breastbone. Goose bumps rise in
unusual places, and my body tingles
in a completely foreign way. Because
of Andrew. But he’s not here. I pretend
he is and let “his” hands explore the rounds
of my breasts, move in tighter and tighter
orbits, and now fingers circle the hard
center nubs, raised like it’s cold in here.
It’s not. I’m burning up. Delirious with
raw need. My hand wants to slide lower,
to a place I know nothing about except
what they call it in books. And suddenly
it comes to me how completely inept
I’ll be when Andrew and I finally
share that warm feather bed, with comfy
quilts and pillows we can fall into.
I Turn on the Light
Go to the computer, try to avoid
looking at the Calvary screen saver.
Jesus, hanging on the cross, staring
down at his poor crying mother.
Mama downloaded that, no doubt
specifically to deter the kind of
Internet exploration I have in mind.
I just have to be very careful not to surf
to the wrong kind of website. A touch
of the mouse, Golgotha dissolves
into the ether and voilà, up pops
Windows. Double-click on Explorer.
Here it comes, ready to take me where
I need to go. But where is that, exactly?
Might as well get straight to the point.
I type in, “losing your virginity.”
When I Hear
The door open, the sounds of return,
I hurry to turn off the computer
before Eve catches me, breathlessly
reading stories about other girls’ first
times. Some wonderful, some awful.
Some taken by force, some given
away. Some total disappointments.
Some more than they expected.
What none of them had, at least I’m
pretty sure they didn’t, was Andrew.
I rush into bed, pick up a book on
the nightstand, pretend I’m reading.
Eve breezes into the room, sighing.
I love weddings. You should have come.
Her goofy grin says a lot. “So …
Zach asked you to dance or what?”
Mama wouldn’t let me. But he asked.
She looks at me. How did you know?
“I’m a good guesser.” And I’m guessing
she never once thought about losing it.
A Poem by Seth Parnell
Losing It
Some days I think
I’m losing my mind.
What seems so
clear
most of the time
becomes a big question
mark. Am I really
the way
I perceive myself, or
is the person others see
the truth of me? I wait
for
answers, but inside
I know I have to go out
and find them. And
answers,
like knowledge, are
not always where we
look first for them.
Seth
Worked My Farmer Butt Off
All day. Can’t believe
my dad wants to give
me grief over going out.
What’s a Saturday
night for, anyway?
I think you should stay
home tonight, he says.
Hard to get up Sunday
morning when you’re
out late the night before.
We’re at the dinner table,
finishing off big ol’ plates
of venison sausage, biscuits,
and mushroom gravy. A mediocre
rendition of Mom’s recipe.
Dad seconds my opinion.
Not as good as your
mother’s, I know. I don’t
have her magic touch.
But I do the best I can.
He does. If he left it to
me, we’d eat nothing
but bologna and cheese,
with the odd pizza thrown
in for a little variety.
I save my more gourmet
palate for when I go out
with Loren. Not that Dad
would understand the draw
anyway. Caviar? Fish bait,
right? And pâté? Glorified
liverwurst. Still, in some
circles, venison sausage
is probably considered
quite the taste sensation.
“Dinner’s great, Dad. I bet
some of those hoity-toity
big-city chefs would kill
for this recipe.” Probably
not. But Dad’s face lights.
Think so? Well, I wouldn’t
want ’em to kill anyone,
but I wouldn’t mind
selling the secret formula
for big bucks, you know?
Other Than Large Male Deer
Big bucks are something
I’m pretty sure Dad
gave up on having a long
time ago, if he ever really
cared about such a thing.
I glance toward a photo
of Mom and Dad, taken
on their twentieth anniversary,
before we knew she was sick.
They look content. In love,
despite years of worry,
debt, and loss. Through
years of struggling to make
ends meet, they had each
other. And that was plenty.
Dad wears his age less
gracefully now. Factory
work and farming, a one-
two punch. Add loneliness …
Guilt swells. But I have plans.
Plans
For an evening with Loren.
