Secret Warriors

(2004)

I wrote this short story for a Creative Writing class in community college the year between finishing high school and enlisting in the Navy. At the time, I was beginning to blossom into my own sexuality, having just accepted that I was attracted to boys. I look back at this period of my life as a tender moment at the cusp of young adulthood.

The writing style here was highly influenced by reading Michael Cunningham’s The Hours, which had just been turned into a film at the time. The narrative structure of weaving several perspectives together has continued to echo into my future work, laying the foundation for my perceptions around multidimensionality.

Reading this tale now, nearly 20 years later, I’m shocked at how perceptive I was as a young writer, writing about things I barely experienced, but somehow knew enough about - sex, romance, love, and longing - to craft compelling characters and motivations.

I’m also happy to reach back to my younger self, letting them know that there’s much more to being queer and that I’m now surrounded by loving and supportive queer kin who make the world a much warmer, more loving place.

I hope you enjoy this journey with me back in time.

- Kiam 

     Sandy is the type of girl who takes great pleasure in spending a Friday afternoon alphabetizing her wide array of books according to the authors’ last names (Kingsolver’s The Poisonwood Bible beside Kushner’s Angels in America playbook).  Then, unsatisfied, she rearranges them again, this time according to the books’ heights and relative sizes (her hardcover Leaves of Grass belongs with East of Eden because it looks out of place beside the paperback Mrs. Dalloway).
     The door suddenly bursts open with such force that the hinges squeak in surprise.  Sandy turns to see Amy grinning at her.
     “Guess what happened, guess what happened,” Amy chants, hopping onto Sandy’s bed.  Sandy just fixed it this morning - lavender bed sheet ends neatly tucked under the mattress.  Amy is on her knees, bouncing on the bed, sending the plush pillows flying and flipping.   Sandy knows she should be annoyed, but the sight of Amy so happy only makes her smile.
     Amy stops bouncing.  She looks at Sandy, smiling up at her without her teeth showing.  Amy wonders why Sandy never shows her teeth.  Everything about Sandy seems constrained, as if she were holding her breath, afraid to bother others with the sound of her breathing.  Sandy needs to loosen up, Amy thinks.  Life should not be devoted to books.  There are other things in the world.  Like boys, clothes, sex…
     Sandy realizes that Amy is waiting for her to start the interrogation party.
     “So… what’s going on?  What are you so excited about?” Sandy asks.
     “Well, remember how I was telling you about this guy in my class, Oscar?  About five-tennish, on the swim team, muscular - but not too buff, has these gorgeous green eyes. Well, anyway, so we talk a lot, right?  Like, during class.  So today, he asked me if I was into, like, poetry and stuff, and I’m like, ‘Sure, I guess,’ so then he asked if I wanted to go with him to this open mic thing down at that Bean Scene place.  So yeah, we’re gonna go tonight! Ugh! Ugh! Ugh!”
     “OK, that’s cool,” Sandy says, feigning a smile.  An open mic?  That’s one of the last places Sandy would expect to find Amy.  And when did she start drinking coffee?  But of course, it’s not about the coffee.  Amy’s intentions can be very easy to read.  While Sandy collects classic books, Amy collects issues of Cosmopolitan.
     “Oh, I wanted to ask, where’s that Rhinestone Rogue lipstick I picked out for you last week?” Amy asks.  “Can I borrow it?”
     “Sure,” Sandy says, reaching into her desk drawer and pulling out the still-unused tube.  She opens the cap and looks at the deep scarlet shade.  Amy’s lips are already so amazingly red; she doesn’t seem to even need lipstick.  It’s as if all her life, she’s been pressing strawberries to her lips, and has permanently stained them.  Sandy closes the cap and tosses it on the bed.
     Leaning up on her elbows, Amy opens the cap and twists the base.
     “Yeah, I knew it. This shade goes perfectly with my red leather jacket.”
     She rises off the bed and squats down beside Sandy to give her a hug.  Sandy breathes in Amy’s peach body spray.  Her hair, tied in a bun, still smells fresh from her Herbal Essences **shampoo.  For just a moment, Sandy can feel her blood rushing through her arteries and her stomach floating and flopping like the lava lamp on her nightstand.  Amy breaks away, heading towards the door, and the moment fades.
     “Thanks.  I’ll give it back tomorrow,” Amy smiles as she strides out the room.
     As the door closes, Sandy thinks forward to tomorrow.  Amy will give the lipstick back.  Sandy will open it again, twist the bottom, and slowly rub it on her own lips, touching where Amy’s lips have been, and where tiny molecules of her still remain.  It will be almost like they are kissing.
     Sandy blushes at the thought, smiling a little, with the tips of her front teeth peeking out.
     Amy stops by the bathroom before heading out of Hartman Hall.  She gazes at the mirror, surveying her creamy complexion.  She wonders why it took so long for Oscar to ask her out.  Maybe he was too shy.  He seems to be that type, so shy, like a cute little puppy, just meeting its future owner, caretaker, master.
     Amy pulls the lipstick out of her pocket and proceeds to paint her lips.  Sandy is such a sweetie, Amy thinks.  She should really get a boyfriend though.  It would do her good, bring some color to her cheeks.  Maybe Oscar has a brother.  Or a hot friend.  Amy smiles.
     Watching her reflection, Amy reaches her hands up and pries off the bun atop her head.  Waves of caramel hair cascade down her shoulders.  She reaches her fingers into the mass of hair and tousles it.  It’s a look she saw in her latest copy of Cosmo: Messy but Controlled, Sexy and Ravishing.  Oscar won’t be able to resist her.  She smiles, proud of the power she confidently possesses.  He’ll so want to do her tonight.  But she’s going to make him wait.  Two weeks, at the most.
     The plastic hangers click together as Oscar pushes them aside.  It’s only been two weeks, he thinks.  Exactly fourteen days since he broke up with Gabriel, and already, Oscar is going out on a date.  With a girl.

