t changed.”

  She brushed past me to the back of the store and parked herself next to the magazine rack. She picked up a copy of The National Enquirer and began to read.

  As much as I wanted the world to know that I wasn’t gay, I couldn’t bring myself to buy the Playboy with Miss Abbergast standing right in front of it. While she worked her way through the latest celebrity gossip, I roamed the aisles and waited for her to leave.

  For someone who taught so many kids to read, Miss Abbergast was a painfully slow reader herself. When the clerk behind the cash register began to eye me, I picked up a plastic shopping basket so I’d look like a serious customer and not some juvenile delinquent casing the joint for a shoplifting spree. Breath mints, a box of plastic forks, a can of WD-40. Soon my basket was full.

  Miss Abbergast continued reading. She finished the Enquirer and moved on to The Weekly World News. The Pennzoil clock above the cash register said 5:43. My father puts dinner on the table at six and I’ve learned it’s best not to be late.

  Finally Miss Abbergast pulled a flowered head scarf out of her pocket and tied it over her hair. She picked up a copy of Time and headed for the cashier. “Tell your mother hello,” she called, waving at me.

  “Will do,” I said, waving back.

  The moment she was out the door I made my move before one of my old Sunday school teachers showed up.

  The men’s magazines were high on the top row. I set the shopping basket down and reached for the Playboy. My fingers were touching its cover when my eyes drifted to another magazine below. It showed a dark-haired, bare-chested man with a big grin. He could have been Mr. Bowman’s brother.

  Maybe I should check.

  I slid the magazine out of the rack. The man on the cover was wearing nothing but a flaming red Speedo. “Sizzling Swimwear for the Man in Your Life,” read the caption.

  Come to think of it, I needed a new bathing suit. Better take a look.

  “There’s a ten-minute limit on reading, boy.”

  I shoved the magazine back. A grizzled old man half my size stood inches away, glaring like a bloodthirsty weasel. The patch on the front of his oil-stained overalls said BART.

  “I’m not reading, I’m buying.”

  I grabbed a different magazine and dropped it into my basket. Only then did I notice its title: New Baby, The Magazine for Young Mothers.

  Bart narrowed his eyes.

  “My girlfriend is pregnant,” I explained. “I’m picking up a few things that she needs.”

  Like plastic forks and WD-40.

  Bart smiled, showing more empty spaces than teeth. “We sell diapers too, you know. It’s never too early to stock up.”

  I couldn’t tell if he was being sarcastic or not. I bought a box of the extra absorbent.

  The clerk rang up my purchases, wiping me out of every cent that I had. I ran to make it home by six.

  “Dinner is on the table in five minutes,” said my dad as I came into the kitchen. He glanced at the bag of groceries in my arm, and the ends of his bushy eyebrows met. Sticking out from the top of the bag were the disposable diapers.

  “It’s for an art project at school,” I said. “You know, papier-mâché.”

  I hurried to my room before he could say anything else and leaned my back against the door. What a wasted trip. A lot of useless junk, and not the one crucial item I needed.

  When I emptied the grocery bag onto my bed, the New Baby magazine landed on top of the pile. What was
I going to do with that? I leafed through its pages and was about to toss it in my wastebasket when I spotted a full-page ad for Victoria’s Secret. It seemed out of place among all the bassinets and teddy bears, but maybe new mothers were interested in looking sexy too.

  The woman in the ad was wearing lacy black underwear and standing on a beach. She was staring seductively at the camera. Her lips were parted as if she were about to reveal her innermost desires.

  Maybe my trip to Bart’s wasn’t a waste after all.

  I carefully ripped the photo out of the magazine and carried it to my desk. I turned on my lamp and trimmed the torn edges with a pair of scissors. I cradled the picture gently in my hand. “You are so beautiful,” I whispered to the photo. “You’re everything I’ve always wanted in a woman.”

  I traced my fingers along her outline. I stroked the image of her cascading blond hair. I let my fingers linger on her breasts.

