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We were all blown away. My little Colombian mother and even littler Colombian grandmother both stood with their mouths open as I brought my six-foot-two blue-eyed gringo through the door.
He took me on a date to the city every Saturday night. We fooled around in the loft for hours. We made out naked, fondled — he liked my nipples. His body was rock hard, except for his penis. I played with it, pet it like you would a Cockatoo, stroking the head gingerly, running my fingertips down its silky body. He kind of liked it. The fact that he never ejaculated didn't faze me. I was happy with our emphasis on second base, happy to touch his chest, his triceps, his blonde pubic hair. We went to great bars. Some straight, above Fourteenth street. Some gay, below Fourteenth on Seventh Avenue. The trips to the straight bars included his friend Manny, who I think had fucked every nurse from St. Vincent's. Often, I'd be left with these nurses as they lit their Virginia Slims and talked about how many abortions they'd had. We all nodded to each other knowingly, they with their big hoop earrings gleaming inside their big hair, me with my Bonne Bell lip gloss and my hymen firmly in place.
I especially loved the gay bars. This was back when leather boys and fems were more pronounced, before gay became assimilated into the mainstream (you know what I mean, let's not get political, I was a fourteen, okay? I loved the outfits). I would sit and watch the mating dance (cue Donna Summer, since it was actually playing). Big guys with bulging muscles and giant bulges were playing pool two feet in front of me. They were scary and exciting, tough guys with tattoos, Marlboros tucked under their shirt sleeves, worn-out jeans, no underwear. They looked at me fondly, as if I were a cute Pomeranian, or more likely, a very young girl in Gloria Vanderbilts, sitting very still, sipping her illegal vodka-and-cran. To me, they were just men squared, mega men who wore their testosterone on the outside. They were sexual, but totally safe for me, kind of like a peep show for my burgeoning sexuality. I was so fascinated by these men that I forgot to ask myself why it was that we, Byron and I, were here exactly. Why did he know some of the guys by name? Why was he so impressed with the really good pool player with the dog collar? Why did he whisper in my ear, "The big one with the vest, that's his bitch over there"? Really? I asked. That little guy with the Tony Orlando mustache?
Why did Byron cover all of his shoes with a handkerchief? The dust, he would say. Why did his face-washing routine involve five products? Clinique, I think. I liked that he was tidy. I was a slob, had never made a bed, my room was a horror show, his was relaxing, everything in its place. I loved the way he folded his clothes.
Then, after a really fun year, he gave me perfume, I gave him a bracelet that said I Love You, and then he said it was time we had sex. Sex? Intercourse. Shit man, no way, I was still just fourteen. So we broke up and he joined the Navy. I know, shut up. Cue Village People.
A few years later, freshly deflowered, I was determined to find Byron and show him my new skills. Luckily he found me. He called, said we should hang out. We made out in a car, it was weird,
The kissing was great, the fondling not bad, the semi flopping around inside me — not so good. We kept trying.
he took off my clothes, licked my inner thigh, then invited me to a party at the loft. There were people doing drugs all over the place — whippets, poppers, coke. I had a beer and dragged Byron to a dark corner to work my magic.
For hours, we tried. Like, three hours. The kissing was great, the fondling not bad, the semi flopping around inside me — not so good. We kept trying. He grabbed my boobs, kissed my belly, I grabbed his schlong, put it in my mouth, got a response, did a one-eighty and jumped on, felt it deflate inside me, jumped off, put it in my mouth, sprung back on, jumped off, did the two-hands-twisting-back-and-forth-on-the-shaft thing as I made circles with my tongue, hopped back on, tried all my new fancy moves, up and down, grinding, straddle. Nothing. We talked. He seemed cranky, distracted, annoyed. More kissing. Finally he handed me off to his giant, gross hairy friend, Pedro. Six-foot-five, beard, back fur, naked and breathing all over me, "Come on, I'm here, you're here, it's perfect." I wasn't listening. I was wondering why Byron didn't want me. Was it the coke? I was hurt, and yes, clueless, naïve, young. I kept Pedro at bay until the sun rose and then dragged my crestfallen self home.
I always saw my disastrous night with Byron as a black mark on my lipstick case. It wasn't until one night while driving across the country with a girlfriend, somewhere in the Midwest in a Motel 6, after hours of discussing men, including details of my first great love Byron, I had my great epiphany: "Oh my God, Bryon was gay!"
"Well, duh!" She said as she rolled over to go to sleep. "But he sounded like a great boyfriend." n°
Ondine Galsworth is working on a novel about her experiences as a go-go dancer and a book about her new addiction, the rodeo. A New York native, she now lives in New Jersey.
