Friday, February 21, 2014

It's the trust that dies.

I don’t think it’s the love that dies. I think it’s the trust that dies. When a loved one repeatedly, over the course of many years, strikes us in our most vulnerable spots, we can’t help but instinctively protect ourselves from anticipated future assaults. We stop being as open. We no longer talk freely. And, eventually, we start to avoid the company of those who have hurt us. It’s not that we no longer care. We do. We just can’t let this person hurt us anymore.

That’s what I thought of tonight when my sister called. She complained that she was doing all the talking and that I never had much to say. Well, she has never seemed all that interested in what I have to say, and I know that if I do mention something that’s important to me, her response might be caustic.

When I was about 12 years old, I invited a boy from the neighborhood to sleepover at our house. When we were alone in my room with the door shut, I took off my clothes in front of him and danced a little bit. I knew I was gay, and what I did was a foolish, misguided attempt to get him to notice me. It just so happens that my father walked in right at this point and caught me. I’ll never forget the look of disappointment and disgust in his eyes. He didn’t say anything. He simply left the room and shut the door.

He never mentioned that incident to me. He never wanted to understand why I would do such a thing. And, of course, he never had any helpful advice to give me concerning how I might let a boy know I liked him while maintaining my self-respect. But he didn’t simply let the matter drop. Instead, he told my sister about it. He actually told my sister.

My sister is three years older than me, so she was 15 at the time. She was a sophomore in high school. She was old enough to realize that the situation was delicate and that she could easily humiliate me beyond words and destroy my self-esteem. So did she rise to the occasion and show a little compassion? No. She began teasing me the next day. And she periodically teased me about that until I graduated from high school, and she was in her twenties. She used this information against me as a weapon, and she honed that weapon until all she had to do was say two words: dance naked. She knew if she said those two words, I would be horribly and instantly embarrassed. Just for the hell of it, she would drop that bomb when I least expected it–when we were at our grandparents’ house, when we were eating at McDonald’s, when we were watching TV.

This is an especially egregious example of my sister’s insensitivity, but there were many others over the years…maybe not as soul crushingly awful, but many other examples. In fact, she still tries to put me in my place now and then.

I now realize that my sister had–and maybe to some degree still has–a terrible case of sibling rivalry. I was the punk who came along and stole her position as the baby of the family. And she had the same dysfunctional parents as I did, so it’s not like they were much help in assisting her to get over it. I have long ago accepted that she is simply like that. I don’t want an apology, and it wouldn’t help anyway. And I don’t want to talk it out with her. That would be useless. She is who she is. I also don’t want to have long telephone chats with her and tell her about my feelings and private thoughts. I don’t want to hurt her. I don’t want revenge. I do, in fact, love her and want her to be happy. And I think she loves me, too, in her own way. I just don’t want a close, intimate relationship with her. The trust is not there, and it’s not going to be. It’s too late for that.

Thursday, February 20, 2014

My Little Indian Boy

In May of 1997, I was diagnosed with a brain tumor. I was told that it was most likely benign and slow-growing, but it would eventually press on the brainstem and become life-threatening. I was also told that my tumor had already grown to a considerable size and that it needed to come out very soon. The doctors went into some detail about what I should expect, and they gave me several booklets to read, including one which was about 30 pages long. Lots of information to digest.

The surgery would be long, at least 12 hours and possible over twenty. Two surgical teams would switch off throughout the day until the job was completed. After the surgery, I would be in ICU for several days and in the hospital for ten days to two weeks…if all went well. I would be 100% deaf in my left ear. I would be paralyzed on the left side of my face. I would experience nausea, dizziness and pain. There was a significant chance I could lose the senses of taste and smell. I might go blind in my left eye. There was a 1-5% chance I could “stroke out” or bleed to death. And there was the chance of infection and other complications, too. My doctor told me that it would take a year for me to recover. A year! And he said I would probably never have the same level of energy, that I would always tire easily and that I would probably never again be up for anything strenuous. I was 31 years old.

The surgery was scheduled for July 1. I was terrified and extremely nervous. I was afraid I was going to die, and I didn’t know what life would be like for me if I did survive. For several weeks, I dreaded the surgery. I couldn’t stop thinking about it. Then, all too quickly, it was June 30.