  “Sexy, sexy, sexy. You must be the hottest babe in the world.”

  I closed my eyes and kissed the photo, leaving wet lip prints on the glossy paper.

  “I’d do anything to have a girl like you.”

  The woman looked unconvinced.

  I couldn’t blame her. I didn’t even sound convincing to myself. Even worse, when I had closed my eyes to kiss the photo, the image that had popped into my head was the bare-chested man in the Speedo.

  I flicked off the lamp.

  What was I doing wrong? Everyone knows that guys my age are supposed to be excited by pictures of women with big breasts. Why else would they constantly show women like that on TV?

  I opened my desk drawer and pulled out a roll of tape. I taped the photo onto my wall, just below the framed copy of my favorite comic book cover: Superman flying off with a young man who’s about to be flattened by a meteor. Maybe if I looked at this woman in her underwear long enough, I’d eventually find her arousing.

  “Dinnertime, Steven! Now!”

  I opened my bedroom door and the room filled with the smell of garlic from my dad’s tomato sauce. Time to face another plate of spaghetti.

  My god, Steven, you drive like an old lady.”

  My father reached over and planted his heavy hand on my knee and pressed down. The car accelerated and my head snapped back.

  “I was only going the speed limit,” I said.

  “Nobody drives the speed limit,” my father informed me. “Except maybe your mother.”

  We barreled through town, my hands clenched to the steering wheel.

  “It’s nighttime, Dad. Aren’t you supposed to drive slower at night?”

  The Beaver Lake hospital whizzed past us in a blur. If we crashed, at least the ambulance wouldn’t have far to go.

  “If you drive like you’re afraid, Steven, you’ll always be afraid to drive.”

  He flicked on the dome light and began reading his newspaper. If he sensed I was slowing, he reached over and pushed my knee back down.

  When we reached the library I was drenched in sweat. Driving with my dad always felt like an extreme-sports competition; I was never certain if I’d finish the event alive.

  I climbed from the car and my father slid across the seat.

  “If you want to survive on the road, Steven, you’ve got to drive like a man.”

  With that, he was gone, off to meet his buddies at the Blue Line to watch hockey on their wide-screen TV.

  I took out my pocket notebook and added another six minutes and seven seconds to my driving log. A big disadvantage of driving with my dad was that I clocked only half as much time as when my mom was the passenger. I checked my watch again. I had half an hour before my mom came to pick me up for our weekly square dancing.

  The library was almost empty. Good. The fewer prying eyes to notice why I was here, the better. It had been a week since my failed attempt to get a Playboy and staring at the Victoria’s Secret ad had not jump-started my interest in girls. In fact, Mr. Bowman was looking better every day. If I wanted to secure my position as a heterosexual, it was time to try another approach.

  The library, I reasoned, was a good place to start. It’s where I discovered in second grade that warts are not caused by talking back to your parents, as my mother had claimed. It’s also where I learned the literal definitions of “bastard” and “bugger,” favorite swear words of my dad. I hoped it could help me with this problem too.

  I glanced over at the reference desk. A woman with arms the size of golf bags was ripping the back covers from discarded paperbacks. A sign on her desk read, ASK ME! I’M HERE TO HELP.

  No, I didn’t think so. This wasn’t a subject I could talk to a stranger about, especially one who resembled a professional wrestler.

  I sat down at the online catalog farthest from anyone else. The computer prompted me to enter my keyword.

  Gay?

  No. I wasn’t gay. Absolutely not.

  Straight?

  The word “straight” always made me think of rulers and straight lines. I wanted a book that dealt specifically with my worries, not a geometry study guide.

  Instead I typed a word that went right to the heart of my problem.

  Sex.

  I hit the return key, and the screen was filled with titles, each and every one screaming that three-letter word:

  Sex After Sixty

  Sex, American Style

  Sex Among the Nomadic Tribes of the Southern Sahara

  Dozens and dozens of sex books, and this was only the first of thirteen pages.

