A Flacid Forty Year Old or a Boy Gentleman

Sleeping around is easy. Dating? Impossible.
When I am sixteen I think I am in love for a couple of weeks with my speech teacher's husband, who has trouble keeping his erection, and who likes to languidly drape himself on the sofa, smoking, laughing at the bitter ironies of life, and mispronouncing "ennui."

I don't look on my sleeping with him as anything wrong, since his wife, my teacher, seems to know about it, and rumor has it she is sleeping with one of her students anyway. The overwrought dramatics of it all, the seediness, the emotional masochism is very "Valley of the Dolls," and an essential piece of the self-portrait I am creating.

Blinded by ambition he doesn't slow down long enough for love. Will scandal and disaster strike? Will early burn-out and death follow?

Alan Hunt is the boy I really have a crush on. He is kind of gawky but has the kindest eyes and a slight lisp that is boyish rather than effeminate. We are rivals at L.B.J. High School since my year there is supposed to be his year to shine. I arrive, all pushy ambition, with no thought to his plans at all. The drama club there has a habit of giving out awards at the end of the year, and Alan and I are in a run-off for Best Actor. I lose. But I find out that after a huge struggle with himself Alan has actually voted for me. The fact that I still remember losing that award is testament to my own insanity, but I'm still touched by his gesture. I am infatuated with him well before knowing of his vote for me. I am out to most of the people I hang out with, but few others are, and I have no idea whether or not Alan is gay. I know the language of sex but haven't a clue as to the language of courtship. I don't have the foggiest notion about how to approach him.

I think it's very funny when I learn several years later that all during our time in school together Alan is messing around with another guy in our class - someone who later visits me in New York and we sleep together. Small world.

I'm still in touch with Alan, and for some stupid reason I feel weirdly responsible or guilty or something that while for years I sleep around and sleep around with no ill health consequences, Alan gets H.I.V. from his very first proper boyfriend.

Go ahead: Light a cigarette. Laugh hollowly at the bitter ironies of life.