I was living in Morgantown at the time, and the surgery was to be performed at WVU Hospital. My parents drove up from Fayetteville to be with me. My aunt and uncle were driving in from another part of the state, and my sister was coming from Baltimore. As instructed, I went to the hospital on the 30th to confirm that everything was go for the next morning, and much to my surprise, I was told that a crucial member of one of the surgical teams could not be there on July 1 and that the surgery had been rescheduled for the 15th.

To be truthful, I was greatly relieved. It was like waking up on a snowy winter day when I was a kid and finding out school had been canceled. I was off the hook, at least for two more weeks. I was afraid I was going to die the next day, so two weeks was like the most precious gift ever.

That night, I had a vivid wet dream that I remember to this day. I was walking somewhere in America. It was before Europeans colonized the continent. I was in a large meadow with nothing but wilderness all around. There were no towns, or roads or even trails.

Eventually I spotted a young Native American boy ahead. He was in his late teens or early twenties. He was very slim, and he had long, straight black hair. He wore a headband, a skimpy loincloth and perhaps some moccasins, but that’s all. He was very poised and self-possessed. I had never seen him before, and yet we looked at one another with recognition. I was glad to see him. We began to walk toward one another. And we maintained eye contact. It was as if we were meant to meet in this meadow.

When we were finally standing face to face, we didn’t say anything. Instead, my little Indian boy embraced me. I felt at home in his arms. He then effortlessly lifted me up into the air. An overwhelming sensation came over me. I let go of all of that pent up fear and anxiety. It was at this point that I experienced an intense orgasm and the dream was over.


 

Sunday, February 9, 2014

Logan and Cooper by Gary Cottle

Logan was surprised when Cooper invited him to spend the summer at his grandfather’s lake house. They were study partners for a chemistry class, and that led to Logan hanging out with Cooper and his girlfriend Kylie a few times toward the end of the semester at Cooper’s apartment. Of course, Logan had a crush on the older man, but Cooper and Kylie seemed very close, so Logan kept his feelings to himself and tried to be content with just being Cooper’s friend.

He thought it would be awkward living with the two of them the entire summer, but how could he refuse the invitation? And that first weekend seemed to go smoothly enough. They weren’t overly affectionate in front of him, and he found he liked Kylie. But, oddly enough, she left Sunday night. She was an art history major, and it turned out, she was going to work as an intern for a couple of months at a museum in New York.

Cooper seemed depressed when she left, and he started talking about how this would be his last summer on the lake. His grandfather had died the previous fall, and his family planned to put the place on the market soon. Cooper said he couldn’t complain because part of the proceeds of the sale were going to be used to pay off his college loans, but he had already lost his grandfather, and now he was going to lose the lake house, as well.

“Too bad Kylie had to leave, but at least you’ll be reunited with your girlfriend this fall. That’ll give you something to look forward to.”

Suddenly, Cooper began to laugh.

“What?” Logan could feel the blush rise in his cheeks. He knew he had made some kind of mistake, but he couldn’t figure out what it was.

When Cooper settled down, he said, “Man, Kylie isn’t my girlfriend.”

“She’s not?”

Cooper laughed some more and said, “I’m sorry if I’m embarrassing you, but that’s so funny that you thought that. Kylie and me? She’d probably throw something at you if she was here.”

“Well, maybe I jumped to conclusions, but the two of you did sleep together last night.”

“We’ve known one another since middle school, and we’ve slept together a couple of hundred times over the years. But that’s all we do. We sleep and sometimes we cuddle, but it’s not a sexual thing or a romantic thing.”

Over the course of the next few days, Logan and Cooper fell into a routine. Mornings were spent hiking in the woods, and after lunch, they’d swim in the lake and lay out on the float that was about a hundred feet from the shore. In the late afternoon, they would go to separate parts of the house and read for a couple of hours. A few times, Logan couldn’t resist spying on Cooper. He loved secretly watching his host, and it was an easy sport because Cooper was invariably engrossed in the book in his hand.

After dinner, Logan and Cooper would watch a movie, play cards or a board game, and sometimes they’d drive to the nearest town and drink a few beers in a pub. Now and then, they’d sit out on the veranda until they got sleepy.

It was one of those quiet nights on the porch when things changed. Logan was leaning against the banister, and Cooper was in a rocking chair. They had stopped talking. Logan was listening to the frogs, and his mind was starting to drift. But then Logan noticed Cooper was looking at me. He returned the gaze, but before he had a chance to ask Cooper if something was wrong, his friend stood, walked over to Logan and intensely examined his face. Logan almost panicked, but then he noticed the corners of Cooper’s mouth turn up. Cooper was grinning at him.

