Memories of First Love
Dec. 22nd, 2003 01:55 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
talktoolooseHaving teased you dramatically yesterday about finding my first love on the web, I'll reprint an entry I wrote about him in another blog identity two years ago. Please note: Snake's pseudonym at the time was Attilla, one of my favourite Hungarian names.
2001-04-17 - 8:38 p.m.
Today, I was remembering my first love. We were 18, he was straight (I think) and I thought I was too. Really, he's more of an "in retrospect" first love, and there will be no breathless consummation to this tale. Strangely enough, he was Hungarian, just like Attilla; or at least born to Hungarian parents in Canada.
My teenage dreamboat and I discovered each other in senior year of high school. We had three classes together and somehow figured out that we were a couple of neat guys with dreams that went beyond the conventional. At 16, he had become the youngest person in Ontario's history to receive his pilot's license and, at 18, the youngest to receive his commercial rating. You see, he wanted to be an astronaut. And unlike other little boys who dream of space travel at age 10, he actually took steps to get there. He was on his way to military college the following year to study aeronautical engineering.
Although he had a real butch energy, there was a delicious, gentle twinkle in him. For example, whenever he'd see a baby, he'd squeel "Babeeeee!" in a high-pitched voice and go over to the carriage to coo. He was short and powerful and had a jaw like a movie star. I stared at that jaw a lot.
I don't know how he discovered me. I spent my high school years trying to be as neutral as possible. I hung out with friends at school, but attended no parties and no dances. I dated no one and, in general, did nothing that would allow anyone too near, lest they sniff out the horrible stench of fagdom that I knew (though denied) was hiding in my ripe loins. (Ripe loins? Hello, Harlequin?)
But by spring of that year (1982!), I was seriously in love and he was glad to be my friend. Then the most romantic event of my life happened. It was a perfect day at the end of May, a week or so before final exams. We were walking to Functions and Relations (oh, sweet irony!) when Flyboy said to me, "It's too nice to go to math class, isn't it?" And with that, we left the school, hopped into his beaten up Chevy and drove to Buttonville airport where he rented out a two-person Cessna, and took me up into the clouds.
He praised my poise as the little plane jumped and dipped in the turbulence. He flew me over downtown and the University of Toronto which I would attend in the fall. We were free. Life lay ahead of us and we were men, not high school kids. And I wasn't just a scared closet-boy who didn't deserve to be loved; I was the friend he had chosen to fly with. I didn't know what I had done to deserve such happiness, but happy I was. Nineteen years later, I'm still smiling and choked up and vividly there beside him in the noisy cabin of the Cessna.
And that's all. He went his way, and I went mine. We saw each other for a weekend the following September, again at Commencement in November, and one final afternoon in January. That last time, we went to see the movie 48 Hours, and I came out livid at the testosterone-soaked audience who cheered some real tragic violence in the story. I ranted afterwards, my newly acquired beard unkempt like a revolutionary hero's. And he had no response. They don't question gratuitous violence at military college. I blamed my self-righteous expressions of rage for the fact that we didn't get together again; but really, I think it was just circumstance and the unpredictable currents of life.
I've watched the papers carefully. Marc Garneau was Canada's first astronaut. Julie Payette and others followed, but his name has not appeared. There are a few people on Yahoo People Search who share his name, none in Canada, one in Tampa, Florida. I haven't written yet.
What would my letter say?
"I still dream about you."
2001-04-17 - 8:38 p.m.
Today, I was remembering my first love. We were 18, he was straight (I think) and I thought I was too. Really, he's more of an "in retrospect" first love, and there will be no breathless consummation to this tale. Strangely enough, he was Hungarian, just like Attilla; or at least born to Hungarian parents in Canada.
My teenage dreamboat and I discovered each other in senior year of high school. We had three classes together and somehow figured out that we were a couple of neat guys with dreams that went beyond the conventional. At 16, he had become the youngest person in Ontario's history to receive his pilot's license and, at 18, the youngest to receive his commercial rating. You see, he wanted to be an astronaut. And unlike other little boys who dream of space travel at age 10, he actually took steps to get there. He was on his way to military college the following year to study aeronautical engineering.
Although he had a real butch energy, there was a delicious, gentle twinkle in him. For example, whenever he'd see a baby, he'd squeel "Babeeeee!" in a high-pitched voice and go over to the carriage to coo. He was short and powerful and had a jaw like a movie star. I stared at that jaw a lot.
I don't know how he discovered me. I spent my high school years trying to be as neutral as possible. I hung out with friends at school, but attended no parties and no dances. I dated no one and, in general, did nothing that would allow anyone too near, lest they sniff out the horrible stench of fagdom that I knew (though denied) was hiding in my ripe loins. (Ripe loins? Hello, Harlequin?)
