I hope Mark reads this. I can't think of another way to get in contact. It's been twenty-two years, and while my life has been good on all accounts, it's hard not knowing what happened to the people who shared a very crucial part of my life. Please don't think of me as a mousy little thing sighing over loves lost, because I am not. I'm a very good wife and mother, and a darn good corporate attorney. Can't a person be allowed a little wistfulness when life slams disparate people together, and then rips them away from each other after they've formed a bond?
Twenty-two years ago my mother walked into my bedroom and discovered us on the receiving end of a vibrating dildo being deftly manipulated by my very naked girlfriend. It was youthful experimentation. All it did was convince me that I resided deep in the heterosexual camp.
Once I got my girlfriend bundled out of the house, my next task was to convince my very Christian parents that I was not gay. I lived in the South when being gay was only slightly better than being an ax murderer. My older brother had come out to them a year before as being gay, and now that I think about it, I guess I can understand how they reacted. I'm sure that my mother was convinced that there would be no grandchildren if something wasn't done quickly.
They listened to me carefully, said they would talk to our pastor about it, and pray on it. After school was over, they promised a family vacation in the Lesser Antilles to let us regroup as a family before my senior year.
We packed our bags in late June and flew into an island with a posh resort. Early the next morning, they promised me a day-trip to a very exclusive island. When we got off the tiny commuter jet, a man holding a sign with our family name greeted us and bundled us into a golf cart. When they dropped me off at the gate of what looked like a minimum security prison, I discovered that I would spend my summer at a gay deprogramming camp.
I remembered little about the first day beyond watching my parents wave, then drive away leaving me to be prodded through the gate into an experience that few would have. Neither they or I realized the profound changes they had set in play for me or for my relationship with them. That realization would come much later.
Strangers in lab jackets and nurses uniforms ran me through lots of tests despite my tearful protests that I was not gay. I hated the personality test that asked all sorts of weird questions that I cared nothing about. I circled the answers without reading the questions and still the results came back that I hated my parents, duh. There was an I.Q. test, and finally a test that assessed my commitment to the "homosexual lifestyle". I answered them all without bothering to read the questions.
I broke down at lunch sitting in the sunny cafeteria room looking at the people around me who looked as lost and as hopeless as me. Silent tears welled and ran down my face. At first I hid my embarrassment then I noticed that everyone had eyes as sad as mine. Every one of us been tried, convicted and sentenced. Now we must serve our term alone and afraid. I was lost, befuddled, and deeply offended that no one, not even my parents, believed me.
The afternoon brought more testing, and a physical. Dinner was as lonely as lunch had been. The only difference was that I was hungry since I had eaten no lunch, and I was all cried out. After dinner, a matron led me to the office of a psychologist who scanned my test results. I hated that pencil necked geek. First of all the room stank of whiskey and sweat. I knew that smell well because of my no account uncle who used to visit us for the holidays. He had the squinty eyed, hunkered down look of a man who had been on a bender the night before. He spent ten minutes ignoring me before he looked up from my test results with the same compassion one might give a cockroach.
I used the time to look around his beige on beige office. His degree in psychology hung on the wall behind him along with a cross. I expected that. What I found interesting was the pristine Bible sitting on his desk next to the facial tissues. It had never been opened. I could tell because there was no crinkled leather running down the center of the book's spine. It was there as a prop.
How much more of this was sham and pretense?
"We can save you from a life as a homosexual," he closed my file. "I think we've caught this tendency of yours before it has settled into a lifestyle choice."
I said nothing. Why bother? My parents had labeled me as gay and now this camp would exorcise that unclean spirit from me. I winced. My pastor had preached long and hard about the homosexual life style and how it was subverting American ideals. I pictured myself kneeling in prayer twelve hours a day as religious zealots beat me with sticks until I promised before God and the Bible that I would never look upon a woman with lust in my heart.
He looked at my results again. "Your testing shows that you're not very religious."
I nodded. "It's true. I'm not gay either. So why don't you send me home?"
He studied me for a moment. "I know you're not gay, but let's think about what's the best action here for the both of us. If I call your parents and tell them you're not gay, the investors will hate me because I lost them five thousand dollars, and you might end up in another deprogramming program where the actually believe that they can convert you by reading scripture to you for 24/7 while you're tied to a bed."
He tapped my file.
"You're intelligent, and I see no reason to lie to you. Instead, I'm going to give you a cushy ride through this program with very pleasant people in a lush tropical setting and at the end of your stay here, I'll send you home with a paper signed by a real live PhD psychologist stating that you've been cured. My goal here is to keep things quiet and give you kids an enjoyable vacation."
He waited for me to say something. When I didn't, he continued.
"Our immersion therapy requires that you spend a good deal of time in the company of men. We've covered this point thoroughly with your parents, and they've agreed that it's okay as long as you are not forced into any uncomfortable situations. You will be monitored 24/7 on the grounds," he pointed at a plastic dome on the ceiling that I guessed contained a camera. "Now give me a safe word. If you say it, help will be dispatched immediately. What do you want your safe word to be?"
"Did you just say that I'm going to be having group sex?" I somehow sifted that fact out of the psychobabble he had spewed at me. 'Company of men' triggered thought.
"Well, you will find yourself in situations where you can have sex with a man." He raised up his hands to fend of any more questions. "With your consent, of course."
I sat back frowning at him reminding myself to keep my legs firmly clamped together despite wearing shorts lest I give away the goods for free, yet another lesson my mother had drummed into me.
My mother's chanted mantra since I had hit puberty was, 'Save yourself for marriage.' Now this geek would be pushing men at me with the blessing of my parents? Was this backwards day?
"My parents said okay to this?"
He nodded. "As long as you and your partner agree."
My mind went blank. Had I fallen down the bunny hole into Wonderland? "Let me assure you right now that sex is not going to happen."
He held up his hands again. "We still need a safe word. You can decide whether you want to participate later."
I scanned the room looking for inspiration. My eyes rested on the logo on his faded blue pullover shirt. "Penguin?"
He nodded. "That'll work. It's not common enough to come up in everyday conversation, yet it's easy enough to remember."
He wrote it on my chart.