     At least Amy’s a good one.  Round breasts, firm thighs, toned and tanned…  She sits beside him in literature class and always has to bend over to pick up her pencil.   She also asks him about the lecture every chance she gets.  Clearly flirting.  He, however, is guilty of flirting back.  That’s just how he is, a charmer as they say, a hypnotist who can charm anyone he wants.  It’s because of his eyes.  He gets oozing compliments on them all the time, as if he actually painted them himself.  It’s a lie, and he feels only a little pang of shame in taking credit for it.  They’re heirlooms, his mother once told him, passed down from his great grandmother.

     Oscar is standing before his closet mirror, trying on different shirts.  He loves this part of a relationship – the first date, the new beginning, with its tingly fingers, short breaths, nervous paces back and forth, and the mad scavenge for *just the right shirt*.  He finally decides on a long-sleeve vintage button-up.  It fits nicely and accentuates his solid chest and flat stomach.  And when he stretches his arms, people can get a peek at his black Calvin Klein briefs.  When people see underwear, they think sex.

     He turns towards his desk and pulls out the drawer.  Three Trojans left from the last pack he bought with Gabriel at the drugstore downtown.  The old man at the register was avoiding eye contact with them as he scanned the box, but through his peripheral vision, he could glimpse the two abominations with their arms around each other’s waists and one leaning his head on the other’s shoulder.  Oscar pauses, remembering how much he and Gabriel enjoyed pushing people’s buttons, watching varied reactions: muffled disgust, overly friendly pretense, purposive lack of eye contact…  They laughed and looked down with contempt on the pitiful ignorance of the masses, yet also lamented its permanence and power.  “Like mocking an incompetent president,” Gabriel once said.  “But realizing he wields authority over your life.”

