Just Doing The Right Thing Has Its Rewards
Saturday morning, March 2, 1974
It was 7:30 am…which meant that my alarm was going off. It should not have been, on a Saturday morning. But I had been too distracted by a sexy boy with a huge dick, whom I loved, and who loved me, to remember to unset the alarm the previous evening. I would have done the same again, though.
I knew from experience that attempting to go back to sleep was not going to work for me, but Eric had a different opinion. I submitted to his preference on the matter, though, for several reasons (in order of importance): 1) I loved him; 2) arguing with Eric over the matter, or otherwise trying to get him to get up, would risk making too much noise, and so risk getting my mother too curious about things that I didn’t want her to know about; and 3) no one needed to twist my arm to convince me to luxuriate—while awake—in Eric’s embrace indefinitely. So that’s what I did.
Follow where your heart leads you: It knows where you really want to go, because it’s what defines whatever it is that you want. Trying to be who and/or what you’re not has a low probability of success. And even if you do “succeed,” you won’t be happy in that un-authentic place.
Eric fell asleep again quite soon; the lucky bastard. He finally woke up again about an hour later. The first sign of that was that his embrace suddenly got tighter. The second sign was passionate kissing.
However, we both wanted to take care of our metabolic necessities before taking care of our other desires, so we got up, got dressed, and went to the bathroom. On the way there, my mother was going out the door, headed to work. She informed us that she had made us breakfast, and that we’d find it on the dinette table. We both thanked her, and then proceeded to appease the gods of metabolic waste, and those of personal hygiene. Eric had remembered to bring his toothbrush, this time.
Breakfast consisted of bacon, eggs, English muffins, and coffee—with cream and sugar. As we were finishing up, Eric asked me a provocative question:
“So, Johnny Boy, have you learned your lesson about staring at people?”. He was smiling hugely.
After just a second’s reflection, I replied: “That depends on whether losing my virginity to someone like you, and then falling in love with the guy, is a good thing, or a bad thing.”
That got his attention! “So..you’re in love with me?” The hope in his voice was almost heartbreaking.
“Yes sir. I guess I realized that yesterday morning, but it just wasn’t the right time to tell you..until now,” I told him. His reaction was immediate: He stood up, walked around the table to me, grabbed both of my hands, pulled me up to a standing position, embraced me more tightly than he ever had before, and actually started crying. And then, so did I. We never did quite finish breakfast, by the way.
Finally, he started kissing me..very tenderly and gently, and then said, “I don’t want to ‘have sex’ with you this weekend—I want to make love to you. I realize, now, that there’s a difference, and I think we’re both virgins in that sense.” And we were.
We nevertheless definitely proved that my gag reflex was totally gone, that the front door to my apartment was quite sturdy and strong, and that both of us could have more orgasms in a day than we had ever had before. But our sexual stamina was not without its limits, so we finally put our love-making to rest just after 3 pm (yes, we did take a few breaks before that,) showered, made ourselves decent and presentable, and set out for the apartment complex’s rec center to play pool. He still needed a lot of instruction and practice in that pastime.
We came back to the apartment at about 6:30 pm, just as my mother was returning home. She had gone to buy groceries after work, so we did the honorable thing for young men such as ourselves to do, and brought in all the groceries from the trunk of the car. My mother (Rose) fixed us a fabulous dinner—her signature spaghetti, along with her signature salad (spring mix, dill weed, cilantro, chopped celery, chopped carrots, diced apples, sliced cucumbers, sliced tomatoes, mushrooms, raisins, kalamata olives and diced walnuts—and her proprietary dressing, based on olive oil and balsamic vinegar; I know that entire salad recipe, both the fixings and the dressing, because she taught it to me, before her final goodbye, 28 years ago, now.)
Eric LOVED it.
After dinner, Eric realized that we should let his parents know that he wanted to spend a second night here—assuming that was OK with my mother. He seemed to know without asking that I’d be OK with it—and he was right. My mother told him that it was OK with her, if it was OK with his parents. Eric’s father gave his approval—provided we spent Sunday night at the Svalbergs’. So that was settled. Once Eric got off the phone, I pointed that there were only 7 days in a week, and since 7 was an odd number, we’d always need to spend two nights in a row in the same place, if we wanted to keep our schedule day-of-week invariant [No, I didn’t use that terminology—neither Eric, nor my mother, would have known WTF I was talking about!]