Plans that require getting
out of the house. Plans
I would rather not outline
in detail. I hate lying to Dad,
but I can’t see a way around
it. “Tell you what. I’ll do
a little research. See if I can
find a five-star chef with a
hankering for deer meat.
Meanwhile, I’m gonna run
into town. Billy Clayborn’s
band is playing at Bristow
Tavern. Thought I’d take
a listen. Maybe I’ll get lucky.…”
I leave it hanging. Dad
has never asked, but
surely he’s wondered
if, at almost eighteen,
I’ve ever once gotten lucky.
The comment sinks in
like a hog in mud—
slow but sure. Finally
he says, Okay then. Just
don’t stay out real late.
I Know
He wants me to go to Mass
with him in the morning.
How can he go through
the motions? I’ve heard
him talking to himself.
He blames God for taking
Mom early, taking her
first. Yet come Sunday
morning, he’s on his knees,
genuflecting. Bowing down.
Maybe he’s searching.
For Mom. For proof
that there’s something
beyond this soil. This
earth. Maybe it’s a way
to keep on belonging.
Whatever it is, I sweeten
the deal, mostly because
I plan to stay out pretty late.
Scratch that. Real late.
“How about if I go
to Mass on my way
to Brist
ow? That way,
if I do get lucky, I’ll
already be absolved.”
Dad Laughs Softly
Shakes his head, but says,
Okay. I guess you’re old
enough to make your
own decisions about
stuff like religion and …
He can’t bring himself
to finish. But Catholic
or not, I’m sure he wants
his son to have “normal”
sexual desires. Wonder
if he suspects otherwise.
I’m relatively sure he knows
I have no plans to fulfill my
Mass obligation tonight
or any night. I’ve pretty
much given up on the idea
of salvation. Catholicism
and homosexuality only
go hand in hand in the
highest church circles.
Not Much Doubt
I’m damned anyway,
so I swing the old Chevy
toward the freeway, Louisville,
and Loren. My heart pumps
wildly in anticipation.
I turn up the radio, change
the station from country to
alternative. My Chemical
Romance fades and the DJ
segues into a Muse rocker.
Before I met Loren, I’d never
heard of either group. Now
the Dixie Chicks and Rascal
Flatts have taken a backseat
to music more relevant to me.
Muse, in fact, was playing
the first day I let Loren
show me what love can
be when two people give
themselves completely
to each other. It was our
fourth date. Up until then,
we’d only talked. Kissed
a little. Touched even less,
and only with our clothes on.
Loren was patient about
the rest. I’m not looking
for an easy lay, he said.
If I wanted that, I’d
pick someone up in a bar.
He could without even
trying. He’s beautiful.
I’m happy he doesn’t do
gay bars. “So what are
you looking for, then?”
A friend. A partner who
I can trust. Sex that
is more than mutual
masturbation. Sex that
is an outpouring of love.
Up Until
Our fourth time together,
individual masturbation
was the bulk of my sexual
experience. There were
a few short chapters of “touch
me here, I’ll touch you there”
in my very slim book of
adolescent sexual escapades,
but nothing more. I had no
idea what to do beyond that.
When I slipped into my
fantasies, I always had
sex with men. But that
day, overwhelmed as I
was with desire for Loren,
I was scared. Nothing
had ever scared me so
much, not even knowing
my mom was going to die.
Does every person feel
like that their first time?
Like what if they do it
wrong? Or worse, what
if they do it poorly—so
horribly their partner laughs?
Loren Didn’t Laugh
There proved to be nothing
to laugh about. Unexpectedly,
it all came very easily.
Like, yes, that was exactly
how it was meant to be—
me, taking control. Before we
started, I had no clear idea
about our roles. Who’s on
top and who’s not means
nothing when you aren’t
completely positive
that you belong in either
position. But that night,
one kiss and need struck
with enough force to erase
all doubt, all hesitation.
I didn’t wait for Loren to
say it was okay, didn’t ask
him to show me what to do.
Pure animal instinct led me
just where I wanted to go.