     Oscar sees a white piece of paper peeking under the Trojan box.  He pulls it out.  It’s an illustration Gabriel had done of the two of them, nude and surrounded by foliage.  At the bottom, Gabriel had written “Adam and Steve.”  Oscar smiles.  It was their little running joke.  Gabriel, the pensive philosopher and aspiring artist, declared himself as Adam.  Oscar, the androgynously sexy male model, was Steve/Eve, his muse.  Together, they grasped hands and opened their eyes to a new world flourishing secretly within the old, where they can wash off society’s black and white paint and stand naked in their true prismatic colors.

     Oscar puts the drawing face down on his desk.  He begins to close the drawer, and hesitates.  He picks up the condoms.  He’ll bring them tonight.  You never know what might happen, he says to himself.  Best to be prepared.
     “Have you been here before?” Oscar asks.
     “Uh huh, a few times,” Amy says.  “The Chai Tea here is so good.”
     Oscar holds the door open for Amy.  Instantly, they smell the drifting aroma of fresh-brewed coffee.
     “Do they do this a lot?  These open mics?” Amy asks.
     “They hold it every month.  I missed the last one.”
     “Cool!  I’ve never been to one.”
     “We should probably find seats before they fill up.  Do you mind? I’ll get our drinks.  Chai Tea, right?”
     “Sure, Okay,” Amy says.
     She turns towards the seats and looks around.  She sees an empty table towards the back.  Yes.  Dark.  She pictures her hand rubbing Oscar’s thighs under the table.  No, she scolds herself.  Not tonight, naughty girl.   Though a goodnight kiss isn’t out of the question.  In fact, it’s expected.  She sets her purse down on the wooden table, painted a black and white checkerboard pattern.  She sits and searches for Oscar.  He’s talking to someone, a tall black guy.  He’s kinda cute, she thinks.  Possible Sandy match?
     “How are you?” asks Cameron.  “I didn’t expect you to be here.”
     “Why not?”
     “Well, you and Gabe used to come here a lot.  I thought it would, you know, remind you… This was his favorite place.”
     Oscar nods and peers ahead at the line.
     “What’s taking so long?” he asks, pretending to be concerned about the delay.  Cameron is making him uncomfortable.  He is one of Gabriel’s closest friends, and will very likely go running off to him soon, with every detail, down to the color of thread on Oscar’s shirt.
     “So, how have you been?  You here with anyone?  Are you seeing someone else already?” Cameron asks.
     “Yeah.” Oscar says, turning his head towards Amy.  “Over there,”
     “That girl?” Cameron’s eyes open wide in disbelief.  “But you’re-”
     “Gay?  Yeah, so?”
     “Does she know?”
     “Does it matter?”
     “Of course it matters!  I know you have more sense than that.”  Though he hasn’t shown any as of late, Cameron thinks.  Breaking up with poor Gabe after six months, for no valid reason. Sure, Oscar says he wants space, some time apart.  Space, schmace.  He wrecks the firmament and expects everyone else to pick up the bricks while he carouses around town.  Selfish, thoughtless, motherfucker.  Fatherfucker?
     “She’s in my lit class.  We’re just out.  It’s nothing,” Oscar shrugs.
     Cameron stays silent, flashing Oscar a disapproving look.  He sighs to himself.  He doesn’t want coffee anymore.  Oscar’s sucked out all the potential sweetness of a tall glass of iced cappuccino.  The boy is obviously confused, Cameron thinks.  Deluded.  Thinks that just because he’s done with Gabriel, he’s done being a homosexual.  Running scared back into the damn closet.  Gabriel’s going to lose his shit once he finds out about his replacement.  And he doesn’t need that.  He’s got enough on his chest as it is.
     “I’ll see you later, Oscar.  Have fun with your date,” Cameron says, feigning a smile as he walks out.
     It’s Oscar’s turn in line.
     “I’ll have a tall café latte with a shot of caramel, and a tall Chai Tea.”
     “That will be… $7.25.  Will that be all?”
     “Yeah, that’s it,” Oscar says as he pulls out his wallet and slaps a $10 bill on the counter.  Why the hell does it matter who he’s dating?  And why is it any of Cameron’s fucking business?  If Oscar wants a guy, or a girl, why should that matter to anyone else?  Fuck rules.  Fuck society.  Fuck you, Cameron Martin, you narrow-minded bitch.
     Amy watches as Oscar walks over to her, carrying their drinks.
     God damn, he’s hot.