We spent the rest of the evening doing our homework—which also involved my helping Eric with his—so that that would be out of the way for the rest of the weekend. I was usually 2-3 days ahead of wherever any of my teachers expected me to be—which is not as hard as it might sound, when all one has to do most of the time is read the assigned sections of the textbooks, and when one actually has an inquiring mind like mine, that wants to know and understand things. But I’d fallen behind on that over the past week, for reasons I have to imagine you can easily guess. I made some progress catching up that evening, though. I had been assigned another essay by my civics teacher, but that wasn’t due until next Wednesday. That one was to be about the evolution of the Supreme Court’s interpretation of the “Commerce Clause,” focusing on FDR’s “New Deal.”
Then we went to bed. I remembered, this time, to unset my alarm clock.
Sunday morning, March 3, 1974
The next day, Sunday, was more or less the same as Saturday, except that 1) Eric now knew that I was in love with him, and 2) after playing pool, we walked to Eric’s house and graced his parents with our totally innocent and upright, teenage-boy selves. Also, I remembered to bring my toothbrush!
Eric’s father (Liam,) put us through his trademark homework-completion interrogation—the results were apparently satisfactory. Eric’s mother (Beth) fixed dinner: Steak, mashed potatoes, gravy, green beans and wine (Cabernet Sauvignon.) For desert, she served chocolate fudge ice cream.
Eric and I went to the garage to use his bench press; we spotted each other. Once we had done as much of that as we could tolerate, we headed off to bed in Eric’s basement bedroom. The next day—Monday—was a school day.
I slept like a baby…eventually…in Eric’s arms—comforted by the inner knowing that I belonged to Eric. He wasn’t even fully expressing the possessiveness and protective behavior that I’d experience from him later. Not that I knew that, yet. Nevertheless, it was as though I had some sort of sixth sense that could feel it. I reveled in it.
Monday morning, March 4, 1974
World war III had started. Or at least, that seemed to be what Eric’s alarm clock wanted us to believe, from the god-awful racket it was making. The truth, of course, was that it was 7:15 am, and it was time to get up, get ready for school, and have breakfast. Eric finally extricated himself from the sleeping bag, pounced on the hysterical alarm clock, and then read it the riot act, so that it shut up.
We used the bathroom as nature had intended, made sure we were both decent and presentable (after having showered,) and went upstairs to face the parental inspection squad. We passed inspection, as far we could tell. In my experience, parents rarely tell you that you’ve passed inspection, only that you have not.
We also got fed breakfast: Oatmeal instead of cream of wheat, this time—but topped with butter, cinnamon, brown sugar, and cocoa powder. The cream of wheat we’d had on Friday morning had not been topped with either butter or cocoa powder. I liked the two additions, and said so. Eric’s mother said she’d be sure to add those from now on. I didn’t ask why they hadn’t been part of the deal on Friday: I didn’t want to sound like I was complaining.
Off to school we went. It turned out to be a rather normal day at school. Eric’s friends—Greg, Brandon and Mike—joined us again for lunch in the cafeteria. Greg and I again sat together for our (4th-period) civics class. That all became habitual, every school day.
For the rest of the week, the new patterns that had been established in my life, and in Eric’s life, continued:
On Monday, Tuesday and Thursday after school, we went home to Eric’s house, had sex while Eric’s parents were at work, did our homework, Eric’s mother fed us dinner, we went to the garage to use Eric’s bench press, and then went to bed.
On Wednesday and Friday after school, we went home to my (mother’s) apartment, had sex while my mother was at work, did our homework, my mother fed us dinner, we went to the apartment complex’s rec center to play pool, and then went to bed.
On Saturday, while my mother was at work, we had an orgy in my apartment, went to the apartment complex’s rec center to play pool, my mother fed us dinner, we did our homework, and then went to bed.
On Sunday, we had another orgy in my apartment, went to the apartment complex’s rec center to play pool, walked to Eric’s house, Eric’s mother fed us dinner, we went to the garage to use Eric’s bench press, and then went to bed.
The next week saw essentially the same routine play out. But on the final Sunday evening of that week—after dinner—Eric’s father (Liam) raised an issue that I had been trying to avoid thinking about: We would be graduating from high school soon, and it was time to start planning our after-high-school lives. On reason that I had been trying to avoid thinking about that, was because it meant that spending quality time with Eric might not be so easy to arrange.
Liam informed us that he had actually spoken with some of Eric’s teachers, in order to get a reading on Eric’s academic performance; he didn’t want to wait for Eric’s report card in order to get that information. Eric’s teachers—the ones he had spoken with, at least—all had told him that Eric’s academic performance had markedly improved, ever since the last week of February. That made me feel really good—and Eric also, I had to imagine. But the purpose of the discussion was not to praise me or Eric: Liam informed me that Eric would be attending the same university where Liam was a Professor of Psychology; that that had already been arranged [see below.]
I really wasn’t happy to have to stare that in the face.