It wasn’t tender. Wasn’t
pretty. It was a raw, naked
joining, energized from years
of dreaming about what it
could be like, or should be
like. I gave, he took, and
when it was over, like Adam,
I shook at the forbidden
taste of new awareness.
Afterward, with his head
nested gently against my
chest, Loren whispered,
Are you sure you’ve
never done that before?
“Never.” My voice floated
up from a deep haze of
contentment. “But I want
to do it again.” It was a long
few minutes before I could.
Since That Day
I’ve grown more and
more confident in
the part I’m supposed
to play. Loren is older.
More experienced. Wiser,
in many ways. He is also
softer. Passive. Anxious
to please me, let me have
my way. He has become
my favorite teacher ever.
I can barely make it through
each week, pretending to
be the same old Seth at home,
when a short drive will
allow the new, improved Seth
to come out and play. I am
torn, wanting to keep
my dad satisfied, when
I know Loren is waiting
to satisfy me. One day soon
I’ll have to decide which
Seth I can live without.
Until then, Improved Seth will
have to escape when he can.
And he’s escaped tonight.
By the Time
I knock on Loren’s door,
of love and lust, I have
almost made up my mind
to leave Dad and home in
my wake and move to
Louisville before
I graduate in June.
I know it’s not long,
but I’m sick of pretending.
Loren opens the door.
I don’t wait for his greeting
before pushing inside and
yanking him tight up against
me. “God, I’ve missed you!”
He stiffens, and I finally
take a good look at
the worry sculpted in
his face. I missed you,
too. Come on. Sit down.
Something is definitely
wrong. I follow him
to the couch, afraid
to ask what it is. What
kind of bad news do I have
to hear now? He couldn’t be
sick, could he? No. Too young.
Too healthy. Unless … No!
Stop it. Just ask. I search
his eyes. “What’s wrong?”
Nothing. He takes my hand.
I mean, nothing major.
Relax, Seth. It’s just … He
reaches toward the coffee
table, picks up a letter.
I got this today. He cradles
the paper protectively, like
he doesn’t want me to know
what’s there. You know I go to
school at Louisville Seminary. …
Uh-huh. Louisville Presbyterian
Theological Seminary. Studying
marriage and
family therapy.
I nod my head, but I’m
totally confused. “Yes. So?”
A requirement for my BA
is three months of “field
study.” They’re sending
me to a congregation in
New York for the summer.
Something Thick
But tasteless rises up my
throat, into my mouth.
I break out in a panicky
sweat. “Congregation?
You mean, like a priest?”
He manages a thin smile.
More like a minister, but
yes. That is my calling.
But you knew that.
He rests a hand on my knee.
“I don’t know. I guess …”
Guess? What else would
a seminarian have planned?
But what about me? Us?
“What does that mean for us?”
Time apart. You can’t
come with me. I’ll be
living at the church. He lets
that sink in. Don’t worry
now. I don’t leave until May.
Don’t worry? He hacked
me off at the knees.
But it’s only temporary.
“You’re coming back, right?”
The silence screams.
A Poem by Whitney Lang
Scream
I whisper and you close
your eyes. I speak and
you turn away. If I
scream, will you finally
hear
me beg you to hold me
close to you, promise
you’ll never let go? Do
my tears
upset you? Can you
see them fall on fallow
ground—the soil
of your heart?
Fear
is a better friend than
you, who feels nothing,
beneath the weight of
my pain.
Whitney
I Despise Shopping
But it’s Paige’s idea of heaven,
so we’re going to Capitola Mall.
Mom hangs out with Paige’s mom
and encourages our friendship.
She wouldn’t, if she knew anything
at all about Paige other than that her mom
plays a mean game of tennis. But she
doesn’t, so we’re on our way to the mall.
Did you go out with Lucas last
night? Paige broke up with her last
boyfriend a few months ago and dates
vicariously through me. Voyeuristic ho!
I don’t mind entertaining her—or
making her jealous, either. “Actually,
we spent most of the day together.
We hung out down at the Boardwalk.”
Uh-huh. And what else? Voyeuristic
enough to want details beyond