At that point, Logan knew what was happening. His heart began to race and skip, and he felt his erection begin to rise in his pants. But he didn’t know what to do. The truth is, Logan had never been with a man. He had never been with anybody.

The twenty-year-old virgin almost fell backwards and out into the yard when he felt Cooper’s hand between his legs.

“Take it easy,” his friend said.

“Sorry.”

“You scared?”

“Yeah,” Logan admitted.

“Don’t be. Your buddy is going to take care of you.”

And Cooper did just that. He took care of Logan. He got down on his knees, unzipped Logan’s pants, and took him into his mouth. Logan could hardly believe it was happening.

After just a couple of minutes, Logan said excitedly, “I’m going to cum! I’m going to cum!”

He expected his friend to back off or slow down, but he didn’t. Cooper stayed right on him. So Logan put his hands on the back of Cooper’s head, wrapped his legs around his back and began to buck. He couldn’t help himself, and almost immediately, he grunted and began to shoot inside of Cooper’s mouth.

As Logan was catching his breath, he said, “I’m sorry.”

Cooper looked up and laughed. “There’s no need to be sorry. I wouldn’t have been blowing you if I didn’t expect you to cum.”

Logan laughed a little, too, and he said, “Okay, but I wish I could have lasted longer.”

“Don’t worry,” Cooper said. He was still down on his knees between Logan’s legs. “I’ll do it to you again later. …and I was hoping you would return the favor. That is if you want to.”

“I want to, Cooper. I want to.”

Cooper stood up, put his arms around him, and he kissed him sweetly and passionately.

Photographer and subject unknown.
Fictional story by Gary Cottle

Saturday, February 8, 2014

Sex Is Good

It’s wonderful when people of faith can reconcile their faith to their sexuality and basic nature by overcoming the toxic messages that have been drilled into them over time, usually since childhood, by religious leaders, family and friends. But for many, we have become leery of any hind of “God talk” in relation to our sexuality.

In Western Civilization, thanks largely to the Christian religi...
on, sex has been devalued. Even though everywhere you turn, there are sexual images and sexual suggestions, there is still an undercurrent of hostility toward sex. Our Christian heritage tells us that sex is an intrinsic part of a fallen world. People who avoid sex are thought of as more pure. And those who are prudish are invited to think of themselves as morally superior. We’ve been taught that the only legitimate purpose for sex is procreation in the context of a heterosexual marriage.

Some people are a bit more liberal, and they want to send the message that sex can be an important part of intimacy–usually with a long-term, monogamous partner. They emphasize the intimacy–the hand holding, the romantic dinners, the cuddling, the feeling of being safe and secure with your significant other. All of these things are great, but I think sex for it’s own sake is also great. Sex outside the context of a committed relationship is not necessarily sleazy or an act of desperation.

Imagine two guys go on a camping trip. They may not know one another very well. Maybe they only met a couple of weeks before, and through the course of a casual conversation, they discovered they had a mutual interest in backpacking on a particular trail. So they make plans to go together. One afternoon it begins to rain, so they stop early and seek shelter inside their tent. After eating an early dinner, they end up jacking one another off. This, too, can be a beautiful expression of one’s sexual nature. And it happens all the time. There is no deep level of intimacy. There is no expectation of monogamy. And there is no hope, and possibly no desire for a long-term committed relationship. It’s just two friends giving one another pleasure on a rainy day.

Tuesday, February 4, 2014

Mother

A few days after Thanksgiving in 2003, my mother was diagnosed with Stage IV metastatic inflammatory breast cancer. They caught it too late. They couldn’t cure her. She was going to die.

I went with my parents to the oncology clinic. Dad went with my Mother when she was called back, and I waited in the waiting room. A few minutes later, Dad came out, sat beside me and told me the news. It didn’t make sense to me. Mother had a backache. A scan indicated she might have a tumor on her spine, so I knew it could be serious. But breast cancer? Terminal breast cancer? How could the oncologist come to that conclusion so quickly when her condition had baffled her family doctor and several other specialists for months? Well, it turns out cancer that starts out in the breast often metastasizes to the back, and the first thing the doctor did was examine her breasts. One was dimpled. He had seen it all before.