  At that moment the gigantic reference librarian passed behind me, pushing a cartload of videocassettes. Had my computer sent out a signal informing her that I was looking up dirty titles? I leaned forward and pretended to have a coughing fit, cleverly concealing the screen with my body. When she disappeared into a back room, I resumed my search.

  Most of the books sounded useless or downright bizarre, but at the bottom of the tenth page was a title that held promise: Sex, Your Son, and His Future by Dr. Trent Beachum.

  Sex and my future. That’s exactly what I was worried about.

  I copied its call number onto a scrap of paper, then cleared the screen, leaving no incriminating evidence behind. Making a slow, casual approach to avoid drawing attention to myself, I located the book in a dim corner of the library.

  It was a small paperback with yellowed pages. The faded photo on the cover showed a happy mother and father beaming at their son, who was doing his homework in front of the fireplace. They were all wearing cardigan sweaters knit by the mother. I could tell, because she was in the process of knitting another one, possibly for the beagle that was lying obediently next to their son.

  All right, the book was old. So what? If this book could help me, I didn’t care if it had been carved from a slab of stone. Besides, Trent Beachum had a list of credentials that took up half the back cover, including Doctor of Philosophy and Outstanding Citizen of Plainview, Utah. If you couldn’t trust an Outstanding Citizen, who could you trust?

  I carried the book to a study carrel hidden behind a plastic rubber tree and skimmed through the chapter titles: “The Difference Between Boys and Girls” … “The Wonders of Puberty” … “Let’s Be Frank About Proper Hygiene” … then bingo! “The Question of Deviant Sexual Behavior.”

  My heart kicked into overdrive. Even though he hadn’t specifically used the word “gay,” I knew exactly what Dr. Beachum meant.

  I turned to Chapter 4 and started reading.

  Most boys develop a healthy interest in young ladies sometime during their early to mid-teens, but on rare occasions, this does not occur.

  Trent had me pegged. I had come to the right place.

  There is no reason why this should cause any concern.

  My shoulders dropped three inches in relief. Maybe I was okay after all.

  Unless, of course, your son is demonstrating mannerisms that might be deemed effeminate.

  My shoulders tensed up again.

  Be on the lookout for these warning sign
s:

  #1: Does your son prefer the company of girls to boys?

  A cold shiver crept up my neck. Rachel, my best friend, was a girl.

  #2: Does your son participate in activities that are female in nature, such as playing with dolls or dancing?

  I had two plastic bins in my closet filled with collectible Superman action figures. Were they considered dolls? Even if they were still sealed in their unbroken blister packs?

  And dancing … I was going dancing tonight, with my mother!

  #3: Does your son like to dress up in women’s clothing?

  At least I could answer no to that one.

  Except …

  One year for Halloween I had dressed up as Mrs. Briggs, the elementary school principal, complete with a big red wig and her trademark green eye shadow. Everyone had thought this was funny. Even the teachers had laughed. But maybe it wasn’t funny. Maybe this was leading me down the path of deviant behavior. Why hadn’t somebody warned me?

  If you answered yes to at least one of these questions …

  I had answered yes to all three!

  … then you should be very concerned.

  I was!

  But don’t despair.

  Too late!

  There is still hope.

  Thank you!

  You can still save your son from a life of loneliness and shame, but you must act now….

  Just then the sound of a familiar voice made me look up. I peeked around the rubber tree and saw Rachel. She was at the checkout desk returning a stack of romance novels. “Who says a feminist can’t read Harlequin Romances?” she had told me.

  Rachel’s head barely cleared the stack of books on the counter. It was her height — or lack of it — that had drawn us together in the first place. In kindergarten Calvin Sprugg had nicknamed us Teeny and Weenie because Rachel was so short and I was so skinny. Whenever the teacher wasn’t looking, Calvin mouthed, “Teeny-Weenie, Teeny-Weenie” until the day Rachel got fed up and threw his tennis shoes into the goldfish tank. The name calling had stopped, and Rachel and I had been best friends ever since.