Skip to main contentIn last week's review of the groundbreaking new film Brokeback Mountain, WW's own David Walker commented on how Ang Lee's movie might humanize the way we look at gays. But for me, Brokeback, in all its repressed glory, reminded me just how dehumanized (read: abnormal and abhorrent) gay men throughout history most often have felt about themselves, both on and off the screen.
That's what makes this film so different. It's not afraid to expose something deeper. Essentially, it's all about the desperate pull of unrequited romantic love, an ache so strong, complicated and universal that it can tear you apart.
I remember the first time I felt that kind of crazy love. It was with a boy I met in community college. Craig and I became instant buddies, sharing the same interests in movies, music and (at least I thought) girls. I joined choir so I could be near him. I joined everything to be near him. But I never, ever made a move on him. After all, I was straight, and so was he. But, man, was I smitten.
Then late one night, in the parking lot of a hotel, everything changed. I told Craig how much I liked him and asked if I could give him a hug. He said, "Sure." And there, in the front seat of his beat-up VW, I finally got to hold him. Instead of letting me go, or kicking my ass, he kissed me. My legs were shaking like crazy, but he didn't let go. Instead he drove me back to the place where he was house-sitting. A lot of firsts happened that night, but what I remember most about that cold winter's night in 1981, when I made love for the first time, was that I was truly happy.
Like the reluctant lovers in Brokeback, I thought that night would be a "one-shot deal," a secret memory I would hold onto for the rest of my life. But I was wrong. Craig and I became more like a "two-year deal." At parties, where alcohol flowed freely, we made excuses, ditched our dates and went off. As time passed, our "friendship" began to evolve into something else. The gentleness of our first encounter had been replaced with furtive grunts. I was so desperate for him that I would sneak into his parents' house just so we could "talk," when in reality, we both knew it was about much more than that. Even as I lay there on his bedroom floor (he refused to let me in his bed), my pleadings for contact were most often met with a cold silence. I became the "Jack" to his "Ennis," and, as in the film, our encounters became scarce and frustrating. When they did happen, it was truly painful. Unlubricated anal sex had replaced any real connection.
But I was in love. And as long as I was with Craig, I wasn't gay. And neither was he. That's why I blame the rest of the story on me. I wanted something more. He didn't.
And that leads to what happened next: feeble fumblings, bruised egos and somebody, the young messed-up kid that I was, being left out in the cold. Unable to quench my growing desires with someone who refused to be more than just a "pal," I did the unthinkable.
"Brokeback Blues, Part Two" will appear in next week's column.
"Brokeback Blues, Part Two" will appear in next week's column.
WWeek 2015