I lost all hope and began to prepare to lose my mother. But she was hospitalized the next day, and they began telling us that with radiation, chemo and surgery in the spring, there was a good chance she could live another three years.

She responded well to treatment. The tumor on her back and the one in her breast began to shrink. She was out of the hospital before Christmas, and she continued to be treated at the oncology clinic on an outpatient basis.

Mother began loosing her hair in January, and she wanted it all off. I had an electric buzz clipper, so she asked me to cut the remaining strands of her hair. I did it even though it broke my heart. Mother was a very feminine woman. She liked clothes, makeup and hair. That was sad, but, generally speaking, Mother was doing about as well as could be expected. The treatments weren’t making her nauseous, and she wasn’t overly tired. I began to believe that she would have her surgery in March or April, her hair would grow back, and she would live a few more years.

On February 4, 2004, ten years ago today, Mother’s temperature spiked. Dad called an oncology nurse at the hospital, and she advised us to bring her in. One of the ER doctors examined her and admitted her. The doctor told us that Mother had a touch of pneumonia and that because of the treatments, Mother’s immune system wasn’t up to scratch and that she needed some help in fighting off the pneumonia. It was a mere touch of pneumonia. There were no other symptoms except for the fever. And we were told that she would probably be better in a day or two. It was late, so we left Mother in the hospital. This was the same hospital she had been in two months before. And it was the same hospital she had been committed to a number of times. She was diagnosed with paranoid schizophrenia in 1984, and she periodically had psychotic breakdowns. Mother had been in that hospital at least twenty times.

When we visited the next day, Mother seemed to be in good spirits, and her condition hadn’t changed. They had her on oxygen, but her breathing wasn’t labored. We thought for sure that, with the antibiotics, she would kick the pneumonia and be home in a few days.

The next day, she was having a harder time breathing, and one of the nurses said this was because Mother’s lungs were seriously damaged from smoking. So we thought it might take a little longer, but we still believed that she would be okay within a week.

On February 7, she was having even more difficulty breathing, and they had replaced the oxygen tube under her nose with an oxygen mask that covered her nose and mouth. I was starting to worry, and it was hard watching her. She was not able to catch her breath, and she was obviously uncomfortable.

Dad and I went out to lunch, and while we were gone, someone foolishly came into the room, sat mother up in front of a food tray and removed her mask. The way Mother looked when we found her will haunt me for the rest of my life. She had knocked her food tray off onto the floor, and she was slumped over and on the verge of passing out. She was trying so hard to breathe but couldn’t, and she kept making these desperate little jerky movements. She was like a fish out of water. Her skin was white, her bald head was down, her hospital gown had food spilled on it, and her bare feet were hanging over the side of the bed. I had never seen her look more vulnerable. If we had arrived a few minutes later, we would have found Mother dead on the floor.

The nurses came in, put the oxygen mask back on and helped Mother lie down. And a few minutes later, her lung doctor came in. He said that Mother was going to die within a couple of hours without life support. She had told her oncologist that she did not want life support, but the lung doctor seemed pretty confident that if we gave the antibiotics a few more days, her lungs would clear. That morning, we still believed that Mother had a few more years to live. We were not ready to give up that hope, and the doctor was telling us there was a good chance she would pull through, but she needed the ventilator immediately. So we talked Mother into giving her consent.

She was on life support for ten days. She never improved. In fact, she got worse. After five days, she could only stay awake for a few minutes at a time, and by the seventh day, she lost consciousness completely. I’ll never forget the nurse who came in on the 8th day and cut through all the bullshit. She didn’t tell us to hold onto hope. She said bluntly without being cold or unfeeling that Mother was dying. She said the vent tube could not remain in the throat indefinitely and that, in a few days, it would have to be put it in her neck. She asked us if we wanted to see the scar on her neck when she was laid out in her casket. And she said that our grief was selfish, and sometimes the most loving thing you can do is to let go. It was time to let Mother go, so we had the ventilator turned off on February 17. My sister, who had driven home from Baltimore with her husband, and I stood by her bed while Dad waited in the waiting room with his cousin. It took about an hour and a half.

We went to the funeral home and made the arrangements the next day. Her viewing was on the evening of the 19th, and her funeral was on the 20th. Mother was buried in the cemetery in Fayetteville, West Virginia. Cherry trees line the lane in front of her grave, and there is a forest just a few feet away with a trail that leads down into the New River Gorge. Mother was 63.