But by spring of that year (1982!), I was seriously in love and he was glad to be my friend. Then the most romantic event of my life happened. It was a perfect day at the end of May, a week or so before final exams. We were walking to Functions and Relations (oh, sweet irony!) when Flyboy said to me, "It's too nice to go to math class, isn't it?" And with that, we left the school, hopped into his beaten up Chevy and drove to Buttonville airport where he rented out a two-person Cessna, and took me up into the clouds.
He praised my poise as the little plane jumped and dipped in the turbulence. He flew me over downtown and the University of Toronto which I would attend in the fall. We were free. Life lay ahead of us and we were men, not high school kids. And I wasn't just a scared closet-boy who didn't deserve to be loved; I was the friend he had chosen to fly with. I didn't know what I had done to deserve such happiness, but happy I was. Nineteen years later, I'm still smiling and choked up and vividly there beside him in the noisy cabin of the Cessna.
And that's all. He went his way, and I went mine. We saw each other for a weekend the following September, again at Commencement in November, and one final afternoon in January. That last time, we went to see the movie 48 Hours, and I came out livid at the testosterone-soaked audience who cheered some real tragic violence in the story. I ranted afterwards, my newly acquired beard unkempt like a revolutionary hero's. And he had no response. They don't question gratuitous violence at military college. I blamed my self-righteous expressions of rage for the fact that we didn't get together again; but really, I think it was just circumstance and the unpredictable currents of life.
I've watched the papers carefully. Marc Garneau was Canada's first astronaut. Julie Payette and others followed, but his name has not appeared. There are a few people on Yahoo People Search who share his name, none in Canada, one in Tampa, Florida. I haven't written yet.
What would my letter say?
"I still dream about you."
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Warning! Contains Scrooge-Like Bah-Humbuggery
Date: 2003-12-25 05:13 pm (UTC)My problem with QAF is not the sex or what the "str8s" think of "us," it's the miserable quality of the acting and writing and the fact that it portrays that oh-so boring marketing-driven pseudo-reality of gay urban life that I have almost nothing to do with.
In fact, portrayals of honest radical sexuality would thrill me. But QAF, like most of broadcast TV is only radical as long as monogamy and consumerism prevail. We always await the reform of the slut and hope that everyone turns up with the right haircuts.
And furthermore, you can hardly see me in my big naked scene! At least I got paid well for it. I was in the highest paid category of extras: "Nudity Carnal" which I will be taking as my drag name if I ever rev up the hedge-trimmer and shave myself. To get nudity carnal pay, you have to be naked and in a sexual situation. They've phoned me back to do disco bunny work in the Babylon scenes, but that pays like $8/hour. A girl has to pay the rent!
Re: Warning! Contains Scrooge-Like Bah-Humbuggery
Date: 2003-12-25 06:10 pm (UTC)I have a biological family, I have friends LGBT and straight, and I have professional colleagues (also LGBT and straight). I am Jewish, a lesbian, a librarian, an artist and writer. It is always nice to meet someone of any of these persuasions, in any combination.
Talk about someone not a part of the urban gay culture--my partner and I really don't get out much. She spends a lot of time with her cousin's family, and I would rather read or spend time working on something rather than socialize. I spend a lot of time with people at work, and though I enjoy my job and coworkers, I shut down a bit on my days off. We are thinking about joining a cycling group, or a social group for couples of some kind to cut the monotony, but something always comes up and we never get to it. Our "social" sphere right now is an informal film company that we are putting together with three other people.
What episode were you in your birthday suit?
Re: Warning! Contains Scrooge-Like Bah-Humbuggery
Date: 2003-12-26 11:09 am (UTC)I am one of the shadowy naked figures out on the balcony in beautiful silhouette. It was about 10 degrees outside. The guy playing the author was the only one who wore a little socky thing over his dick which was kind of funny with us all hanging out in the all-together. It makes me wonder what he had to hide.
I got paid like $400.
Thanks for the thoughtful words on community and family.
Re: Warning! Contains Scrooge-Like Bah-Humbuggery
Date: 2003-12-26 04:56 pm (UTC)I guess you live around Toronto, then? It looks like a nice place, from what I have seen on the show. It definitely isn't Pittsburgh, though! Not enough hills, not enough rednecks, and the architecture is different. My Mom's family is all from western PA and we visit them quite often, and go into Pittsburgh when we see them. It's not as big as Philadelphia or some of the other East Coast cities, so I guess it's easy for a production company to go anywhere that's a northern city with brick houses and call it Pittsburgh.
I don't think Pittsburgh is advanced enough to have a place like Babylon...gay bars and neighborhoods for sure, but Babylon takes the cake. You would most likely see Babylon in Manhattan. Even the gay clubs out here in L.A. and S.F. are not so over the top. Is Babylon a real place, or just made up for the show? (I know, you only were on one episode and hate the show...sorry for all the questions...)
I mean every word I say, by the way. ;)