Liam then asked me what my plans for college were. I told him that I had planned to attend a local community college (which I also won’t name, for privacy reasons.) He inquired as to why I was making that choice. I told him that my mother just couldn’t afford to pay the tuition anywhere else.
You should have seen the look on Liam’s face. “Have you taken the SAT?”, Liam asked.
“No; it’s not required to get into [the community college I won’t name]”, I replied.
“Well, you’re going to need to do that”, he stated.
“Why?”, asked.
“Because if you take the SAT, and get a high enough score, I can get you into [University X]—on a full scholarship”, he replied. [‘University X’ is a very famous, prestigious university, the same university that Eric would be attending, starting next Fall—and the same one where Liam is a full professor]
Oh. My. Fucking. God! You should have seen the look on my face. You should have seen the look on Eric’s face, too!
“And I’ll also be renting an apartment for you and Eric, right next to the university campus,” he continued. “Eric really needs your help”, he stated. “And someone like you really should have the sort of education that no community college can provide”, he finished.
“Thank you, sir”, I said. What else could I say? I was too much in shock to say much else; I was practically speechless.
Eric piped up: “Thanks, Dad!” And then he rushed over to hug first his dad, and then me. I just hugged him back. We made the hug brief, for obvious reasons.
“What do I need to do? How do I arrange to take the SAT?”, I asked.
“Your high school counselor can take care of that for you”, Liam answered. “As for the other matters…”, he fetched his briefcase from the location where he always stored it, when he got home from the university, put it on the table, opened it, got out a manilla folder, handed that to me, and then said, “Here. This is the standard new student application packet for [University X], along with a scholarship application. Read through it carefully, fill it out as best you can, and then return it to me. I’ll help you fix any issues—you might need to redo some of the documents—and then, once it’s fit for submission, I’ll take it from there: Just ignore the instructions for when and where to send it in; I’ll manage the applications through the approval process personally, just like I did for Eric.”
“And John: If your grades, and your SAT scores, are what I have every confidence they will be, you have absolutely nothing to worry about”, he told me.
“How soon does this need to get done?”, I asked.
“Soon”, he replied. “The sooner the better. Especially taking the SAT. It would be best if we could get it all ready for formal submission no later than mid-April”, he advised.
“I’ll get right on it,” I assured him. “You’ll need to,” he replied.
I turned to Eric, and said, “Dude. I think I recall you telling me, not long after we first me, that I’d be the perfect college roommate for you.”
“I probably did say that”, Eric replied. “I was definitely thinking it, whether I actually said it, or not.”
“Well, be careful what you wish for—you may get it”, I deadpanned.
We all laughed.
After that, Liam and Beth—Eric’s parents—retired upstairs to their bedroom, leaving Eric and me to our own devices. We were both too stunned, and too excited, to workout using Eric’s benchpress. We both seemed to just understand that fact, without even having to say anything. We just headed to Eric’s basement bedroom, so we could discuss the evening’s events in private.
The first thing that Eric said, after we had closed and locked the door to his bedroom, was this: “John, I just want you to know, that I had no advance knowledge that my dad was going to do anything like that for you”, he assured me.
“That hadn’t even occurred to me”, I replied. “Nor would I care about that, anyway.”
“OK. Good”, he said. “But damn! I’m still in shock. I’m stunned. It feels like Christmas, New Year’s, Easter, the Fourth of July, and my birthday, all in one—and not just for one year, but for all of my life up to this point! My dad just gave me the best gift I’ve ever received—with the possible exception of your love, and friendship”, he said.
“Same”, was all I said.
We just stood there, looking at each other. Our faces slowly broke out into shit-eating grins. We knew exactly what to do celebrate the occasion, so that’s what we did. We didn’t get as much sleep that night as we should have.
Little did we know, our lives were about to change.
Note: If you’re wondering how it is that I had not known that my education at a top-tier college or university could have been paid for by grants and scholarships, I had already begun asking myself the same question. Here’s what I’ve come up with, both then, and over the years since:
1) It doesn’t matter how smart you are, you can’t know everything; an autodidact—such as myself—would only know about things that he or she chose to study/research on his or her own—unless that knowledge was part of the curriculum that the an educational institution chose to teach the person, because he or she had enrolled in the appropriate courses;
2) My mother wasn’t dumb, but she was absolutely not any sort of academic; she’d never attended college; she just didn’t have the life experience that would have clued her in to the requisite knowledge;
3) My father would have known all about it, but he’d been dead for a year at this point; I can only assume he had intended to deal with funding my college education once I was a high-school senior, but just never got the chance; and
4) My assigned high-school counselor dropped the ball, for whatever reason. Perhaps because I transferred in to this particular school as a senior? Or perhaps because I never approached him about college? I never confronted him about it, so I guess I’ll never know.
