Incognito

Sam was a tall, wiry boy with close-cropped blond curly hair who wore tight Wrangler jeans and flannel shirts. Sam wasn’t too into team sports, but he was an outdoorsman. He liked camping, fishing, kayaking and bow hunting. He was country, and he was one of the boys I hung out with in middle school. I never exactly crushed on him, but I did appreciate him. He and his friends took me in when other kids had shunned me. Being in his lunch crowd provided some protection from bullies, and I didn’t feel so alone and unwanted when I was with them. Sam talked about sex in a crass way, and he sometimes bragged about his conquests. I took him at his word at the time, but now I suspect much of what he said about his experience was exaggerated or fabricated. However, he was a sexy boy. If he had asked me for a blowjob, I would have dropped to my knees in front of him without hesitation. I would have been happy for the opportunity, but no such invitation was ever extended.

Sam and I had gym class together in our freshman year of high school. I was relieved to see him that first day, but he never looked in my direction. I got the sense he was deliberately avoiding me. We didn’t do anything on the first day. The coach assigned us lockers and told us what we were required to wear during his class. Then he left, leaving us with nothing to do for about twenty minutes. Sam stood near the door waiting for the bell to ring. I went over and stood beside him, but he didn’t say anything. In fact, he seemed kind of nervous. Finally, I spoke to him. I made some kind of silly joke hoping to break the ice. But he didn’t laugh. Instead, he glanced sideways at me and said in a low voice as if he didn’t want anyone else to hear, “Cottle, if you talk to me again, I’ll kick your ass.”

Of course, I was hurt and shocked, but I wasn’t mad at Sam. It was just further confirmation that I had nothing to offer. I didn’t know why anyone would want to talk to me, so how could I hold Sam’s snub against him? Years later, I realized Sam was afraid. He always seemed confident and assured. He exuded masculine toughness in my eyes. I never imagined he would have his own insecurities. But high school was new to us, and gym class was a hyper-macho environment. Boys strutted and postured in an attempt to establish dominance. And since I didn’t play that game, I was the lowest in the pecking order. Sam didn’t know where he stood yet, and he didn’t know if he could afford to take me in as he had done in middle school. Befriending a weaker, less popular kid might be viewed as a sign of strength, but it was risky. If the boys who didn’t know Sam saw him being chummy with me, they might assume he was a faggy outsider, too.

I abided by Sam’s wishes and didn’t bother him anymore. Oddly enough, a couple of years later, we passed in the hall, and he waved and said hello as if nothing had happened. But that was way into the future that first day of high school. After gym class, I knew I was on my own again.

High school wasn’t as dangerous as middle school, generally speaking, and that’s because many of the worst bullies, the ones who were potentially violent, had quit before making it to the ninth grade. Some were probably even locked up. However, there was a sharper division between the supposedly cool, popular, usually rich kids, the not so popular kids and the untouchables. I was aware of this stratification system from the start, but I didn’t know how to navigate it. I was shy, introverted and socially awkward, and I had a huge secret. I wanted and needed some kind of validation, but I knew I couldn’t let anyone get too close. It was a balancing act that was beyond my skill set.

Just as in middle school, lunch was one of the most unpleasant periods of the day. While in class, we were expected to sit quietly. That came easily enough for someone who didn’t like to be noticed, but that stricture didn’t apply to lunch period. You could socialize during that hour, but for me, that was like jumping off the high dive at the swimming pool. The windowless lunch room was small and crowded, so I couldn’t sit by myself. I had to wander around until I found an empty chair and hopefully some friendly faces. I must have looked like a lost puppy. Once I sat down, the others at the table would continue talking as if I weren’t there. I didn’t know how to insinuate myself into the conversation, so I didn’t say anything. I felt conspicuous and unwanted. Everyone was chatting and laughing while I was being ignored. The situation was often so stressful it caused intense headaches. My temples throbbed. To this day, anything that remotely resembles a school cafeteria will bring on flashbacks and a sense of panic and dread.

I think I was on the edge during my freshman year. I was friendless. School did nothing but reinforce my sense of utter worthlessness, and Mother’s mental health was deteriorating, too. As soon as I got home, I’d grab some junk food, lock myself in my room and watch my little black and white television until it was time to go to bed.

Within a few weeks, I stopped trying to eat lunch at school. I couldn’t stand the rejection. So I began passing that period leaning against the wall near the office. That’s where many of the misfits gathered. We were too damaged to trust or reach out to each other, so we remained imprisoned in our private torments. I don’t know how we survived. We were like flowers trying to grow in the shade. We were too timid to complain or act out, so our distress went unnoticed, but make no mistake about it, many of those kids standing alone with their heads bowed were in terrible danger. Many of us were potential victims of suicide, but in the world we inhabited, there was no safety net for us. Quiet kids were easy to overlook.

Perhaps it was for the best that my behavior didn’t ring any warning bells at that time. If Mother’s condition had come to the attention of the wrong authority figure, I might have been sent to a foster home. That, more than likely, would have only made things worse. There was also the prevailing belief that troubled boys should have a heaping dose of discipline thrust upon them, which usually meant rough contact sports and a drill sergeant type getting up in your face and telling you to “man up.” But boot camp was the antithesis of what I needed.

I could have used some counterexamples that challenged the deeply ingrained attitudes about sex and what boys and girls were supposed to be like. Knowing other men and boys like myself would have been nice. Knowing an older gay couple would have been wonderful. Dating an older boy, maybe a college boy, would have been like a dream if he were patient and good to me. Someone with a little more knowledge and a willingness to impart it in a gentle way. Someone who could have made me feel wanted, esteemed, respected, desired. To this day, I sometimes daydream of meeting such a prince when I was fifteen. Ah, to have had some sweet, lanky kid pick me up in his decrepit Gremlin, take me to a secluded spot—there are many in West Virginia—and have him say, “What do you want to do with me, Gary? We can do anything, just ask.” I would have wet myself with glee if I had seen a magazine photo of two cute guys holding hands. Even seeing some gay porn would have been revelatory. If only I could have been magically transported to New York City to watch the Pride Parade. I knew there were boys like me in the world. I knew there were at least a few more besides myself in my hometown. I at least was aware of that much, so I was a little better off than gay boys who came of age before the 1980s. But I didn’t know how to make contact. I was like a spy who needed to come in from the cold. Potential friends were around, but they were allusive and invisible, incognito…like me.