     She smiles and whispers “Thanks,” taking her cup.  He nods and sits by her.  She scoots her chair closer to his and watches as the announcer takes the stage, a woman in her mid to late forties.  Look at this mess, Amy thinks.  What’s with the fuzzy burgundy sweater?  Way too tight for the eyes.  And that puffy peroxide blonde hair, with brunette roots showing?  Ew, gross!  You can practically see the blood draining out of her fists trying so hard to cling to her youth.  Amy prays not to end up that sad.
     “Good evening everyone,” the lady says in soft but deliberate words.  “Welcome to Bean Scene’s Monthly Poetry Reading.  Tonight, we have some very talented people lined up, ready to share some of their innermost thoughts and feelings with you.  So please be courteous to these brave individuals.  Thank you, and we hope you enjoy the show.”
     “So, who was that guy you were talking to?”
     “A friend.  Cameron.”
     “Hey, is he seeing anyone, because I’ve got a roommate, Sandy, who I’m trying to hook up with someone.  She’s really pretty.  You should’ve seen her last week when I took her clubbing.  I made her wear this little miniskirt, and these knee-high leather boots.  She looked way hot!   I always have to, like, push her to dress sexy, because she’s so shy.  But when she listens to me, she looks so good.  Oh, and she’s really smart too.  Do you think your friend would be interested?”
     “No, he really wouldn’t.  He’s …”
     “What?  Why?” Amy’s eyes squint in confusion, then, after a few seconds, open wide along with her mouth.  “Oh… I see.”
     “Yeah.”
     “I should’ve known,” she says, laughing.  “It’s kind of obvious now that I think about it.”
     Oscar looks away from Amy.  He wonders why he’s here, with this girl who’s just as closed-minded as Cameron.  Who, like so many others, treat gays, lesbians, bisexuals, transgender people, like performers in society’s freak show.
     But after years and years of torment, from others and himselfe, the word “gay” no longer sting like heavy wet spitballs dripping down his cheeks.  Now it's just an itchy shirt.  Still, he wants, so much, to rid himself of this name, this label, and all its limitations.  He wants to be free to roam in Eden, to taste and touch whatever flower, whatever beast he so desires.  Should he try to tell her?  No, of course not.  It would be like telling people their religion is wrong.  These concepts of sexual liberation are dangerous.  They’re ancient relics that must be passed on only to those who can understand and appreciate them, and also bear the burden.  Gabriel had been one of these fierce secret warriors.  Oscar could see his fervor for these concepts exuding, splashing on a canvas or pouring out during their conversations.  It was almost animalistic, the way they fed off of each other’s thoughts.  They shared philosophies like primordial food, before civilization came and set up laws of behavior and attraction. They understood each other better than anyone.
     Oscar wonders why he’s wasting his time with Amy.  Does he wish to ‘convert’ her?  No.  But he admires her, her freedom to want, take, and have anything and anyone she wants.  He’s overheard her talking about some of her sexual escapades.  It must feel liberating.  She’s probably had sex with women before (while drunk, no doubt), but would never consider herself a lesbian.  Why can’t he do the same?  Fuck around without commitment.  He’s twenty-one and too young to settle.
     Oscar slips his right hand into his pocket and fingers one of the Trojans.  He circles his finger around the indented ring and remembers his first time making love with Gabriel.  Oscar whispered between kisses, “It’s okay, it’s okay” while Gabriel shivered with fear and irrepressible passion.  It’s how Adam must have felt before biting into the fruit, knowing that unredeemable consequences lay ahead, yet the temptation too strong.  Afterwards they laid for hours, breathing in one another, tangled in the flannel bed sheets.  And no one could tell them they were wrong.  Gabriel fell asleep with his head on Oscar’s chest, the heart’s thump as his lullaby.  Oscar twisted his fingers in Gabriel’s wavy brown hair and also soon fell asleep.
     Oscar hears a very familiar voice surround him.  Gabriel is on the stage.
     Holy shit.
     Yellow spotlights fall on Gabriel, illuminating his brown hair into gold.  Though he is four inches shorter than Oscar and much less muscular, on the stage Gabriel looks magnified and ethereal.  As if he's bigger than his body.  He’s glowing from the light.  He looks like an angel, Oscar thinks.  A fucking angel. This cannot be happening.

