1-976-THERAPIST

  
I was sent to a counselor in the eighth grade to cure me of my homosexuality. Obviously, it didn't work. I am a happily queer man.

The signs were there for many years before -- my favorite sport (and the only one I played for an extended period of time) was gymnastics, I was in musical theater, my dad walked in on me playing with a boy's prick -- but were denied or not acknowledged. They were the types of things that just made me flamboyant or weird. My family was fine with weird. In fact, from old stories told by my dad and his mother, I'm positive my dad was also labeled weird in school. Being a fag was something else entirely.

It became too hard to deny when I was in the eighth grade because of a large telephone bill my grandma received. Grandma got me a job washing dishes a the Catholic retreat center at which she cooked. It was a weekend job, and my dad worked at the grocery store right next to it. When dad was working, it could sometimes be a couple of hours before I got a ride home. So I'd walk to grandma's for the afternoon. She often still had cooking duties, so I would sit in her apartment fiddling with the organ, flipping television channels, or raiding her fridge for a ham and Miracle Whip sandwich.

Her apartment was filled with bric-a-brac -- free calendars with birds from gas stations, glass candy dishes, needlepoint wall hangings, Reader's Digest, lace doilies -- and the flowery air of old people, a combination of rose and gardenia and lavender, permeated her home. It was filled with things that wouldn't entertain a thirteen year old boy raging with hormones and extremely horny.

One afternoon while walking to grandma's apartment, I picked up a copy of the alternative weekly paper -- the kind with the personals in the back -- hoping to pass the time masturbating in her bathroom. She was still at work, and I let myself in. I settled in by making something to eat and relaxing on the arm chair watching People's Court or The Jeffersons. I flipped through the paper lingering on the picture of half naked men (the escort page) and on the "men seeking men" and "women seeking men" personal ads. I got hard and stupid and noticed in between the pictures and the ads a 1-976 number for a gay chat line complete with a code for a free trial offer. The tingling sensation in my head urged me to pick up the phone and dial, justifying, "No one would ever know it is me as long as I hang up before the trial ends."

I took the telephone in to the bathroom -- I was smart enough to know I didn't want grandma walking in on me wanking -- slowly dialed, and listened to the instructions. I came five seconds later to the automated voice telling me to record my name. I hung up and was immediately addicted to anonymity and risk.

Picking up the paper for a new "free trial code", dialing the number, and whacking off in the bathroom passed many afternoons. I became so obsessive that I didn't notice that the free trial was over. I was lost among anonymous liberation and sexual fantasies.

One evening, I overheard my parents talking about a large phone bill grandma received. I know I would be outed if I didn't do something, so I started plotting and planning how to get out of it. Crazy ideas about calling grandma and pretending to be customer service from Man Chat ran through my head. Here's how I imagined it would go:

"Hello. Is Mrs. Wyman there," I'd ask in my best imitation of a man's voice.

"Yes, this is her. How can I help you?" She'd reply innocent and old.

"It seems that there has been a mix up on our end, and you have been inaccurately charged for calls placed to Man Chat."

"Really?"

"Yes. We will clear your account momentarily. It may take up to two months to show up on your phone bill. Please forgive us for any confusion or headache."

"Oh. Okay. Take care and have a nice day."

And she would accept it all as fact and hang up the phone. Then, I'd collect all my paychecks, pay the bill, and no one would be the wiser.

I never got the courage to make that call. Nor would my grandma have just accepted that explanation. She would want to know why the mistake happened in the first place. I probably could have thought of something, but I was afraid everyone would see through it and figure out it was me.

Even without that call, they did figure out it was me, and I was confronted. My parents were confused and crying. One of them called the number and found out what it actually was. They were not going to have a fag in the family. It was sinful and punishable by a fiery torment in hell. All of us were Catholic, and nothing was going to jeopardize that.

My parents found a counselor. They ushered me an ultimatum: see the counselor and stop being queer or get kicked out of the house. I was thirteen and opted for "stop being queer".

We drove to the therapist's in silence. I sat in the back of our paneled station wagon terrified and practicing my responses.

"No sir. This is just a phase. I am not attracted to men. I like tits. Yes, it will never happen again. Really, I don't like men. Well, yes...but only as friends. Girls. I like girls."

All three of us met the the counselor first. He told us he was recently on Oprah and was an excellent and trusted family therapist. My parents outlined the problem and what needed curing. He just listened, and then he told them he needed one-on-one time with me. They left the room, my mother crying, my dad silent.

Once the door closed behind them, the therapist looked at me with his brown eyes and messy hair and said, "Contrary to what your parents say, homosexuality is nothing to be cured."

I stared at him dumbfounded, mouth slightly open. Here was a chance to finally say it. I bordered on tears and the ultimatum reverberated through my head. I responded with waht I practiced in the car.

He excused me from his office with the diplomas and certificates and picture with Oprah and asked me to send in my parents. They exited five minutes later and we all hopped back into the rusted station wagon with the slightly flat tires.

I don't know what he said to them, but I wasn't kicked out or sent back. It was another five years before I had the nerve to say I was gay and another seven after that to finally admit to my family I was queer.

The second and third time around they were more prepared and accepted me for me. Time and distance are forces that change people, circumstances, and situations. Fortunately, my family changed in a manner that opened their hearts and minds. For that I am grateful.

My grandma forgave me for racking up the phone bill, and met my soon-to-be husband many years later. I'll never forget the way her eyes lit up when she met him. She smiled the way grandmothers smile when they know you've found "the one". She was in her wheelchair and asked me to sit by her. She grabbed my arm and looked at me.

"Jason. He sure is handsome. You've found a lovely and nice man. I love you, and I wish you all the love you deserve."

That was the last conversation I had with her before she died.

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