 And then, somehow, my
head became disconnected from my hands and I began
typing the e-mail address that I had tried to erase from
my bodily consciousness. The name I had sworn never to
write or speak of again, after receiving an e-mail from
him saying that he never wanted to speak again and that
what had happened between us was never to be spoken of.
Ever. I received this e-mail approximately 14 hours
after my first experience with a man. This man. My
former graduate student instructor, to be exact, who I
ended up instructing about many things one dark January
night.
Immediately after he
dropped me off a block from my freshman dorm during an
ice storm, he wrote me an enthusiastic e-mail exclaiming
how we should definitely hang out again… how this was
weird but wonderful…and then, 14 hours later, his
complete 180. I wasn’t shocked. I mean, he was straight
after all, and a former member of the Ukrainian secret
service, so I wasn’t going to fuck with him. I just
decided that I hated him and that I never wanted to
utter his name again. And, yet, here I was, almost a
year to the day since that fateful night, typing him a
casual, yet potent, e-mail.
Moments later I’m on a
commuter bus and I am there, his apartment -- the same
place as a year before. But this time during the day,
right after he had taught one of his freshman honors
seminars. We exchanged only a few words. He presented
me with a meek apology about his disappearance because
of how weirded out he was, and then that he had noticed
that it had been months since he’d seen me on campus. I
wanted to say that it had probably been four months,
since it was roughly four months ago that I was
diagnosed with cancer. I bit my lip, cancer’s not
appropriate at a time like this. This unexpected
diversion was not, by the way, on my virginity-losing
mission, especially because that journey was about
sexual conquest, not apathetic reaffirmation of
self-loathing.
I left all my clothes on
except for my little white knitted cap, which would
easily get hot and feel overwhelming atop my hairless
head. He put his hand and forced my head where he
wanted it to go – but he stopped for a moment, only a
brief moment, looked me in the eye and smiled. He told
me how nice and smooth my head was. He told me “I
always wanted to shave his head all the way with a
razor, just like you, Brian.” I pulled my lips shut,
lest I reveal the sobering secret to my beauty. “I’ve
always wanted a shaved head. I just never had the balls
to do it.” Again I bit my lip, cancer’s not appropriate
at a time like this.
Is it inappropriate to
talk about the virginity of someone who’s dead? I’m
pretty sure Lina would, in fact, mind and most likely be
offended. She barely ever spoke -- she was shy about
her heavy Russian accent, so she preferred spending time
with her violin. I guess I’d never know whether she’d
be offended or not. With her quiet brown hair, average
build and closed-mouth smile, she rarely approached or
was approached by others. To most, and often to me, she
appeared unknowable.
Lina used to dance with
me in Tzamarot, an Israeli folk dance troupe that was
the center of my high school social life. It was
rampantly queer (without knowing it), unabashedly
Zionist (and proud of it), and every Wednesday from
eight to nine-thirty. I don’t know why Lina was in the
class – she hated dancing and the ridiculous girls in
the class. But, it was our social life, a place where
intermingling was expected and closely monitored.
I found her
fascinating. Maybe it was her accent, or the fact that
she was a brilliant violinist. I don’t know what it was,
but Lina and I became fast friends. Fast friends?
Well, acquaintances, really. We e-mailed and saw each
other when I came home from Ann Arbor… and then one day
she had cancer. A bad cancer.
 My mother called me and
told me. Since my mom wasn’t working, she had offered
to drive Lina to and from treatments, which everyone
knew would never help. I called once or twice – we
weren’t best friends. I think I sent her a small stuffed
animal that I later saw on her rack of small stuffed
animals, all gifts from other well-meaning clueless
empathizers. This was months before my own cancer
diagnosis, so I was still a newbie to cancer empathy.
When I finally got home
from Ann Arbor so I could see her, her house smelled
stale, full of death, and her neck…her neck was no
longer there. The freak esophageal tumor bulged like a
Seinfeld-ian joke, but it wasn’t funny. It was going to
kill her. Seeing as how I was 19 and not a bereavement
counselor, we just sat and talked about music, classes
and her comfort. Thankfully, I’m arrogant enough to
fill conversation with things about me, as she was
“doing” very little. I visited her every few days for a
few weeks, until one day the stale smell was almost
overwhelming. A fog of death had preemptively set. It
was a feeling my mother always tried to air out of her
car by rolling down the windows after she would drop
Lina home from the hospital – a palpable feeling of
mortality.
I knew that this was it
– so I decided to reach across the divide between life
and death and I’m pretty sure I mis-kissed Lina on the
lips. It was nothing, devoid of sexual energy, just a
simple interpersonal connection;. As a drop of her
sweat lingered on my upper lip, I realized that, more
likely than not, based on what I knew of her, Lina was
going to die without sex. Or maybe she had had sex.
Maybe I just didn’t know about it because she’s discreet
and we weren’t best friends. I hope she had had sex –
or I guess I don’t really care if she had had, at least
not in the way others later cared about me dying a
virgin. If she cared or not, no one would ever know.
Only survivors get to tell their stories... (continue reading)
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6 COMMENTS ON THIS ESSAY:
Brilliant, concise, evocative, and funny. I should take some pointers from you. Seriously, though, stories like make me despair of ever fully understanding queer communities and lives - and I wouldn't have it any other way. Thanks for sharing.
i kept waiting for the part where he expresses his regret for such a misogynistic crusade. did i miss something?
In response to the previous comment, this essay feels to me like a critique on queer misogyny. I believe the description of the scene during the Vagina Monologues between the author and Adam alludes to this. Not to mention the reference to Cynthia Nixon, a lesbian, and dare I say, feminist icon. This is a funny, challenging essay and I can't wait to read more of his work.
Feminist lesbians be damned. I agree with the previous comment and add, he adores lesbians and considers himself a feminist. He's making fun of them, but in doing so making fun of himself. His crusade seemed more like a means to an end than misogyny. He wasn't afraid to admit the truth of his quest.
Having been an anxious virgin myself, I admit I'm less interested in the politics of Brian's feelings than I am in his having expressed them. I think it is really important to describe fear and desire in a masculine context (as well as all other possible contexts) because so many find these two emotional states inextricably intertwined in themselves and in social expectations of personhood. Also, I thought the piece was well-written and easy to read. Thank You.
Excellent writing...intriguing storyline. I am curious though, what was with the homosexual connotations and "queer" references in your story? Once finished reading your story, I reflected that this is a story about a bisexual man struggling with both cancer and sexual identity. Was this the purpose of your story? If so, great, but I get the impression that you were trying to convey something else.....?