Your aroma flutters and dances
On the empty pillow beside my head
Before drifting away.
I arise and see pictures of you, your eyes
Looking into me from another dimension
Where threads of the past un-spool and entwine
With the idyllic future I envisioned –
past hugs embrace the kisses we were still to share
clouds of comfort you gave wrap aroundthe smiles I was yet to unveil

“What’s wrong?” Amy asks, taking hold of his hand.  Oscar doesn’t answer. 

He just stares and listens as Gabriel recites his poem in a secret code that only he and Oscar understand.

We were warriors.
Battles we’ve fought, written down like history
On pages of memory
With shiny shields, swords, and armor
We were indestructible.
Unafraid to penetrate dark, forbidden realms
We fearlessly faced kings and patriarchs
We conquered our own doubts.

     Gabriel’s words hit Oscar like cold waves.  Each one pushes on his chest with a force much harder than expected.  They shove him down, and then pull back, tugging the sand under his feet, flipping him on his back.  Oscar is so close to shore, to the freedom he’s been asking for, the space, the wide-open space, and the control.  But Gabriel’s words are pulling, beckoning him back into the deep.  Oscar knows that in the waves, under the water, time stops.  You can close your eyes and float along, let the water carry you.

Without you, I am
Without a sword
Only dodging, running, hiding
To keep myself alive
Wandering, while my wounds fester

     Amy watches as tears creep out of the poet’s eyes and trickle down his cheeks.  His quaking voice reaches out to her breasts to strum the violin strings she had never known were there.  She feels them vibrate in harmony and resound throughout her body, swelling in her chest and echoing in her ears.  She’s never heard or felt anything so beautiful.

I’ve no strength to fight today
So I lie back down
I close my eyes from yours – glossy, frozen still
I hope that soon, my wounds can heal
And all that remains of you
Will be my battle scars.

     Gabriel bows his head, steps down the platform, and hurries to the bathroom, wiping his eyes and shutting out the applause.
     “Oh, my god, that was so good,” Amy says.  “I totally understand what he was saying.”  She wonders who the poem is about.  She smiles at Oscar, elated to find that she now shares with him a mutual love of art.  It’s as if all of a sudden, she can see the beautiful world through his jade-green eyes.  She feels smart.  But what’s wrong with Oscar?  He’s not saying anything.  He looks so stiff, and she feels as if she’s staring at a lifeless body washed up on the beach.
     He clears his throat and whispers that he needs to go to the bathroom.
     “Hey, if you see that guy, tell him I really liked his poem,” Amy says.  But she knows he won’t say anything.  Guys don’t talk to each other in the bathroom.  Must be a male ego thing.  She wonders about the size of Oscar’s penis.  She smiles and almost laughs out loud at herself.  Stop it, naughty girl.  Stop it and pay attention.
     Oscar enters the corridor leading to the bathroom.  He pushes the door open and sees Gabriel in front of the sink, splashing water onto his face.
     "Gabe?"
     Gabriel pushes the faucet handle down shutting the flow.  He looks into the mirror at Oscar's reflection.
     "Hello, Oscar."
     "How are you?" Oscar asks.
     "Fine.  I see you brought someone,” Gabriel says, wiping his face with a paper towel.
     "Yeah.  She...” he pauses, unsure of what to say.  “She says she really likes your poem.  She wanted me to tell you that."
     "That's sweet.  What do you want, Oscar?" Gabriel asks, with guarded hostility.
     "I just wanted to see how you were doing, that's all."
     "Never been better,” Gabriel says, looking down.
     Oscar looks at Gabriel's reflection and remembers something Gabriel once said:  The world is terribly cold.  You must hold on to someone else to survive.  Oscar inches closer to Gabriel and slowly pulls him into his arms.  Gabriel resists at first, pushing back.  Then, he surrenders, discarding his armor, dropping his shield on the linoleum tiles.  They kiss, eyes closed.  Lips upon lips hungrily collide in a carnal dance.  The door swings open, and an old man, upon seeing them, squeezes his bladder shut and runs back out.  Gabriel pulls away and they laugh in soft, nervous breaths.
     Gabriel sighs, "She's waiting for you."
     "Yeah...” Oscar says.   "I have to go."  He tries to smile, his arched lips caught between regret and hope.  He turns and walks out.
     Sandy, bathed in the orange sunset light, is walking towards Bean Scene.  Amy always tells her to go out more, and she’s taking her advice.  How could she miss Poetry Night?  She has to go.  She paces quickly, clutching a marked-up copy of The Hours.  She can’t seem to go anywhere without a book.  It’s like a security blanket.  When she feels uncomfortable in a social setting (which is often), she just bends her head down to read.  A cold autumn breeze brushes her cheeks.  She pulls her baggy denim jacket tighter.  It’s Friday, and she’s out like everyone else.  Maybe she’ll meet up with Amy and her date to say hi.  Amy will tell her to stay and sit, but both will know that she won’t.  Sandy will just fade into the dark.  She’s comfortable there, where no one looks, no one sees her.  But sometimes, she wants to shout, Here I am!  I am alive!  Sometimes, she wants to pull Amy into her arms and say, “Look at me.  Look inside.”  Sandy wonders what makes Amy weak.  She’s always so assertive.   But there’s so much to the world that Amy doesn’t know, and Sandy wants to show it to her.  Discover it with her.
     Sandy hears her heartbeat grow louder and faster.  Her stomach begins to float.  Now, she realizes, she must do it now.  She must go in there, pull Amy aside and kiss her soft, strawberry-stained lips.  She must tell Amy how much she has ached and longed for her to understand.  And Amy will understand and kiss her back.  Sandy’s footsteps speed up.  She sees the coffee shop across the street.  She inhales deeply and approaches like a soldier to the battlefield.
     She reaches the glass door and pulls it forcefully.  People, those closest to the door, turn their heads and watch her slip in.  Sandy feels a pang of fear creep into her heart, telling her to retreat.  People all around are talking - quietly, but loud enough to be a bit distracting.  They remind her of vultures circling their prey before swooping down.  Sandy searches the room for Amy.  She spots her sitting by a tall handsome guy, the rendering of Amy's descriptions, undoubtedly Oscar.  From her side angle view, Sandy sees Amy smiling as she wraps her arms inside his and leans her head on his shoulder.  So, Sandy thinks, this is what makes her weak.  Her shoulders slump in defeat.  Of course.  She also knows that later tonight, Amy will kiss Oscar with Sandy's lipstick.  Suddenly, Sandy feels stupid, and regrets even coming at all.  She makes her way towards the door and slips out unnoticed.  The wind blows on her, harder than before.  Her teeth chatter as she holds her book to her chest.  She pulls on her jacket tighter and shivers against the cold.
     The world is so terribly cold.